“Pardon me?” Madalena’s job was to field his calls and deflect the loonies from his path, not to hit voicemail on the fucking director of the fucking movie.

“Calm down,” Madalena said, still not looking at him. “She wanted me to pass on a word, that’s all.”

Nicholas was only mildly appeased. “Anytime you feel willing to share, Madalena—”

“They’ve chosen a location for the café. There’s a neat little underground bar near Bastille they can convert to Belle Époque aesthetics, whatever that means. She wants you to drop in tonight, get a feel for the place. Food looks good. Very classic. The menu boasts touches of, I quote, ‘bistro avant-garde’—whatever that means.”

Avant-garde food tended to be jelly-colored foam on foal-liver crostini: the sort of thing that was both inedible on the tongue and offensive to good taste. Not a single good medium-rare steak in sight. “Fine.” Nicholas glanced away. The gardens of the Palais-Royal glimmered across a plaza of black-and-white marble columns. It was tempting to escape there for a few hours—to stretch out his legs on one of those green iron chairs between the trees, take in the sun, turn off his phone. Rest.

“She wants you to bring Lavalle along. Have a private chat. Get to know the guy.”

Hell. Well, there went that fucking idea. Nicholas cast her a dark look. “Say that again.”

She lifted her eyebrows at him. “Dinner with Chris Lavalle.” She pointed, helpfully.

“Thank you, Madalena, I know where my damn costar is.” So did the rest of the world, apparently. Regrettably.

“And here you are: glaring exquisitely at him, in full sight of every Parisian in the neighborhood, which is doing no good whatsoever for your optics—I say this out of love, not just because your job is also my job. You haven’t exchanged a word with the man. Give him a chance,” she coaxed, as gentle as with a lion. “Talk to him. He might turn out to be a kinder soul than you think.”

Nicholas didn’t need a kind soul. He needed a costar—an equal, a partner, a man he could respect. “He’s a diva. An influencer. He isn’t an actor. His English is atrocious.”

“His accent is lovely. And you barely speak French.”

“I know enough.” He could say bonjour, merci, and sortez de mon chemin, bordel de merde, which was usually enough for his purposes.

Madalena brushed sun dust off her skirt. “You keep looking at him.”

“The entire blasted world is looking at him. He’s making damn sure of it.”

“The entire blasted world isn’t about to play his lover. And you’ve been furiously eye-fucking him for half an hour. People are bound to notice.” She wriggled her smartphone at him. “I noticed.”

“You had better,” Nicholas growled, “not be looking up pictures of your employer on that thing.”

“I don’t need to look you up. You’re trending.”

“For fuck’s sake, Madalena!”