“Probably is,” Swann offered with a grimace. “I know. I said I’d call. Guilty.”

But the offense was a misdemeanor at worst; Annette was a woman whose companionship he’d paid for, so her coy remark wasn’t as cutting as it might have been under different circumstances.

On the other hand, that night last week had been more than john–escort. She’d charged him for only two hours but had given him the entire night. The evening hadn’t been Pretty Woman, of course, but they’d each enjoyed the time.

The hours of their transaction had fled quickly, the soft humid breeze drifting in and out of the window, the sound of the ocean metrically intruding on the stillness. He’d asked if she’d stay and Annette had agreed. His motel room had a kitchenette and Jacob Swann had cooked a late supper. After arriving in Nassau he’d bought groceries, including goat, onion, coconut milk, oil, rice, hot sauce and local spices. He’d expertly separated meat from bone, sliced it into bite-sized pieces and marinated the flesh in buttermilk. By 11 p.m., the stew had simmered over a low flame for six hours and was ready. They’d eaten the food and drunk a substantial red Rhône wine.

Then they’d returned to bed.

“How’s business?” he now asked, nodding back to the shop to make clear which business he was talking about, though the part-time job at Deep Fun was also a feeder for clients who paid her a lot more than for snorkel rental. (The irony of the shop’s name was not lost on either of them.)

Annette shrugged her gorgeous shoulders. “Not bad. Economy’s taken its toll. But rich people still want to bond with coral and fish.”

The overgrown lot was decorated with bald tires and discarded concrete blocks, a few dented and rusted appliance shells, the guts long scavenged. The day was growing hotter by the second. Everywhere was glare and dust, empty cans, bushes in need of trimming, rampant grass. The smells: grilling fish, lime, plantains and trash fire smoke.

And that spice. What was it?

“I didn’t remember I’d told you where I work.” A nod at the shop.

“Yes, you did.” He rubbed his hair. His round skull, dotted with sweat. Lifted his jacket again. The air felt good.

“Aren’t you hot?”

“Had a breakfast meeting. Needed to look official. I’m just back for the day. Don’t know what your schedule is…”

“Tonight?” Annette suggested. And encouraged.

“Ah, I’ve got another meeting.” Jacob Swann’s face was not expressive. He simply looked into her eyes as he said this. No wince of regret, no boyish flirt. “I was hoping now.” He imagined they were hungry eyes; that’s how he felt.

“What was that wine?”

“That I served with dinner? Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I don’t remember which vineyard.”

“It was scrumptious.”