Travis is fairly moody during the next several days and nights, but there are also times when his coolness gives way to another side of him, like the one I saw in Times Square and in the Cloisters garden.

He still takes me anywhere and everywhere, watching me as I enjoy the art deco designs of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings for the first time up close. He shows me the outer boroughs where I observe the rustic country house vibe of Tudor Revival homes and the brownstones. Then he changes pace by escorting me to a second charity event where I don another pretty designer gown and his jewelry.

And at the end of each wonderful night we end up in bed, where he makes me cry out for more. So much more. Whenever he leaves the bed I stay awake, tracing my fingers over his side of the mattress.

Finally we come to the dreaded last day of our agreement, and he arranges one final spa appointment for me. He needs to go into work, and I tell myself that this is the time to start letting him go. I’ve already bought my plane ticket to Virginia to join my mom and brother at my aunt’s while we begin to plan for our futures, so I know where I’m headed for the short term. Starting tomorrow, we’ll have the rest of our lives ahead of us.

That should make me happy. But there’s a dark spot in the very center of me when I return to the apartment from the spa.

I walk into the entry vestibule, my muscles mellowed out from a seaweed body wrap and a vitamin C facial. I pass the table where I’d put the diamond necklace that Travis hung around my neck on that first night we spent together, and I notice that it’s gone. Somewhere along the way it’d become a symbol of our arrangement, a reminder each time we walked in that we’re only cold, hard cash to one another. He would always move past it without comment, and I never did take it back.

Something flutters in my chest. Did Travis remove it today?

I don’t want to read too much into this gesture, but maybe he’s stored it away for the next girl who’s going to inhabit this apartment. It’s as if he’s already starting to pack me up and out of this place I’ve been calling home the last two weeks.

Disheartened by that thought, I hear Travis in the library, tapping on his keyboard. I didn’t expect him to be working here, and it’s a nice surprise.

I peek around the corner of the doorway at him. He’s sitting at the desk, staring at his computer screen, his gaze dark.

Crap. Either he’s dealing with the robberies or some other pressing business problem.

I know not to bother him, but he sees me first, and he straightens in his chair. For a second, brightness flashes in his eyes, and my stomach flip-flops. Then he goes cold again.

“How was your spa visit?” he asks.

“Great, thank you.” I pause. “I was just about to whip up a light lunch if you’re hungry.”

He doesn’t react, and I remember once again what he said about not cooking for him. It’s probably too intimate, too real. He grunts something noncommittal.

“I thought you’d be at work today,” I shrug, “so I ordered some ingredients for a self-indulgent dish. I wasn’t sure what you had in mind for dinner, and I wanted to finally get some use out of that amazing kitchen before I leave.”

“You should do that, if it makes you happy,” he replies without emotion.

I smile at him, gauging his temperature. “I know you don’t expect me to cook for you, but I would enjoy doing it.”

But he doesn’t go for it. Instead, he returns his attention to his screen. “You go ahead. I don’t have an appetite today.”

Well, okay. Either that means some crap really is going down with business or he’s giving me the hint that he has no taste for me right now. I feel as if he’s already letting go, too, emphasizing that there’ll be no emotional goodbye, that he never cared anyway. In spite of all the turmoil and flashes of feeling I thought I saw in him during our time together, there truly was nothing.

Loneliness covers me, even though I’m not the only one in this apartment. I close the door to the library, leaving him alone, then go to my bedroom. I strip off the lightweight pink designer sweat suit that I wore to the spa, clean myself up, and put on a vintage white shift nightgown with lacy straps and pearled buttons—something Travis would like to see me in if he ever pulls himself away from his work. I wrap my hair into a loose knot and face myself in the mirror. My eyes are dark with the thought that, soon, I’ll be on my way, but after I put on some pink lipstick, I’ve got a bit more color.

If Travis has something in mind for a farewell night, I can always doll myself up later.

If.

When I get to the kitchen, I look around at the marble island with the copper pots and pans hanging from their hooks, the top-of-the-line appliances. There’s a space in me that needs filling, and I’m going to do it with food.

I move to the fridge for some of the ingredients I’ll need for the simple, light lunch I had in mind. I take out figs and a log of goat cheese, plus lettuce for a salad. I fetch honey and dried cranberries and walnuts from a cabinet then go to a nearby rack for a bottle of 2007 Gaja Barbaresco red that I’d previously snagged from the wine vault and opened yesterday.

I take out the wine stopper and pour myself a glass, then, after recalling the easy recipe that I’d looked up only this morning, I splash about a fourth of a cup into a sauce pan. I toast myself, my voice echoing through the big kitchen.

