Angelique was tall, slender, beautifully made, with lean muscles and good curves accentuated by skin that took an excellent deep-honey tan. And that tan was flawless except for a tiny white triangle around her shaved crotch. Everything about her was luxuriant. Masses of curly dark hair that fell like smoke around her shoulders. Green eyes filled with both questions and information. A smart woman who had the good genetic luck to also be exceptionally beautiful, even by the exacting standards of the South of France.

Stafford studied her as she moved around the suite. She was as unselfconscious as a child, but wickedly aware. Every now and then, she’d throw a tiny, knowing smile his way. She liked being watched.

“This was a lovely oasis,” Angelique said as she bent to fish for a lacy thong that had somehow made its way under the foot of the bed.

“Very,” he agreed.

He was satiated, tired, and happy. He’d met the woman at Gaïo, a posh restaurant-club on Rue du 11 Novembre 1918. They’d danced, dined, had a lot of very good drinks, and then went back to his hotel rather than hers because he was alone, and she had a roommate. The fact that her roommate was also her fiancé did not seem to matter much to Angelique, and it didn’t matter at all to Stafford. They’d made love on the bed, on the balcony, and in the shower; then napped for an hour and made love again. And it felt like that to him—making love, more so than merely having sex.

Angelique was, he discovered to his delight, as much of a sensualist as he was. She liked all the little things—the slow process of discovering each other, the attention to small details of the landscape of their bodies. There was a mutual generosity, empathy, and creativity. Each of their four bouts of passion was on a different frequency, which resulted in a different kind of orgasm. When it became apparent that they both shared the dedication of sensualism, the whole evening had transformed from the potential of good sex between two healthy adults, and instead achieved beauty. Her first orgasm had been a screaming frenzy, but the subsequent ones had grown quieter, more internal as she focused on small details instead of grand gestures or a gallop to the finish line.

And there had been quiet moments of holding, of talking, and of a shared and companionable silence.

He was very glad he wasn’t on a job. He was very glad he wouldn’t have to kill her.