“John”

“How well do you know Trey Bancroft?” I ask Camille a question to which I already know the answer. The pale glow of her pearl earrings in the dark draws my gaze.

Her fingers freeze along the back of her blindfold. “Pardon?”

“Trey Bancroft,” I say.

Her full lips button for a second. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. If he is or isn’t a former client of mine, I’m not able to disclose that.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “But I think you should know he was here the other night. At the hotel. I saw him on my way out.”

Her arms reach for something solid, the wall perhaps, but she grasps at nothing.

“You need to sit down?” I lead her by the arm to a nearby chair.

Camille’s chest rises and falls in quick succession. “He . . . he’s not supposed to bother me.”

Her voice is low, shaky now. She reaches for the blindfold, adjusting it before fanning her face. I’ve never seen a woman as put together as Camille fall apart so easily.

There’s no way I can fuck her when she’s in a state of distress.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I just need a moment.”

I give her space, walking backward to the mini bar. “You want a drink?”

“Yes, please,” she says, swallowing gulps of air. “Vodka soda.”

A minute later, she nurses her cocktail with trembling hands, and I’m left more perplexed than ever. Unbeknownst to Camille, I singlehandedly brought down their little affair, but as far as I knew, they’d gone their separate ways months ago.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she says. “I’ve ruined your evening.”

“Impossible.”

Her head turns toward my voice. “There’s nothing sexy about a woman having some kind of psychological breakdown.”

“Has Bancroft been bothering you?”

Her chin tucks. “I can’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. I want to, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’d do with the information. I hope you understand.”

“I want to keep you safe, Camille. That’s my intention. My only intention.” I move toward her, taking her arm and pulling her into me. “Does he follow you?”

“Let me take off the blindfold, and I’ll tell you everything.” Her lips lift, holding inches from mine. “I need to know who you are first, John.”

“Nice try.” I push my lips closer, until they almost touch hers. “I suppose if you’re not going to help me help you . . . I’ll have to take other measures to ensure your safety.”

“Such as . . .”

“There’s a corporate apartment in Columbia Heights,” I say. “I have access and no one’s living there now.”

“You want to meet there from now on?”

“It’s secure. There’s a doorman. No one gets in without a key.” I inhale her floral scent into my lungs. My fingers tangle in her soft hair, and I sigh, prematurely missing all the things I won’t be doing to her tonight. “He won’t be able to come inside. We’ll meet there next time.”

“All right.”

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Camille.”

Her jaw falls, offering a silent protest.

“It wouldn’t be right. Not with you in this state.” I kiss her forehead and step aside. Grabbing a pen and notepad from a nearby desk, I scribble an address and place the paper in her hand. “Oliver, the man outside this door, will pick you up tomorrow night around eight. He’ll drive you there and give you a spare key. If you ever find yourself in trouble, or if you need a place to go where Bancroft can’t get to you, I want you to go there. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Her spine zips as she clears her throat. I’m sure she’s embarrassed, though she has no need to be. “I’ll make this up to you next time.”

“Camille.” I stop by the door. “Not necessary. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I’ll ensure that a cab is waiting for you downstairs to take you home.”

* * *

“Well that was fast.” Oliver shuts off his phone and slips it into his pocket the second I emerge from the room.

“We need to dig a little deeper on Bancroft,” I say as we stride toward the elevator.

An on-duty cab parks beneath the hotel overhang when we hit the sidewalk. I rap on the window, and the driver rolls it down. I hand him a fifty.

“A woman in a white jacket will be coming down in just a moment. Her name is Camille. This should cover her ride home.”

I climb into the backseat of my Lincoln and tell Oliver to wait. Ten minutes pass before Camille makes her debut under the portico of the Melrose. She steps into the cab a second later and they veer off in the direction of Logan Circle.

No sign of Bancroft. It’s a start.