The car waiting out front for him was a 1950’s-era burgundy sedan with large wheel fenders and whitewall tires. A Ford Custom, maybe. A tank, definitely, but an elegant tank. He opened the back door and sat next to Madame. There was a driver up front, a tan man in his late thirties with a jagged scar across his cheek. Kingsley had also noted the license plate. He was supposed to be working, after all.

“I apologize in advance,” she said. She held up a black length of fabric.

Kingsley sighed.

“If it’s any comfort, I’ll allow you to speak freely once you’re blindfolded,” she said.

He won by playing, he told himself. He won by playing.

Kingsley didn’t fight when she wrapped the black scarf around his head. She secured it over his eyes and tied it in the back.

“Does it bother you?” she asked. “Too tight?”

“No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“Put your head in my lap,” she said. He did as told. The driver pulled away from the curb and into traffic. He lay on his side and found if he pulled his knees in just a little he could fit on the leather bench seat. Her thigh was soft under his head, and he felt her body warmth through her stocking and skirt.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

“Very. I’ve never known a kidnapper as considerate as you.”

She laughed softly, a warm sensual chuckle.

“You’re in my care now,” she said. “And you haven’t been kidnapped, if you recall. You called me. You wanted me.”

“True,” he said. “But I was told you’d kidnapped Leon.”

“He left his home by choice. I didn’t take him.”

“He’s nineteen.”

“Yes, and his family is raising the hue and cry. We’ll see if we can’t calm their nerves. What about you? Do I need to call your mother and let her know you’re safe?” She tapped the tip of his nose.

“My mother’s dead,” Kingsley said.

“My condolences,” she said. It sounded as if she meant it. “You’re very young to have already lost a parent.”

“Two,” he said. “She and my father died in a train crash outside Paris ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago? I remember that crash,” she said. She’d started stroking his hair again. Gently, so gently, it seemed like it was being ruffled by a light breeze and not by a woman’s hand. “That must have been awful for you.”

“They were going on a honeymoon. A second honeymoon,” Kingsley said. “At the funeral someone said it was good they’d died together, that they would have wanted that.”

Madame swore, hissing a very unladylike string of very unladylike words.

“What?” Kingsley asked, laughing.

“No decent parent wants to leave a child orphaned. What a terrible thing to tell you.”

“I survived it,” Kingsley said. “I think.” Je pense.

“Poor sweet boy. You may sleep now if you like. You should. I’d like you to rest. And if you continue to please me, you’ll have a long night ahead of you.”

“You want me to sleep so I won’t know how far you’re taking me from Paris.”

She exhaled heavily, clucked her tongue again. He exasperated her, but she seemed the sort of woman who enjoyed being exasperated. She wasn’t happy unless she was correcting a stupid man who’d said a stupid thing. Luckily for her, there were plenty of stupid men in the world.

“I want you to sleep because you’re tired, Kingsley,” she said. Her voice was as tender as her touch. “You spent all day out in the cold. You must be tired and sore. You need a good meal and a long hot bath and a woman’s touch.”

“Sounds nice,” he said. He shifted and got very comfortable in the warm car that sped along the autoroute to destinations unknown. He was tired, exhausted even, with a deep sort of fatigue that he couldn’t blame solely on spending most of the day outside in the cold waiting for a payphone to ring. He was tired the way the fox is tired after the hunt. He yawned.

“See? You are tired,” she said.

“What do they say?” Kingsley said. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Not true at all,” she said, tapping the tip of his nose again. “That’s where I’m taking you—where the wicked rest.”

“I need it then,” Kingsley said. “What do I call you?”

“Madame. That’s all.”

“Madame,” he said, letting his body go slack. “If I dream will you wake me?”

“Why would I wake you up from dreaming?”

“I have bad dreams,” he said.

“What do you dream of that scares you so? And you a grown man?”

Kingsley sighed, shrugged.

“Tell me, Kingsley,” Madame said. “It’s only a dream. You give it power by treating it like an omen.”

“Lately, I’ve been dreaming of the one I used to…serve, for lack of a better word.”

“Dreams or nightmares?”

“Dreams while they happen. Nightmares when I wake up and realize it was just a dream.”

“Ah,” she said, and that was all. Kingsley could tell she had thoughts aplenty that were left unsaid on that particular subject, though.

She dipped her head and kissed his temple. “You poor boy,” she said again.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“No, it isn’t it. But it’s fine it’s not fine.”

“That makes no sense.”

She gently tugged a lock of his hair.

“Not all problems are meant to be solved,” she said. “Some are meant to be endured. All too often we learn more from living with the question than we ever would from the answer.”

“But I want the—”

“Shh…” Madame said, stroking his forehead with her silken fingertips. “Sleep now. And don’t be afraid of your dreams. I’m here. And if the one you served shows up in your dream, say, ‘Go away, I’m with Madame now. She’s protecting me. Shoo-shoo.’ Oui?”

“Oui, Madame,” he said, and fell asleep smiling at the thought of telling his monster to “shoo-shoo.”

When he woke, he was in another world.