Everyone barring Eva does stupid things in college.

Some of us are stupider than others—real doddele, as we say in Alsace. A select few make sure the stupid thing they do in college is of the time bomb variety set to go off years later.

I’m among the latter group.

On the desk in front of me is a letter that arrived by snail mail this morning in a simple envelope stamped Sydney, Australia. How different it is from the naughty missives Raphael sometimes sends me from his business trips. The letter I’m staring at doesn’t open with a hello or end with a good-bye. No name, date, or signature anywhere. Not much text, either. Just three short words written in large block letters.

I HAVE PROOF.

My hands shake as I crumple up the note into a tight ball and shove it in my pocket. This is the second compactly ominous message I’ve received from Australia in six months. The first one had even fewer words. It said, I KNOW.

“You OK?” Delphine asks, peeking from behind her computer. “You’re super pale this morning.”

“I noticed it, too.” My second office mate, Barbara, chimes in without shifting her eyes from her screen.

I shrug. “No makeup. Coupled with too little coffee.”

“And too little sleep?” Delphine gives me a meaningful wink.

“That, too.”

“When will you tell us who your mystery lover is?”

“Never.”

Delphine narrows her eyes. “I bet he works at DCA.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Suddenly, Delphine’s expression softens. “Is he married? Is that why you sometimes sneak out at five and return around seven?”

“He isn’t married,” I say.

Delphine doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Barbara. And I can totally see why. An affair with a married man is exactly what my fling—or whatever it is I’m having with Raphael—must look like.

The infamous cinq à sept.

It stands to reason that the man I’m seeing is married. That’s what I’d figured, too, when I showed up for our second rendezvous out on the terrace.

On a crispy morning in early January, I had found a handwritten note on my keyboard.

9 p.m., eighth-floor terrace (the very same, access through the meeting room). If you don’t turn up, I won’t bother you again and I won’t hold it against you. If you do, you might want to put in your office calendar: “A visit with the President of DCA.”

Olly

My first reaction was giddy joy.

The funny-guy-turned-great-kisser who’d been on my mind throughout the Christmas break had reached out. Woot woot! In just a few hours I was going to see him. And kiss him.

Indignation came as an afterthought. But once there, it took root and doubled in size with every passing minute.

The cheek of him!

By hinting at the ribald “visits with the president of the Senate” I had told him about, Olly was making his intentions crystal clear. Which was sort of rude. And too freaking self-assured.

It was also inconsiderate and ungallant.

He was basically inviting me for some hanky-panky out in the cold, right under our colleagues’ noses, and on our second date.

Or, should I say, our second meeting because neither occasion qualified as a date.

The bastard!

Why couldn’t he invite me for a drink first, like normal men would do, even when their ulterior motive is to get laid? I don’t expect a full-blown courtship, but there’s a certain way of doing things. There’s a set order, which prescribes that a couple have drinks and dinner together before scaling up to more intimate encounters. That dinner or three isn’t a pointless formality—it’s an opportunity to get to know each other and to establish trust.

I sighed in frustration, which was when it hit me: Olly must be married, just like Delphine’s Alberto.

So I decided I wasn’t going.

That was about four in the afternoon.

At seven-thirty, I was still in my office, finishing up perfectly non-urgent work and filing completely unimportant emails.

By eight-thirty, I stopped pretending I was’t going to the terrace and swapped that lie out for a more plausible but still ego-friendly justification. I was going, but only to give the cocky bastard a piece of my mind.

The moment I entered the meeting room, I spotted Olly on the other side of the sliding glass doors leaning over the parapet. Unlike the night of the Christmas party, the terrace was well lit now.

He slid one of the doors open and peeked in. “Lock the door behind you. We’ll want privacy.”

Seriously?

I did lock the meeting room door, though.

Under the bright neon light, Olaf the Snowman, whom I suspected to be good-looking, turned out to be a real hunk. And a dandy. He wore a well-cut dark wool coat and a scarf that was the quintessence of masculine elegance. Wind played with his floppy dark hair. As for his dimpled chin and mischievous smile… let’s just say I’ve never seen a sexier man in my whole life.

Chris Pine included.

As I crossed the room to the terrace, excitement and anxiety launched into a boxing match in my head, making me dizzy.

“Wow, you’re even prettier than I remember,” Olly said when I stood next to him. “Those eyes…”

He surveyed me appreciatively.

Anxiety won the match. “How about you give me your real name before I leave in…”—I looked at my watch—“exactly one minute.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Why would I do that if you’re leaving anyway?”

“To satisfy my curiosity.”

“What’s wrong with Olly?”

I glanced at my watch. “Fifty seconds.”

“Raphael d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

Oh, please. “Is that a joke?”

“No.”

He whipped out his phone, tapped, and then held it out for me. On the screen was the “Who’s Who” page of DCA’s website. I enlarged the photograph at the top of the list. The one that was captioned Founding CEO and Owner.

It was Olly, all right.

I mean, Raphael d’Arcy. Le Big Boss. The worst Casanova in town.

Fuck.

I glared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything when we first met? I feel like an idiot now.”

“In my defense, I was going to, but then you suddenly had to leave.”

Should I believe him?

“Besides,” he added, “My note did mention you were going to visit with the president of DCA.”

“I thought you were just being funny.”

“That, too.” His smile widened. “But I was also being truthful. Which means your accusation is unfounded, and you don’t have a good reason for leaving.”

Considering who this man was and what I knew about him, I had at least ten good reasons for leaving.

But not just yet.

“I’ll give you ten more minutes,” I said. “Provided you don’t attempt physical contact.”

He gave me a sad puppy look. “But I’m dying to kiss you.”

“That’s so not happening.”

“Why not?”

“First, because I have no interest in joining your army of conquests. Second, I don’t think it’s appropriate to make out in the workplace.”

“You’re right,” he agreed unexpectedly. “It isn’t.”

I searched his face for signs of sarcasm, but his expression was earnest.

I smirked. “Are you saying you’ve never visited with a subordinate?”

“I didn’t say that.” His face grew even more serious. “Despite what you must have heard about me, I’ve never… harassed anyone. The very notion is abhorrent to me.”

I hadn’t heard anything specific about him—apart from his playboy fame—so I was a little puzzled at his reaction.

“Rudy,” he said. “I want you to know I’m breaking one of my big rules just by talking to you here. But there’s something about you that’s too intriguing to resist.”

I kept silent.

“What I said in my note still holds.” Raphael adjusted his watch strap. “If you walk away right now, I’ll never bother you again, and there’ll be no reprisal whatsoever. You can be absolutely sure of it.”

Why, oh why didn’t I get out as fast as I could?

I have no rational explanation for that. Zero. Zilch. None whatsoever.

The irrational one is that my legs refused to take me away from the man I fancied so much.

More than I’d ever fancied anyone.