I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Raphael’s professionally landscaped rooftop terrace. Even in the dark, the effect is breathtaking, with tiny lights spattered over the plants, twinkling softly. I can hear the steady drone and the rut-rut-rut of assorted vehicles, the wail of a police car in the distance, and the laughter of diners enjoying a late meal on the sidewalk terrace beneath us.

Here on the Boulevard Saint Germain, we’re smack in the throbbing heart of Paris, just a stone’s throw from the Notre-Dame Cathedral. But we’re also above the city inside a giant fish tank loft surrounded by a breezy oasis of green.

Raphael is making some fancy cocktails behind the slick granite bar of his open-plan kitchen.

“You sure you’re not hungry?” he asks.

“Absolutely sure.”

He must find that hard to believe because I’m usually famished at the end of a workday. But tonight, after my first double shift, I’m exhausted beyond hunger.

I left DCA at six, causing raised eyebrows in my office, and headed to Raphael’s gentlemen’s club where I managed to survive my first night as a front-of-the-house waitress.

“Survive” is a bit of an exaggeration, because—objectively speaking—the work itself wasn’t hard, and the staff were friendly. Including the manager, who’d been kindly requested to hire me.

The real reason I’m feeling so drained is because I received my third Australian letter this morning. It was a little wordier than the first two.

I’ll BE IN FRANCE ALL JULY. GET READY.

For what?

That question has been on my mind all day. Is my mystery pen pal going to blackmail me, or is he going to post his proof all over the Internet and watch my life fall to pieces?

I let out a heavy sigh.

It was a mistake to come over to Raphael’s tonight. Instead of getting into his car, I should’ve headed straight home and avoided a potentially unpleasant situation.

Because I won’t be of any use to Raphael tonight. For the first time since January, I’m feeling too down to want sex with him. And I’m about to tell him as much.

Hearing his step behind me, I turn around. Raphael comes nearer, a tray with two tall glasses in one hand and a small object in the other. He places the tray on a side table next to the window and hands me the mysterious object.

It’s a palm-sized orange box with Hermès written on it in block letters.

“For you,” he says. “I hope you like it, but if you don’t, it’s totally fine.”

“Perfume?”

He nods.

The cursive line above Hermès reads 24 Faubourg.

I have no idea what 24 Faubourg smells like, but I’d wager it’s expensive.

I narrow my eyes. “Is this your way of saying you hate the fragrance I wear?”

He chuckles. “Quite the contrary. I love your fragrance. But since you won’t tell me what it is, I tried to find something that was close.”

The reason I won’t tell Raphael—or anyone—the name of my perfume is that it’s as far from Hermès, Baccarat, and the like as any scented liquid sold in a pretty little bottle can be.

I buy it at at my local supermarket.

Sue me.

It’s cheap, fresh and flowery, and that’s good enough for me. I’ve been wearing it for a couple of years now. And I must admit I’m tickled pink that my upper-crust lover likes it, too.

I push the box back.

“Oh, come on, Mia!” He looks flustered. “You never accept anything from me.”

“Not true,” I say. “I let you pay for all the drinks, meals, and getaways. I dread to imagine how much I’d owe you by now if I wasn’t accepting that you foot those bills.”

“You should see it as a form of patronage,” he says. “I do it for science.”

I give him a yeah right look.

“I mean it. The world needs your book, Mia. It needs to learn the truth about medieval harlots.”

The corners of my mouth turn up despite my best efforts to remain serious.

“They’ve been hiding it from us too long,” Raphael adds, encouraged by my smile.

“Who?”

“You know—they.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

I nod.

He stage-whispers, “The government. CIA. Wikipedia.”

My sense of the ridiculous gets the better of me and I giggle.

“Finally,” Raphael says. “It’s becoming harder and harder to make you laugh. I must be losing my touch.”

And I must be turning into a bore…

He thrusts the perfume back into my hand. “Will you at least open it and tell me if you like the scent?”

“If I open it, you won’t be able to ask for a refund.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Do I strike you as someone who’d bother asking for a refund?”

