He saw her hesitate: a slight knitting of her brow.

“Purely business, of course,” he added. “An opportunity for me to tell you more about the job, and you can ask any questions you might have. Or we could just chat again over the phone later in the week? Whatever you’d prefer. But I’m starving, and my favorite restaurant is right around the corner.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “What do you say? They do a mean gelato.”

Emily’s face softened and a slow smile spread over her face, the corners of her mouth turning up in an expression that was almost impish. And with a sudden bittersweet pang, Scott understood why she seemed so familiar to him. It was so obvious; how had he failed to see it before?

She reminded him of Nina.

It’s him. He’s here again.

I’m tingling all over as I skip the latte I’d been about to pour and make a piccolo instead. I have it ready before he even makes it to the counter. I push it toward him with a smile, adding a chocolate-chip cookie.

“Thanks,” he says with a grin. “How do you always know?”

You never order anything else, I think. “I’m psychic,” I tell him, and immediately wish I had thought of something cleverer.

“Oh yeah?” he says, and puts an arm behind his back. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Trick question,” I say. “None.”

He smiles and produces a closed fist. “Unbelievable.”

“Not really. You seem like a tricky kind of guy.”

The woman waiting for her latte gives me a filthy look. She thinks I’m just a waitress, but what she doesn’t know is that under this rust-red apron I’m Wonder Woman. A fighter. A survivor. I flew here, I want to tell her. I strapped a bag to my back like it was a rocket pack. I crossed oceans. I left everything behind. I did it. No help. Just me. I’m invincible.

I turn back to the machine and finish off the woman’s coffee. When I turn back to give it to her, he’s still standing there, holding his cookie.

“You’re still here,” I say.

“I am.” He looks down and waits for the grumpy latte woman to leave. Then he says, “Listen. I’m starving and I doubt the cookie’s going to cut it. What time do you finish?”

“An hour,” I say. My face feels hot.

He swallows. “My favorite restaurant is right around the corner. I’m thinking gelato for lunch. Any chance you’d like to join me?”

I look at him in his suit, with his glittering cuff links and unswerving confidence. I bet he glitters on the inside, too. I turn and reach for a cloth, lowering my eyes, pretending to think. Slowly, I wipe the counter. I can feel his eyes on me, sizing me up. I tuck my hair behind my ear and tilt my head, offering a view of my best side.

“Your favorite restaurant. Would that happen to be Bombini?” I say, and his jaw falls open.

“Seriously,” he says. “How do you do it?”

I know it because I pass it every day. It has twinkly windows and a chalkboard outside that reads, STRESSED SPELLED BACKWARD IS GELATO. Inside, there’s a piano and a woman whose only job is to say hello to people when they walk in. It’s the kind of place someone like me could never go to.

Well, perhaps not never. I’m Wonder Woman, I remind myself. I can do anything.

He’s still looking at me, staring, studying my every move, and I hesitate. A spasm of fear passes through me, locking my body. What if, what if, what if …

But then I shake it off. Wonder Woman wouldn’t be afraid.

“Told you,” I say. “I’m psychic.”

He laughs, and it’s such a beautiful sound. I know then that everything will be fine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EMILY

EMILY COULDN’T believe her luck. As she followed Scott across Regent Street and into Soho, apparently toward a swanky restaurant, she couldn’t stop smiling. Just when she thought she was so far down shit creek that there was no coming back, the universe had thrown her a paddle. No, it had thrown her a yacht. She felt like she’d won the lottery, or a game show. Our top prize tonight, Bob, is a brand new life, complete with car, salary, and a beautiful French castle!

But could she really just take off and move in with a family she didn’t know? What would her parents say? She could call Juliet and ask. Hey, it’s me again; just wondering whether to jack in my career and move to France. What do you think? Not that it was much of a career, and not that she thought her parents would raise many objections if she did give it up—but for a housekeeping job in a different country? She wasn’t ready to hear what they might have to say about that.

But did it really matter what they thought? Her life was shit. Things couldn’t get any worse. It wouldn’t hurt to hear Scott out. At the very least, it was a free lunch.

The restaurant was beautiful. Tucked away at the end of a Soho lane, almost completely hidden by a wall of ivy, it reminded her of a Christmas grotto in a department store. Fairy lights and candles winked in the windows like promises.

Inside, a tall black-clad woman showed them through to an outdoor terrace where sweet-smelling creepers dangled from an overhead trellis. As Scott pointed to a table in the corner, Emily hung back, tugging at the hem of her skirt. Despite having wrangled with her wardrobe for almost two hours that morning, she’d chosen the wrong outfit. She’d put on weight since she last wore the skirt; the stupid thing was too short and clung in all the wrong places. Totally inappropriate for a business meeting. Which is what this IS, she told herself, stubbornly ignoring the skippy little thrill running through her bloodstream.

For some reason, every inch of her wanted to run to the bathroom, check her makeup, practice a few coy smiles in the mirror—her body seemed to be under the misapprehension that this was some kind of date—but she had to stay focused. The situation was clear; and besides, who was she kidding? She would have no chance with someone like Scott, even if he wasn’t married. With a child.

But despite all her best efforts, every time their eyes met, Emily’s heart leaped painfully into her throat.

Smiling, Scott pulled her chair out for her.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling at her skirt again and bending her body in a sort of curtsey. She was already sweating. Oh, for god’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Just be normal. As she sat down, her skirt rode up to the very top of her thighs, and she grabbed desperately at her cloth napkin from the table, intending to lay it out over her exposed lap. But, mortifyingly, her cutlery came with it, and two forks clattered noisily to the ground. Her cheeks burned.

The hostess in the black shirt appeared and bent down to retrieve them with a cheerful smile. “Oops,” she said. “Never mind, I’ll grab some fresh ones. In the meantime, can I get you any drinks? Wine? Cocktails?”

Scott turned to Emily. “What will you have?”

“Oh, er…” Emily’s mind went blank. She couldn’t think of a single drink. “Umm…” Come on, you order drinks all the time, what do you want? “I’ll have…” From one of the other tables, she heard the faint pop of a cork. “Champagne?”

“Great choice,” said Scott. “Dom Pérignon, please.”

The hostess smiled warmly. “Special occasion?”

Emily laughed so loudly the hostess actually took a small step backward. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “This is a business meeting.”

“Ah,” said the hostess, one eyebrow just fractionally raised. “Of course. I’ll leave you to it.”

Emily watched her go. Champagne? she thought. Really?

“So,” said Scott, a half smile playing on his lips. “Speaking of business, do you have any questions about the job?”

She nodded, but as he pinned her to her seat with his onyx-black stare, she could only think of one. What the hell am I doing?

Two glasses of champagne later, Emily had relaxed. She’d managed to think of some questions about the property itself, and Scott had answered them in detail, telling her all about the ocean, the pool, and the two separate houses. He described the original architectural features—cornices, wall paneling, fireplaces, vaulted ceilings—and actually made them sound interesting. He talked about the grounds. There were vegetable and herb gardens, as well as olive trees and an orchard.