It bothered him that he was in the shabby clothes of a petty thief. But he had kept himself neat, as always. And he still had confidence, and pride.

He strode up to her, and caught her by the arm.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he said.

She wrenched her arm away, trying to stride on ahead. “Leave me alone,” she snapped. “I don’t give to beggars.”

She was icy cold. His admiration deepened. He said, firmly, “Look at me.”

His tone demanded assent; she turned around, reluctantly, and glanced down at him.Vladek held her eyes.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said, matter-of-factly.

She did a double take; then arched those plucked brows.

“I’m a married woman.” She gave an artificial laugh. “And you’re just a boy.”

Vladek noted that she was not shoving him away, nor calling for help.

“Your husband does not please you,” he said. He could tell this in the way she walked. “And I am not a boy.” He reached out with one calloused fingertip and stroked her down the side of the cheek, a soft gesture of claiming, as though she were a thorough-bred mare that belonged to him.

She drew back, but not before they had both felt her move, just a tiny bit, under the unexpected caress.

“You’re young enough. And I’m not so very beautiful,” she said.

Vladek answered with scorn, “Your husband is a fool who does not know his woman. You are a jewel.”

She had stopped pretending to walk away; she smiled a bitter little smile.

“What kind of a jewel?” she asked.

“A diamond,” he said at once. “Very fair, and very cold. But with light around the heart.” He moved closer to her, invading her space, thrusting his face near hers; he could see the liner she used around her lipstick.

“Where is your husband now?” he asked.

“At work.” She was staring at him, as though trying to come to a decision. “He’s a banker.”

“That’s good,” Vladek said softly. “Take me to your house.”

It wasn’t a request, and she waited only for a second. Then she said, “This way,” and gestured down one of the crooked, beautiful mediaeval streets that led away from the square.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

They were lying together, pooled and exhausted, in the warm linen sheets on her oak bed. He had a hand draped over her thigh; she had been soft and golden, as he knew she would, receptive and malleable.

Vladek felt he was home. It didn’t concern him that this was another man’s house; he had taken ownership of the female, and he would take ownership of the rest.

“Natasha,” she said. “Natasha Ilyeva Garin.”

He nodded. He did not like the name. She would have to change it for him.

“And you?”