“Well, maybe not a refund, but you could give it to someone else.”

He tut-tuts.

“Who’s Genevieve?” I blurt out.

Raphael blinks, surprised by my question.

“Your brother asked you about her when I was hiding in the closet,” I explain.

“I see.”

“So?”

“I’ll tell you if you open the perfume and tell me in all honesty if you like it.”

I glare at him and remove the plastic wrapper from the box. Opening the beautiful bottle, I spray a bit of its contents onto my wrist. Then I lift my wrist to my nose and sniff.

Mmm.

“You like it!” Raphael sounds triumphant. “Don’t even try to deny it—I can see it on your face.”

“I love it,” I admit.

He gives me a smile that’s so adorably proud I can’t help smiling back.

After a few moments of grinning at each other like idiots, I set the perfume on the side table and fold my arms across my chest. “So who’s Genevieve?”

“My oldest friend.”

“With benefits?”

“No, it isn’t like that between us. Just friendship.”

“Do you fancy her?”

“No.”

“Does she fancy you?”

“As I said, it isn’t like that. I don’t think I’m her type, anyway.” He gives me a small shrug. “What’s relevant here is that she’s an heiress to one of France’s richest families, so my money isn’t what attracts her to me.”

I smirk. “Because it’s your money that draws women to you.”

“That and the looks.” He gives me a Mr. Bean-like eyebrow wiggle that cracks me up. “Certainly not my good husband potential.”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot,” I say. “You’ll never marry.”

“What’s wrong with that?” He counts on his fingers. “The world is overpopulated, babies are a pain, and the future of the d’Arcy line is secured now that Seb found his match. Why on earth would I want to get yoked?”

I give him a noncommittal shrug.

“Oh, and on top of that,” he says. “I take after Papa. He was a dedicated pleasure-seeker, and marriage didn’t change that. If anything, it made it worse. A man like that is unqualified to be a husband and unworthy of being a father.”

I look him up and down and, all of a sudden, I’m ready to raise the matter of our exclusivity.

Why now?

I don’t have the foggiest, but I do know that I’m not going to ask for it. I’m going to demand it as a condition for our continued “visits.” For the first time in months, I’m all systems go, consequences be damned. If Raphael says no, which he most likely will, I’m prepared to walk away.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I say.

“Sandro?” He cups my cheek. “I’m extending his contract by three months. If he can pull himself together, he’ll stay.”

I give his cheek a loud smooch. “So there is a heart in that broad chest of yours!”

Raphael puts his arms around me and grins.

I take a fortifying breath. “The thing I wanted to discuss… It wasn’t about Sandro.”

“Someone else I’m letting go of? Mia, my heart won’t stretch for two—”

“I want us to be exclusive for as long as we’re visiting.”

“Are you worried about catching a nasty disease?” He narrows his eyes. “May I remind you I never visit without protection.”

“It’s not just that,” I say, racking my brain for a reason that won’t sound too pathetic.

“Then what?”

“You see, I’m not a sharing kind of person.”

His eyes crinkle with a smile.

I give him an it’s-the-way-it-is shrug.

“OK,” he says.

My jaw slackens. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. It won’t be hard.”

Now I’m not only astonished, I’m confused.

“As much as I hate tarnishing my Casanova image,” he says, “the truth is I’ve been exclusive with you for a while. Not by design, mind you. It just… happened.”

“Since when?”

He rubs his chin. “Christmas.”

“What?”

He gives me the stupefied look of a man who just realized he’s a ghost. “I know. Wow.”

“That can’t be true.”

“And yet it is.” Raphael spreads his arms apologetically. “I’m just as shocked as you are.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not saying I haven’t spent time with other women since December,” he says. “But I didn’t sleep with them.”

I peer into his chocolate eyes, incredulous.

“I didn’t feel the need for a supplementary lover,” he says, giving me the funny look I’ve seen a couple of times before.

Unlike all his other facial expressions that I know like the back of my hand, this particular look is a mystery to me.

I simply cannot read it.