David turned a circle, arms raised. A bottle of champagne had appeared in one of his hands. “Well,” he said. “You coming?”

He stumbled drunkenly toward the chalet’s front door, the partyers following in his wake. Shivering, Evan watched until they vanished from view. Then he turned and stepped back inside.

Standing before the fire was a naked woman.

Her jet-black hair, thick and glossy, was swept up in the back, twisted around a chopstick. Wisps fell forward, framing her cheeks, clutching her neck. Her body demanded his attention, but he returned his focus to her face. Smooth, straight nose, olive skin, large dark eyes with prominent lashes.

The woman he’d seen Dex manhandling in the barn.

Red streaks grasped her wrist where the capillaries had broken. Again Evan wondered if the episode had been staged for his benefit. Her appearance here, like this, made it seem more likely.

She spread her arms, a ta-da gesture.

Then a pronounced frown. “Normally men look happier to see me.” Her accent was strong but musical—Croatian? Greek? Serbian? Her hands clapped to her sides, sending a shudder through her strong hips. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like gifts?”

“Not slaves.”

She stepped nearer, taking his hand in hers, drawing him to the warmth of the fireplace. “Let’s make an exception.”

Her mouth was close, her lips full. Heat prickled his skin, not just from the fireplace. She kissed him. It took a good measure of restraint not to kiss her back.

She pulled away, more amused than anything else. Then she pivoted him, tented a hand on his chest, and pushed him gently onto the bed. He sat. She sidled close, her breasts brushing his mouth. He was acutely aware of the camera above.

“Step back or I’ll move you back,” he said.

But instead she eased him gently onto the mattress, leaning over him. Her hair fell like a curtain, connecting their faces, caressing his cheek. It was the first time he hadn’t seen through a promise, maybe in his entire life.

When she looked at him now, her expression was different, her brow pinched, her dark eyes moist. Fear.

He realized that she’d let her hair cover their faces to block them from the camera.

“Then we need to fake it,” she whispered. “Or it will be bad for me.”

He whispered back, “He punishes you when someone turns you down?”

“I don’t know.” Her teeth pinched her puffy lower lip. “No one has ever turned me down.”

“What’s your name?”

“Despi.”

Greek, then, from Despina.

She flicked her hair back over one shoulder. He could feel her against him, all warmth and pressure.

“Please,” she said.

He mostly believed her. And yet it seemed a gambit theatrical enough for René to have dreamed up. He studied the faint pulse in her neck. Thought about the chopstick in her hair.