Thank God it’s June.

Kes shifted his weight from one foot to the other and leaned on the limestone wall of a modern edifice in the Fifteenth Arrondissement. The five-story building across the street was where Amanda lived. He’d been staking out her apartment since seven this morning.

Had it been January, he would have frozen his ass off by now.

He’d figured the best way to talk to her would be to catch her on a weekday morning on her way to work and accompany her to her office. The downside was that she might be in a hurry, stressed, or distracted. The advantage was that she’d be less likely to be spooked by his sudden appearance. If he turned up in front of her building in the evening, she might refuse to talk to him altogether and storm inside. He would never follow her into the lobby—he felt like a stalker as it was.

According to his Internet search, Amanda worked for a large renewable energy company headquartered in the Ninth Arrondissement. This meant a forty-five minute métro ride from her apartment. With some luck, he might be able to have her ear long enough to make her change her mind about him.

All that sounded great in theory. In practice, she might not be going to the office at all this morning. It was past ten—too late even by Parisian standards. Was she sick? Or worse, was she sleeping over at another man’s place? Beautiful and witty as she was, he shouldn’t be surprised if she’d met someone since Deauville.

Someone she wanted to be with.

Just as he considered breaking camp and going for some breakfast at the café around the corner, Amanda stepped out of the building. She looked every bit as lovely as he remembered. Only now she wore an elegant silk blouse, a little black cardigan, and a pencil skirt.

He took a step forward. “Amanda.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him, her expression turning confused.

“Good morning, ma belle. Remember me?”

She blinked, and a deep frown settled between her eyebrows. When she finally spoke, she didn’t sound friendly. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“It’s a long story. I can give you the details on the way to wherever you’re going.”

“I’m going to yet another pointless job interview.” She rolled her eyes. “Wait a second. Did you just call me Amanda? How did you . . . ? Didn’t I . . . ?”

“Yes, you told me your name was Amelie.” He smiled apologetically. “May I tag along?”

She shrugged and headed down the street, mumbling something under her breath.

He strode by her side.

“Talk,” she said without looking at him.

“What about? Oh, right, your name and address.” He looked left, right, and back before putting his index finger to his lips. “Promise not to tell anyone.”

“Cross my heart.”

“I work for Interpol. I had a sketch artist make your portrait, and then I ran a face-recognition search on it.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Very funny.”

“Why? It’s a perfectly plausible explanation.”

She shook her head. “I’m a mind-reading alien would’ve been more plausible.”

“Really? Why? Can’t you see how I’m perfect for Interpol?”

She looked him over and sighed. “You’re perfect for Bollywood.”

He shrugged. “Fine. You want the insipid truth? Here it is: I went through your purse while you showered.”

“Don’t sound so smug.” She gave him a withering stare. “What you did was wrong.”

His best option was to lay his cards on the table. “I wanted to see you again.”

“But I told you it was a one-off for me.”

“I was hoping to change your mind.”

“Then why did you wait a whole month?”

I’ve been trying to forget you . . . and I failed.

Nah. Some cards were better kept hidden. “I was away.”

“I won’t get involved with you, Kes.”

Was there a polite way of explaining he wasn’t asking her to get involved?

They halted at the métro entrance, and Amanda gave him a determined look. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you wasted your morning.”

It was time to play his trump card. “I didn’t come here to ask you on a date. I remember how adamant you were on the subject back in Deauville.”

“What’s this about then?”

Keep it cool, man. “I’ll be playing at Casino Enghien-les-Bains over the next few weeks. It’s just an hour north of Paris . . . so I rented a furnished apartment in the city.”

“Aaand?”

“I don’t know anyone in Paris, so . . . we could just hang out from time to time, keep each other company for the movies, the swimming pool . . . that sort of thing.”

“And you think I’d buy that?”

He smiled. “I’m also hoping that while we do all those things, we’ll sleep together—at least once or twice. But I’m not counting on it.”

“Listen, Kes. I had a great time with you in Deauville. The sex was mind-blowing—and believe me, I’m not saying that to flatter you.”

He sneered. “I believe you. You’re not the kind to flatter.”

“But sex isn’t everything.” She began to descend the stairs leading to the métro station.

He followed.

“You’re wrong for me,” she said as they passed the turnstiles. “And I’m too clever to let you lure me into an affair.”

“OK.”

She turned to peer into his eyes. “OK as in ‘good-bye’ or as in ‘we could still hang out with absolutely no prospect of sex’?”

“The latter.”

“Read my lips: We. Will. Not. Have. Sex.”

“I’m game.”

As they boarded the train, Amanda’s expression changed from tense to playful. “I’ve been wanting to get into shape for the Parisienne Marathon. One of the perks of being unemployed is I have ample free time.”

“My work offers the same perks.”

“I don’t have enough willpower to train alone,” she said, “and none of my friends enjoy jogging.”

“I jog every day.”

She nodded. “I also want to learn to rollerblade. But I’m too old to suffer the humiliating initial falls alone.”

He grinned. “I guess I’ll be buying a pair of rollerblades later today.”

“And I go to the municipal swimming pool every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Note taken.”

She looked excited. “Oh, and I need a partner for the Pedro Almodóvar retrospective next week. Any chance you’re interested?”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “The guy makes unconventional movies about marginal individuals. What’s not to like?”

They went on discussing other things they could do. Amanda vented her frustrations over her wearying job search. As they mounted the steps back to the surface, she told him how liberating it felt to open up about her weaknesses.

“Because I don’t care if you think I’m a loser,” she offered by way of explanation.

They stopped in front of a huge office building at La Défense, where Amanda was to have her interview. She recapped the terms of the deal: They’d be pastime companions for a few weeks until he moved on to another casino in another city. Or until she found a job and got too busy for leisurely pursuits.

They shook hands on it, and Kes hurried back to his hotel. He had work to do, starting with finding a furnished apartment in Amanda’s neighborhood and researching Casino Enghien-les-Bains to see if it was worth his while.

Because the chance to sleep with Amanda at least one more time definitely was.

Once in his room, Kes fired up his laptop and stared at the screen, his thoughts too muddled to focus on what he had to do. His meeting with Amanda hadn’t gone as planned. It wasn’t a complete fiasco—he’d gotten her to agree to see him again. The problem was her conditions might turn out to be untenable.

But it was too late to back out now. He would play her game for a while, hoping she’d succumb to his charms. She would. Of course she would. Maybe even by the end of the Almodóvar retrospective. Let’s say in two weeks.

Three weeks, max.

Because if she didn’t, then he’d just signed up for a month of torture.

Kes pictured a stuffy, dark room and a parched hostage tied up to a chair in the middle of it like in spy movies. He imagined a jailer stepping in with a big glass of cold water, touching it to the prisoner’s cracked lips, telling him to beg for it . . . and then walking away with the glass. The captor would return an hour later and tease the hostage again and again until the man went stark-raving mad.

That was how his arrangement with Amanda might turn out—watching the coveted glass of water up close, day in and day out, but unable to drink from it.

Of course, nobody had tied Kes up. He could walk out of his prison any time he wanted and hook up with another woman. A woman who wouldn’t see him as her inferior. Who’d be accessible and willing.

The problem was he’d wanted this woman ever since she unwittingly rocked his world during that weekend in Deauville. It had been too good—and too short. He needed more of her to quench his thirst and move on.

Kes shut his laptop and prayed to Saint Sara that his snarky, snobbish belle would let him seduce her in Paris like she’d done in Deauville.