He removes his towel, throwing it insouciantly on the bench and settling onto it. I see a flash of a long thin cock and a bush of dark pubes and swallow hard.

He grins at me. “So, are we really okay being naked here, or shall I prepare to be dragged out of the building and thrown into the back of a police car like a TV show from the seventies?”

“You have far too vivid an imagination. This is a private sauna. They have twelve of them, plus the massage rooms and a small spa.”

“You obviously come here a lot.”

“Once a week for a sauna, and I usually fit in a massage when I’m in the middle of a trial because sitting around for all those hours hurts my back.”

He lounges back as easily as if sitting in his bathtub. I note the signs of sleek lassitude that always comes from a good massage. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“So much,” he says with feeling and chuckles. “Remind me to listen to you sometimes.”

“You’d be better doing that all the time,” I correct him, not even attempting to hide my smile.

“Only if I wanted to court disaster. Before I knew it, I’d have legions of men pursuing me with ribbons flapping around their genitalia. How could I paint under those circumstances?” His smile falters suddenly, and his expression darkens.

I suddenly forget all about my own rules and ask, “How did you have your accident?” My tone is far too abrupt, and he winces. I’m not sure why I’m so irritated that the masseur knows the details, and I don’t. But I am cross.

“I was driving home one night, and a dog ran across the road in front of me. I swerved to avoid it, and the car ran off the road.”

I whistle. “The roads around your home are steep.”

He shoots me a wry glance. “And I have intimate knowledge of the fact. The car rolled three times.”

I go cold at the thought. He could easily have died, and the idea hits me in the solar plexus. I raise my hand to rub at the pressure, and his gaze roams over the expanse of my chest.

I wonder what he sees. I keep fit, running every day and walking everywhere, but it’s a fact that things aren’t as tight as they were. There’s a softness around my stomach and a blurring of areas that were previously well-defined.

I’m gratified to see heat flare in his eyes, but his expression shutters as he returns to the conversation. “The car crumpled. I hit my head on the window and was knocked out. My leg was trapped and suffered a compound fracture.”

“Shit, that’s nasty. You could have bled to death.”