I’m staring at Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night and telling myself it’s time to move on to the next painting, and then the next room. Anton is planted by my side, contemplating the Van Gogh in impenetrable silence. He must be getting impatient, even if he doesn’t show it. He’s been in this museum before. For me it’s a multiple first—my first original Van Gogh, first visit to the Musée d’Orsay, first time in Paris.

How I found myself here is a baffling, albeit remarkably short story. On Tuesday, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I never answer such calls. It’s usually a telemarketer or a pollster, and I don’t have time for either. My clients don’t have my private number—they call Filip.

But, for some inexplicable reason, I picked up this time.

“How do you feel about Cézanne?” Anton asked by way of greeting.

“I’m not a huge fan.” I felt giddy at hearing his voice… before I got angry over his intrusion. “Who gave you this number?”

“I have my channels. And no, Filip is innocent.” He snorted. “As much as a pimp can be.”

There was a short pause before he spoke again. “What about Van Gogh?”

“Love him. Van Gogh rocks.” I took a deep breath to make sure my tone was earnest when I asked him, “Is this for the Russian Public Opinion survey?”

He let out a hearty laugh. “I’m in Brussels. I’ll finish my business here by Friday, and I was thinking of going to Paris for the weekend, to revisit some of my favorite impressionists.”

“Nice.”

“Anna, would you like to spend your Saturday in the Musée d’Orsay and your Sunday tasting the best Champagne wines near Reims?”

“I…” My mind went blank. Pristinely, immaculately blank.

“My assistant should be able to book us into the Hotel du Marc. It’s a luxury mansion for the guests of Maison Veuve-Clicquot.”

“I don’t have a visa,” I finally managed to say.

“Not a problem. You’ll have it by Friday. Maria—that’s my assistant—will send someone over tonight to collect your passport.”

I didn’t bother asking how I would get to Paris. Maria the Wizard, who was going to get a French visa stamped into my passport without me having to move a finger, would no doubt take care of my travel arrangements, too. A part of me screamed that the whole idea was crazy, excessive, way beyond the customary boundaries. But a larger part of me jumped up and down and drowned my caution in a flood of gleeful drool.

A weekend with Anton in France, tasting the world’s best wines, and admiring Van Gogh originals sounded simply too good to resist.

And, what with my transformation into a machine still incomplete, I didn’t.

The Van Gogh I’m looking at now is on loan here from the Netherlands. It’s my all-time favorite. Even a small reproduction of it in a book never fails to transport me into that café in Arles. Now, standing before the real thing, I’m fully gone. Anna Sopova is no longer inside the Fin de Siècle railway station converted into a spacious light-bathed museum. Nor is she in a wintry Paris morning. Her local time now is around midnight in late July. She’s in a small town in Provence, sipping her pastis on a brightly lit sidewalk terrace, letting the mild breeze blow cool kisses to her face and ruffle her hair.

It’s pure bliss.

Anton’s gaze burns into me, so hot and fierce that color rises to my cheeks.

I turn to him.

He blinks and gives me his crooked smile. “So you’re a Van Gogh girl, huh? Of course you are. Why did I ever imagine you a Cézanne fan?”

I grin. “I live to confound you.”

He takes my hand. “So you do.”

We spend the rest of the morning and the entire afternoon at the museum, refueling on coffee and macaroons as we move from room to room. I want to see as much of the collection as I can, and Anton doesn’t seem to mind. When the guards kick us out at closing time, I’m exhausted but profoundly content.

At dinner in an elegant restaurant off the Champs Elysées, I bring his hand to my lips. “Thank you.”

Anton shakes his head. “You don’t need to.”

His hand goes to cup my cheek, and he peers at me for a long moment while his thumb traces my cheekbone.

“I insist.” I smile, trying to diffuse the suddenly fraught silence.

He opens his mouth as though to say something, but only exhales instead. Then his expression changes, lightening up. “I must fess up. I failed to keep my promise to you.”

“What promise?”

“The Hotel du Marc was fully booked. Even almighty Maria was unable to do anything about it… So, we’ll have to contend ourselves with the second best.”

“Which is?”

“Les Crayères Castle. Their champagne is almost as good as Veuve-Clicquot.”

“Fine by me. Even though I’d rather stay in Paris. There’s so much I’d like to see here!”

“You will—next time.”

Next time.

My soul fills with hope before I remember myself, and anger takes over.

What’s your deal, Anton? Why are you so nice to me? What kind of vicious letdown are you plotting? How much pain and agony will you inflict once you have me exactly where you want me to be—crazy in love?

I’m not going there again.

I won’t let you—or anyone—do what Stan did to me.

Men are animals.

I grew up hearing Mom repeat this adage every time she got hurt. I guess that’s why I was still a virgin at twenty-eight—prim, proper, and convinced that men simply weren’t worth the trouble.

Besides, I had more important things than dating on my mind. I had a mission—pull Mom and myself out of poverty. We both worked crazy hours, accepting any job that came our way including the shittiest cleaning and dishwashing gigs, until we had saved enough to put me through law school.

Which is where I met Stan.

Like me, he was a little older than the average student was, but for a different reason. A son of a wealthy retailer, he’d spent his early twenties partying and sampling an impressive range of substances with his like-minded pals. But then his daddy took him in hand and put him in law school. Which Stan hated passionately until the day he spotted me. He called me angel and marveled at how different I was from the girls he usually associated with. He courted me and fed me stories of how I had transformed his soul.

I was so inexperienced and unprepared for the likes of him. And so, when he sought me out, I made myself easy to find. When he deployed his charms and flirted with me, I clumsily flirted back. And when he said he loved me, I believed his lies.

Only what had drawn him to me wasn’t love. Not even an infatuation. It was the thrill of the chase and the anticipated high of the kill. And, above all, it was that sordid wager he was hell-bent on winning.

I didn’t stand a chance.