“Jerome.” Estelle twisted her head, and the pressure against her lips fell away. At her back was a solid, warm presence, a steadying arm at her waist. For a moment, she had an insane urge to simply lean against that strength and close her eyes and pretend that none of this was happening. Which was indeed insane because no amount of pretending would end this nightmare. She pulled away from him and took a deep breath, trying to steady her pounding heart.

“Merde.” Estelle turned toward the man standing before her in the darkness, unable to make out his features. “How did you get in here?”

“You keep a spare key above the door. You’re lucky it was I who found it.” His words were an accusation, and one she deserved.

“I’ll remedy that.”

“You should.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to watch the sun go down waiting for you.”

“Are you all right? Has something happened?” Estelle asked, still whispering.

“No. I’m fine.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “You scared the life out of me.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry.

“Do you know what they would do if they caught you out at this time?” The idea of Jerome shot or hanged in the streets turned Estelle’s stomach.

“I know exactly what they’d do.” His voice was hard. “I’ve seen exactly what they do. Though you seem to have found a way around such injustice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“From the window, I saw you get out of that car a few minutes ago. I didn’t expect you to have your own personal Nazi driver.”

“I was at the Ritz,” Estelle said, feeling defensive. “And accepted the ride home that was offered because the alternative is dangerous.”

“You could have spent the night. I’m sure you would have been welcomed.”

Estelle frowned at the harshness of his tone. She moved away from him and felt her way cautiously around the writing desk. She dumped the wrapped package on its surface, left her handbag and fur wrap on a sofa, and made her way to the windows, ensuring that they were tightly covered before returning.

She switched on the small lamp that sat on the corner of the desk. “Why are you here, Jerome?” she asked abruptly.

The medic hadn’t moved but stood perfectly still. He was bareheaded and dressed simply, his thick hair longer than she remembered and falling over his forehead. He looked thinner, too, his face leaner and his cheekbones sharper. He was watching her now with those caramel-colored eyes that, tonight, seemed more critical than kind. “I came because Vivienne said she hadn’t spoken to you in a while. She was worried something was wrong.”

“I haven’t had anything of significance to report,” Estelle told him. “But tonight I—

“This apartment is something else,” he said, interrupting her.

“I beg your pardon?”