“The review says that the ropes and gags in this movie have no BDSM overtones.” Amanda paused to scan the rest of the article. “Monsieur Almodóvar claims it’s a romantic comedy.”

Kes snatched the magazine from her. “Let me see that.”

Sprawled in his velvet-upholstered seat, he perused the review. His eyes moved fast as he tried to finish the article before the lights went out and the movie began.

Her gaze lingered on his amazing lashes—so thick and dense they appeared double-layered—and his high cheekbones.

After two weeks of seeing him daily, she should’ve been used to his exotic splendor. She should’ve been taking it for granted. That was how it worked. She’d gawk at a thing of rare beauty, thinking she’d never tire of it. But it would only be a matter of days—sometimes hours—before she’d have enough to stop marveling. And then she’d stop noticing it altogether.

It was human nature. Parisians would stare at their phones when their bus passed the Eiffel Tower. Tokyoites wouldn’t look up from their manga books to admire Mount Fuji during their bullet train commute. Liz Taylor’s lovers would grow indifferent to her out-of-this-world violet eyes.

Why would Kes’s eyes be any different?

“OK.” He handed her the magazine. “Now I see why the film is called Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! He’s a real visionary, Monsieur Almodóvar.”

“How so?”

“He made this movie in 1990, two decades before bondage became fashionable.”

“Good point.” She smirked. “Bondage is so trendy these days it’s slipping into mainstream.”

“Which is a sure way to make it untrendy and ultimately kill it.”

She shrugged. “Good riddance, I say.”

“Pity, I say.”

The lights went out before Amanda had time to gauge if Kes was being serious. She spent the next two hours watching the unlikely love story unfolding on the screen. And just as during the previous two movies they’d seen together, she’d been unable to lose herself in the fictional world as she normally would. A barely detectable brush of his hand, arm, or knee was enough to quicken her pulse. Even when no parts of them touched, she was still acutely aware of him. Just because he breathed.

When the final credits rolled, she sighed with an emotion that was half relief and half anticipation. The next part of the evening program was her favorite. They’d go to a nearby bar for a lazy drink and a debriefing about the movie. She’d be able to prolong the pleasure of his company without the dangers of his proximity in a dark room.

“I started the job at La Bohème this morning,” she said as soon as they arrived at the bar.

“Great!” He pulled out a chair for her. “La Bohème. I like the sound of it.”

She sat down. “Vivienne was livid. I half expected her to ask me to choose between her and the bistro.”

He gave her a sympathetic look and screwed up his forehead as if trying to recall something. “Where did you say that place was?”

“I didn’t. I don’t want you to show up there.”

“It’s OK—don’t tell me. I’ll google it. And because I’m a good person, I’ll give you a few days to hit your stride before I make an appearance.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Wonderful,” he said with a satisfied smile.

“Er . . . Does an eye roll translate as ‘sure, go ahead’ in Gypsy Land? Because here in Paris, it means frustrated disapproval.”

“It’s the same where I come from. The reason I’m happy is that you only rolled your eyes.”

“I’m not following.”

“When you’re really mad, you put more effort into your frustrated disapproval. You do this.” He rolled his eyes and jiggled his head at the same time. “But when it’s only the head or the eyes, it means your annoyance level is light to moderate.”

Amanda stared at him. “You think you’ve figured me out in ten days?”

“And a weekend a month ago.”

“Oh yes. That changes everything.”

He shrugged. “I notice little things about you. Something new every time we meet.”

“Like what?”

“Like the way you wrinkle your nose when you smile for real, the way your eyes remain cold when you do your polite smile, the way you place your feet when you walk, the way you tuck that strand behind your ear—”

“Enough. I get it.”

“When I’m not with you,” he continued, “I remember those things. I picture you smiling, walking, talking, and I . . .” His paused, peering into her eyes. “This is obviously making you uncomfortable, so I’ll just shut up.”

She trained her gaze on her drink as it occurred to her that she’d been doing the exact same thing. She’d watched him, noticed little things about him—the soft wave in his hair, the chocolate tint in his black eyes, the rich timbre of his laughter, the feline grace with which he moved . . . And then she remembered those things at night and added another brushstroke to the hero of her fantasies.

She cleared her throat. “So what did you think about the movie?”

“I loved it. You?”

“I’m not sure. Antonio Banderas is perfect as Ricky, and so is Victoria Abril in Marina’s role, but the whole premise? Hmm.”

“What, you disapprove of a guy who kidnaps and ties up an ex-one-night stand in the hope of getting her to love him?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his half smile betraying that he too had noticed the parallel with their situation.

“I think,” he said, “there are less intrusive and more respectful ways to win a woman’s heart.”

She wiped the imaginary sweat off her forehead. “Phew.”

“Even though Ricky did achieve his goal at the end.” He gave her a defiant look.

“Only because Marina was a junkie and a porn star.”

He held his index finger up. “A former porn star.”

“And because it’s a romantic comedy.” Amanda leaned in. “If anyone ever held me captive, I’d find a way to murder him in his sleep.”

He grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Good.” She sat back and took a sip of her cider. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Banderas?”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t see any resemblance beyond the color of our hair and eyes.”

“There’s definitely more than that.”

He shrugged. “He’s Spanish. Maybe he has Gitano blood.”

“That must be it. And that’s why he can play a low-life psycho and make him endearing.”

Kes cocked his head. “Am I imagining things, or did you just pay the Gypsy people a warped compliment?”

“I never said your people were entirely without charm.”

“The Gypsies,” he said, “are just like any other ethnic group. There’s the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“Oh, come on, Kes, the Gypsies are nothing like any other ethnic group.”

He smirked. “Our way of life is a little exotic for the modern world, I’ll grant you that. That’s why the gadje either romanticize or demonize us. But they can’t see that beyond our unusual ways we’re not that different.”

She frowned, digesting what he’d just said.

“Take my parents,” he continued. “They are loving and generous to a fault, but they’re also narrow-minded, bordering on oppressive. Sound familiar?”

It did.

“When I went to Las Vegas for the first time, the peeps I met on the Strip asked me where I was from. I said, ‘I’m a French Gypsy.’ You know what their reaction was?”

She shook her head.

“Ha-ha,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“That’s what they said: ‘Ha-ha. Very funny, man.’ At first, I was confused. Then I realized those guys thought Gypsies were fictional.”

“Get out.”

“No, I’m serious. In the States, they don’t really have itinerant Gypsy communities like we do in France. To Americans, we’re a thing of the past.”

“Which you are,” Amanda interjected. “Totally anachronistic.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, the guys I met on the Strip thought Gypsies were mythical creatures. You know, like vampires.”

She widened her eyes in exaggerated terror and drew her chair back. “Are you a vampire?”

“Of course not! That’s absurd.” He gave an indignant snort. “I’m a werewolf.”

She burst out laughing.

He kept his expression earnest for a brief moment until a spark of hilarity lit up his eyes, spread to the rest of his face, and stretched his mouth into a wide, sexy grin.

She gasped at the beauty of him.

God give me strength.