“You’ve only known her a few days,” Caitlin butts in. “She can be quite the princess sometimes.” She follows up with a laugh. I hope Camille gets the joke.

Camille responds by throwing an arm around my shoulder. “My beautiful princess. At least for a day and a half longer.” She kisses me on the cheek and it shoots straight through me, warming my flesh, quickening my pulse. Counting eight hours at work tomorrow and a few hours of sleep, we have about twenty-four waking hours left together. I think it’s time to go.

Chapter Eleven

After work on Wednesday I rush home. Camille is coming to my house for her last night and morning. We have a lot of plans, and most of them are best executed in my house.

My day has been so hectic—the production schedule is already demanding, and I also had to make up for the time I’ll lose tomorrow morning. I haven’t had ten spare minutes to myself to come up with the questions I want to ask Camille in our interview. I’m going to have to improvise. Or maybe we can skip directly to the raunchier part of tonight’s recording. Because I have said yes. This morning, before work, I told her I would do it. I would make both videos. In the face of all this passion, no matter how foolish and bound by time, trust is not an issue. Besides, we’ll both be on the tape. We both have equal amounts of dignity to lose if it ever comes out. And I want that kind of memory of her. No matter how idiotic it sounded when she first brought it up, now I can’t imagine the prospect of not having this sensual experience to remember her—us—by. My emotions are too strong for that.

Camille arrives a mere five minutes after I’ve parked my car. She kisses me deeply and pulls me close, then pushes herself away.

“We have to wait,” she says. “Save the best for the camera.”

“We could flip things around.” I tug her toward me again. “Sex first, interview later.”

She ponders this for a few seconds. “A naked interview in bed. I quite like the sound of that.”

“I’d be too distracted to ask you any interesting questions. Let’s stick to the original plan, which is already crazy enough.” I let her go—for now.

“You’re in charge, Miss TV Journalist.” Camille smiles. “Can I wear something of yours for the first part of the evening’s entertainment?” She’s wearing a rumpled pair of jeans and an equally wrinkly linen shirt—I assume she’s running out of clean clothes and hasn’t bothered doing laundry this close to her departure—but she still looks scrumptious.