Willard kept himself from shaking his head. Surely, the brightest of his foreign translators, a woman accustomed to being sought after by men, could figure out the author’s motivation without her boss having to explain it. Maybe the man’s reputation as a notorious womanizer had not preceded him. The French author of the internationally acclaimed best seller Cathédrale de Silence had caught sight of Victoria Grayson on his recent visit to G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Willard had been leading Beaumont Fournier and his American agent ahead to his office when he glanced back to find the author had stopped abruptly in the hall before the open door of the reference room, gaze arrested. Willard had muttered an inaudible Oh, dear. Victoria Grayson, absorbed over a linguistic matter, sat before a window at a table suffused in the sunshine of the last week of May. The light fell upon her with the deft strokes of a painter’s brush, accentuating the glow of her blond head, flawless skin, patrician features, and the luster of her ivory silk blouse.

It was no surprise when the Frenchman had asked as he was seated, “The lovely blond woman at the table by the window in the room we just passed…who is she?”

“One of our translators.”

“French, I hope?”

“Ah…yes, she is.”

“Then she will be assigned the translation of my novel?”

“Ah…yes. She is our best.”

“Her name?”

“Victoria Grayson.”

“Is she married?”

“No. Engaged.” Willard, father of twin daughters, young, single, and comely and for whom he had to keep a wary eye out for sexual predators like the man before his desk, then launched into attributes of Victoria’s betrothed against which not even the internationally famous, rich, and dashing Beaumont Fournier could compete.

“I’d like you to introduce us,” the writer interrupted.

Willard poised a finger to push an intercom button. “But of course. I’ll ask my secretary to summon her.”

“No, not here,” the Frenchman said with a smile that looked to Willard like a serpent’s smirk. “I’d like her to meet me for a drink this evening in the lobby bar of my hotel. I’m staying at the Plaza. I’ve found it wise before I sign contracts to…how do you Americans say it?…unwind with the person I’m dealing with to judge their capability. You understand what I mean?”

Of course I do, you profligate, Willard raged inwardly. He understood perfectly. Beaumont Fournier had made plain his condition to seal the deal. Whether that extended to Victoria spending the night with him in his hotel room rather than holding her captive over a glass of champagne in the lobby bar, Willard supposed he’d learn in the morning. All he could do was arrange for the latter, but he must make sure his translator understood that neither her job nor the contract was contingent on the former.