In my loft I prepare a gourmet picnic with sliced meats and creamy cheeses. There are plump grapes and ripe strawberries. A baguette from the French bakery so fresh it crackles when I place it in the bag. Most of these items are easy to prepare. The only thing I make from scratch is a moist brioche with hints of orange and white chocolate, soft on the inside, the sugar caramelized on the outside. My mother taught me to make this.

She worked twelve hours a day in a hotel that cost more per night than she earned in a month. She did not have money for luxury or time for hobbies. But in the few minutes she had between waking and work, she loved to cook. Recipes handed down from her mother but spiced with what was available in the open-air markets of Tangier. There was ratatouille made with tomatoes and zucchini and bay leaf, but also couscous and ginger. French lentils with fava beans and cumin. She loved to try new things, both of us tasting from the pot while the meal simmered, heating the small room we shared.

I don’t have her level of curiosity or wonder about cooking, but every meal I prepare is an homage to her. If you would have asked me if I loved my mother, I would have said yes. But I spent too much time fighting in the streets to be what you’d call a good son.

She was the one who let me out of the closet, limping and bleeding and crying too hard to speak. Even then I knew that the police would not help us against a rich American tourist. I cooked every day for her for a week, before she was well enough to return to work.

We did not speak of what happened that night. She didn’t wish to, and I was too angry. Too selfish. Too busy fighting in the streets, thinking I would make something of myself in a city that hardly recognized me as human. But somewhere in my chest was the certainty that I would find that man.

After the cancer took her, it became my only purpose.

So when I met beautiful Melissande, when I found out where she came from—I knew she would be the way to revenge. She offered me the chance to come with her. It seemed almost miraculous, that I had fallen in love with a woman and could achieve my goal at the same time.

She kept me in a state of ignorant bliss in her bed for a year before revealing my purpose in Tanglewood. I would be a prostitute, catering to the wealthy men and women of society who wanted a dark-haired fallen angel in their beds. Someone with an exotic accent and very little inhibition.

That’s when I learned that I could not have love and revenge.

There could only be one or the other.

My mind is in turmoil as the brioche cools on the oven, but I move with determination as I pack them with the rest of the picnic. We won’t need Bea’s tiny kitchen tonight, though I still hope to dine with her. The drive to the hotel is done in silence, without the usual joy I feel when driving the Bugatti.

I feel only a small amount of guilt for using my key card without being invited. It only takes me to the entrance. Once inside I knock on the wall and wait, a strange fluttering of nerves.

What if Bea isn’t here? What if she is here but she doesn’t want to see me? She isn’t paying for tonight. There’s nothing on the books with Melissande until tomorrow—our standing Saturday appointment.

From the elevator car I can see the empty living room. Soft voices filter through the closed bedroom door. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

The door opens, revealing a young woman with blonde hair with pink streaks. “Uh. Hi?”

Not Bea. For a moment I’m so thrown I wonder if I somehow found the wrong building. A different gaudy hotel established by the ex-owner of a French brothel. A different penthouse with an agoraphobic little ex-virgin. “Is Beatrix here?”

“Bea,” the blonde says in a singsong voice. “Have you been holding out on me?”

Her voice comes from deep within the penthouse. “What?”

“There’s a young Cary Grant at your door, so either L’Etoile has seriously upped their staffing game or you have been keeping very big, very sexy secrets.” The young woman winks at me.

“Is there a baguette in that basket or are you just happy to see me?”

I laugh, as comfortable with flirting as she is. “Both, naturellement.”

“A man to please all appetites,” she says as Bea peeks around the corner, hair even more wild and dangerous than usual. It’s untamable, that hair. Like the woman.

“Oh,” she says, though it’s more like a squeak. “Did we have an…”

Appointment, she means to say. “A date? But no, I wished to surprise you.”

“You did surprise me.” Her gaze slides to her friend, who’s watching us with undisguised pleasure and interest. “Harper, this is… Hugo. And, Hugo…”

“Harper,” I say with my best smile, which produces a blush. I recognize her faintly from the society papers, this girl who is related to Christopher from the Thieves Club. The stepsister that makes him scowl every time he says something about her.

“Ohhh my,” Harper says. “Do you just go around smiling on the street, making people fall over and having cars crash around you? It’s dangerous.”

