I was working on this project, sitting with my laptop and stacks of papers at the dining table, wearing panties and Wil’s Tuska Surf T, when the door to the flat opened. I yanked down the hem of the T over my bottom just as Matthews came in.

“Good morning, miss,” he said glumly.

“Hello, Mr. Matthews.” I smiled and said, “Wilcox is still sleeping.”

“I came to pick up his clothes for cleaning,” he said as he looked around at the mess of empty wine bottles, wrappers from salt and vinegar crisps, and dishes. His eyes went upward, where a cerise lace thong dangled from the mod frosted glass and polished chrome chandelier. Then Matthews looked down to the graphs and charts I’d spread on the table.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said. “We’ll clean up.”

“There is no need, miss. I am pleased to stay and be of service.”

I spied a condom box under a chair and said, “I think Wil would rather have you just take his clothes to be cleaned, and I don’t need any help, thanks.”

Matthews followed my glance and saw the box. “As you wish, Miss de Los Santos.”

While Matthews went into the bedroom to collect Wil’s clothes, I picked up our trash and tossed it in the kitchen bin. I could hear the clatter of wooden hangers, so I quickly climbed on the dining room table to reach for the wayward thong.

When Matthews cleared his throat behind me, I yanked the thong down, setting the chandelier swinging, and hopped off the table, hiding behind a chair. The man was holding a plastic basket filled with Wil’s clothes.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews?”

“Enjoy the rest of your holiday, miss.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell Wil you came by.”

After Matthews closed the front door behind him, I latched the chain lock so I wouldn’t be surprised again.

I went to the bedroom, but Wil had slept through his houseman’s visit. My handbag, on the dresser, had fallen over, and a few things had spilled out. I put back the lipsticks, pens, and tourist trinkets I’d bought.

Wil got up, drank a pot of tea, and played Grand Theft Auto for thirty minutes while I wrote postcards.

Then he said, “What’s the real situation with you and Ian Ducharme?”

“I’m a free agent.”

“Are you sure? Because as crazy hot as I think Ducharme is, I don’t want him showing up to kill me.”

I’d checked my messages when Wil wasn’t around, and Ian hadn’t called me. “Ian doesn’t give a damn what I do, and I don’t give a damn what or whom he does.”

Will gazed at me for a moment and said, “You sound quite angry for someone who doesn’t care, and you don’t want to do any blood play with me.”