Running her finger over the spines of the CD’s on the shelf, it wasn’t until she reached the gap where the ‘66 recording of Madame Butterfly should have been that Ismerelda remembered her ex-husband had taken it when he’d left.

Irritated, she settled for Wagner, before slipping off her robe and climbing into the bath.

Letting herself sink into the scalding water, even the heat of the liquid lapping at her skin couldn’t drown out the burning ache of guilt, excitement and lust coursing through her veins.

Long baths, a night at the opera, it’s almost as if…

As if she hadn’t murdered her ex-brother in law? As if she and Rafferty were still sharing an office, a bed?

Deep down, Ismerelda knew she was past all of that; but what kind of sociopathic femme fatale would she be without moments of melodrama every now and again?

Pulling herself out of the water, and from her foggy reminiscences, a twisted smile tugged at Ismerelda’s lips as she dressed to kill – not forgetting to tuck a pistol into her garter.