“Certainly, sir.” Elizabeth Percy placed a cup of tea—black, no sugar, served in a wafer-thin bone china cup—in front of him, admiring him as she did every morning. She was twenty-eight and very happily married, but there was no harm in looking, was there? Today, like every day, he was beautifully dressed, with that effortless style—she was sure he never gave a thought to it. All his suits were bespoke, of course, and his shoes, and shirts; she thought the only thing he bought retail were his ties. Today, like every day, the tie was perfectly understated, a dark red and navy paisley. Hugh Montfort’s clothes were never allowed to get in the way of his body. Underneath that perfect fit you could still perceive, in the way he walked, and held himself, the tight muscles, the sinewy strength of him.

She booked all his appointments, and so knew his workout routine: karate five times a week, boxing three, and daily sessions at the gym. He would have been there this morning, kicking a punch bag, lifting weights. And then back home for breakfast, which he would make himself: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and he might be the last man in England to still regularly add a kipper.

The tea she served him now would be the last caffeine he would have today. He would not have wine at lunch, and rarely more than one glass at supper. It was a heathy routine, very much so, but Elizabeth knew Hugh would scoff at any such description. He merely programmed himself for the best energy, to help him at work.

He treated his body like he treated everything: as a means to an end.

Hugh tossed the tea back, almost scaldingly hot, the way he liked it, and handed his assistant the empty cup and saucer.

“Thank you.”

She removed it silently, and in a few seconds his phone was lit up. He pressed the button.

“M. Maitre, sir,” said his secretary’s emotionless voice.

“Put him through, thanks.” She was working out well, Hugh thought with satisfaction. He would never hire another unmarried woman, not to work with him, anyway. He winced at the thought of the last two girls both breaking down and declaring their undying love. How bloody awful, all around, that had been. Of course he had transferred them elsewhere with a rise in pay, but he never wanted to go through such a scene again.

He had no interest in women—

“Hugh, mon brave.” Maitre’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Congratulations on the Oscars. What a triumph, we have been besieged.” Maitre was his eyes and ears in Paris, and ran Mayberry’s small, but always packed, boutique store on rue des Princes.