“To a job well done.” The words are flat, but the wine isn’t. I down a couple of swallows. With an ahhh, I reach for a knife in the nearby wooden block and bring out a cutting board to slide onto the marble island.

My movements slow when I see Travis in the entry, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his white button down as he surveys me. A shower of sparks burns through me on their way down my body.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you up for having a glass with me?”

“I could go for some of that wine.” He saunters into the kitchen.

He pours a lot of red wine into his glass, almost to the rim, before he reclines against a counter and toasts me. I perform my second salutation of the day and drink with him. He doesn’t take his gaze away from mine the entire time, but I don’t look away.

Those sparks have caught fire, and I burn for him, just as I always do.

As I drink a bit more, he almost offhandedly speaks. “Quite a bit of action today work-wise.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s being just as indirect about telling me about his business as he was when he left the TV on the night of the London robbery.

“Are the thieves still busy?” I’m not sure I should’ve asked, but there it is.

He nods slightly, and it seems as if a weight has been taken off his shoulders just by mentioning it to me. “They’re getting more inventive, too, but they’re about to have a rude awakening.” Then he jerks his chin toward the cutting board on the island. “Put me to work, Nova. What can I do?”

He needs a distraction, I think. That’s why he escaped his desk and came in here, and that’s why he’s not telling me much about his troubles. But it feels as if he doesn’t expect me to distract him in the usual way, with a lap dance or by parading around naked dressed only in his jewels.

I’m dying to ask him details about the thieves, but if he wants to elaborate he will.

I point with my glass toward the figs on the counter. “Could you wash those?”

“Challenging, but I think I can manage,” he says, then actually smiles at me.

His warmth is like a glimmer in me, and I hold onto it as I watch him handling the fruit. His long fingers rub the figs under the water, and now I have to exhale at the dizzy feeling of imagining those fingers on me.

“When you’re done, bring them over to me,” I say, realizing that I’m giving the commands to him now.

I drink more wine, hiding a little laugh.

He seems to get it, and after he drops off the figs on the cutting board, he slips his hand to the back of my bared neck. It’s only a brief touch, playful, but it jolts me all the same.

I efficiently cut the figs in half, then bring them to the stove, slipping them into the wine in the small sauce pan. I turn the burner on medium-low so the fruit will be able to simmer.

“What’re you making?” he asks.

“Something sweet and decadent, kind of like me.” I grin at him.

He laughs, and for that slightest bit of time, I think that he has a good shot at forgetting what’s dogging him with his business. I just need to help him do it completely.

“To actually answer your question,” I say, “I’m going to slice up that goat cheese, put these cooked figs on top, then dab some honey over them. The recipe made everything sound so nice and summery that I couldn’t resist. I wish I’d had a chance to make a bigger meal in here though.” I shrug at him. “Too bad you took me out for food too many times and spoiled me to death.”

“Yeah, too bad I created a greedy monster like you.”

Neither of us comment on what he’s made me greedy for—the answer is hanging there as plain as day. I’ve never been able to get enough of him.

Without being asked, he puts down his wine and begins to unwrap the cheese. As I hesitate in stirring the figs, I can almost believe that we’re in the kitchen all the time together, working in an easy rhythm, almost like a boyfriend and girlfriend…

But I’ve never experienced an official relationship before, so what do I know?

Pulling myself out of the daydream, I leave the figs on the stove as Travis takes the cheese to the cutting board.

From the other room, I think I hear the ringtone that belongs to his security team. Travis freezes, but then begins to slice the cheese.

His voice is low as he says, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after this? I’m not referring to your general plans but the specific ones.”

Why is he asking? Does he actually give a hoot?

“Well, you know I’m not going back home,” I say. “There’s nothing there that I want.”

I think he only wants to know that, at least for now, my family and I are going to be safe. But I didn’t think he was concerned beyond that.

“Have you thought any more about how to keep your dad off your trail?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I take another sip of wine then say, “I thought maybe I’d bring my mom and brother to New York and we could get a place together, start fresh, you know? Then I’ll find a job, hope that my scholarships haven’t run out, apply to a few colleges.”

“You don’t need scholarships anymore. And you should let me know which schools you have in mind. I’ve got some strings I can pull.”

As I gape at him, he glances at me, then corrects himself.

“If you have a list of them I can make a few calls. You’ll want to work fast though.”

Ah. Yes. Because after I leave this apartment tomorrow, I’ll be old news. But I appreciate that he’s even looking out for me to this extent.

He’s about to say something else when the sound of his phone trills again. The ringtone is the same.

His security team.

I wish I knew that it was just business as usual as he excuses himself, leaving me and the wine at a low simmer for the rest of the afternoon.