Something small and dark fell out of his tux as I laid it gently on the bed. His wallet. It was lovely, of course, a soft black leather envelope that felt like butter against my fingers, either very expensive, very old, or both. One more reminder that we existed in completely different worlds. I picked it up from the floor and felt an unexpected rush. What if I took a peek inside? It was breaking the rules, but what did that matter now? I was leaving, I would never see him again, all I wanted was to know his last name. With cold, uncooperative fingers, I opened the wallet and found his driver’s licence tucked inside a little pocket with a window, right in front. I rubbed at my eyes again, picking away flecks of mascara and eyeliner, holding it close to my nose until I could read the tiny letters and numbers. There it was, his date of birth, his New York address, his height, his eye colour, and his full name.

Clive Evan Carden II.

The wallet fell from my fingers, landing on the floor of the gazebo with a soft thud. Evan stirred and I grabbed my cushion cover clutch, backing slowly away across the grass, a light frost crunching under my feet until I reached the door to the hotel kitchens. With one last look, I opened the door, leaving Clive Carden’s eldest son behind me.

‘Bit overdressed for a Sunday?’

Lenny, a man who had risen swiftly up my Wouldn’t Spit On You If You Were On Fire list, opened the door to the helicopter as the rotor blades slowly whirred to a stop above my head. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, hands held out towards me, as casual as you like.

It was not the correct approach to take.

I thanked the pilot profusely for reassuring me that I was not going to fall out for the entire duration of our flight, then slapped Lenny’s hands away as he tried to help me out of the passenger seat.

‘What?’ he exclaimed, as I stumbled out of the cockpit and onto the almost-solid ground of The Songbird.

‘What do you mean “what”?’ I replied, ducking low as the helicopter took off above us. ‘You left me, Lenny.’

‘I didn’t have any choice,’ he protested with a pouty apology face I assumed worked wonders on women he hadn’t callously abandoned on a Sicilian island. I was officially impervious to his powers. Every time I looked at him, all I wanted was to kick him square in the sack. ‘The captain called, and we had to go. What was I supposed to do? You’d been gone for hours.’

‘You’re an arsehole,’ I declared, stabbing him in the chest with my forefinger. ‘I was gone five minutes and you could have come after me. You could have called, you could have left a message. You chose to leave.’