Nat had never been able to sleep in such close quarters. With Miguel, she’d felt crowded and claustrophobic, even in her double bed. On the handful of occasions when she’d spent the night with Cole (his parents did not allow sleepovers, but Mr. and Mrs. Doberinsky spent two weeks in Arizona each winter, allowing the young lovers some intimacy), she’d felt restless and antsy. There was something comforting about Gabe, something reassuring in his posh, masculine apartment, the doorman on sentry duty. Oddly, Nat felt at home there.

Her belly rumbled then, a sick, churning sensation. It’s just hunger, she told herself. She should have accepted Gabe’s offer of whole wheat toast instead of insisting the latte he’d made her was adequate. But it was more than just the caffeine churning in her empty stomach. It was her conscience. Their night had felt so romantic, so special, so meaningful. Until he had handed her the money.

She’d tried to refuse the cash. It felt wrong after the comfort and reassurance he’d provided, not to mention the car service, the dinner, the wine. . . . When he had handed her the wad of bills, it cheapened what they had shared, made her feel like a prostitute though they hadn’t had sex. She had shaken her head. “It’s fine.”

“Take it.” He’d smiled and pressed the money into her hands. “I like spoiling you.”

So she’d accepted it, trying to push away the sick feeling in her gut, reminding herself that she had tuition, rent, and bills to pay, that money was the reason she had contacted Gabe in the first place. If she thought of it as a gift, as a token of Gabe’s affection and appreciation, she felt better about it. Because she and Gabe had something, something that went beyond a business arrangement. He’d asked to see her again on Saturday, and she had readily agreed.

They were nearing her building now, and Nat suddenly realized how this would look to her roommates. “Could you pull over here?” she asked her driver.

“We’re still three blocks away.”

“I know. It’s just . . . my roommates are really judgmental. I know how this looks . . . even though nothing actually happened.”

The big car slowed to a stop. Nat’s clarification didn’t.

“I was upset. My ex-boyfriend is in New York. He’s obsessive and angry, and I’m afraid of him. I thought I saw him at the restaurant. I was rattled, and Gabe—Mr. Turnmill—said I could spend the night. He said that I’d be safe there, since my ex, Cole, doesn’t know where Gabe lives, of course. That’s all that happened. We just . . . cuddled.”

Oleg turned in his seat and looked at her. “What you and my boss do in private is none of my business.”

“I know. I just didn’t want you to think . . . I’m not a . . . I’m not a whore.”

“I didn’t think you were.” His expression was impassive. “I know what it takes to survive in this city.”