“Non, this one I reserve for private company.” I turn to Bea, who looks torn. She’s biting her lip, leaving indents in the plump flesh. Everything about her calls to me, but it’s almost a relief that she’s turning me away. I shouldn’t be using her for information, shouldn’t be trying to get close to her to find out more about the man who owns this hotel. “I can come back another time. You are clearly having a girls’ night, and I’m the intruder.”

I hid my disappointment rather well, I thought, but Bea still looks crestfallen. Crestfallen and beautiful in a black lace blouse that flutters around her elegant neck and jeans—a more casual look than she’s ever worn for our dates. “Wait.”

“I’m so out of here,” Harper says, pointing a finger at me. “And I’m going to drag the details out of Bea, so you better make them worth our while. Dirty. Salacious. Shocking.”

“I do aim to please,” I say, my smile lazy. Of course I would love for the night to be dirty, but that depends on quite a lot. Like whether Bea will even speak to me after crashing her night.

It only takes a moment for Harper to grab her things—a model of phone that isn’t available commercially yet and a handbag shaped like a panda. Then she leaves down the elevator, making promises to call Bea the next day.

As soon as we’re alone Bea shakes her head, her smile both exasperated and fond. “She’s never going to let up asking questions about you now.”

“I’m sure we can give you plenty to tell. That is, if you wish to spend the evening with me.”

“Of course I do.” She pauses, as if to check herself. “But I didn’t book this time with the agency. I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“This isn’t through the agency,” I say lightly, as if it’s no big deal.

Of course it’s a huge deal. When is the last time I spent time with a woman without being paid for it. The thought would disturb me, if I didn’t have an ulterior motive for being here. It’s not quite as much distance as money, but it’s enough to keep this from meaning too much.

She looks at me, skeptical, uncertain. “So this is… what?”

“Why does a man spend time with a beautiful woman? It’s a date, if you’ll give me the honor. That’s what this is.”

I am not so worried about deceiving her, or at least, this is what I tell myself. She may not have paid for this night, but she understands the nature of this relationship. And soon enough, once she’s gotten over her initial nervousness about sex, she will move on to a man more appropriate for her. Maybe one who will finally help her leave this tower prison of hers. I will merely be a distant memory to make her embarrassed.

Her green eyes are deep tonight, without the usual walls that keep her hidden. I can see her fear and her excitement. She looks impossibly innocent like this. “Do you want to come in?” she asks, a little shy.

“Non. I wish to take you outside.”

Dismay. “You know I can’t.”

I make a noncommittal hum in my throat. “Whether you can or you can’t, I won’t ask you to set even one foot off the property. At least not tonight.”

“Really?”

“But of course.”

She narrows her eyes. “You know, it doesn’t escape my notice that you’re carrying a picnic basket. Where are you planning to spread that out? The lobby?”

All she gets is a half-smile. “You will have to trust me for that.”

“Trust you?” she asks, so incredulous it would wound me, if I didn’t know how deeply her fear of the outside runs. She doesn’t trust anyone.

“You trust me with your body,” I remind her. “With your most private places. With your pleasure. I’m only asking for a little bit more, mon ami. Trust me with tonight.”

She takes a shuddering breath, which moves the lace at her throat. “Okay.”

It moves me more than it should, her trust in me. Silently, urgently, I swear to myself that I won’t betray that trust. She may never know my true interest in L’Etoile, but my feelings about her are pure. I like her. I respect her. And I will do nothing to make her doubt those things.

It takes only a little coaxing to bring her into the elevator.

Only when I press the UP button does she start to breathe faster. “What are you doing?”

“Taking us to the roof. There’s a beautiful garden up there. I’ve seen it through Google Maps. And you have exclusive access to it. I’m shocked you don’t spend all your time there.”

“That’s not… Part of the… Hotel.” She’s breathing faster now, close to panic.

I take her face between my hands, both gentle and firm. “It is part of the hotel. The same structure where you spend all of your time. You do not have to leave to see the stars.”

“That’s what windows are for.”

My laugh comes out, surprised, unexpected. “Non.”

“We can spread out the picnic on the carpet. It will be fun.”

“Perhaps another time. Tonight we will dine in the night air and you will be fine.”

She searches my eyes. “What if I’m not?”

Trust. That’s what she’s giving me right now, and the gift is worth more than a thousand nights. “I’ll be with you every second, Bea. I won’t let anything happen to you.”