Page 35

“I know, but I thought you were?—”
“You thought I was what?” I interrupt.
“I thought maybe once in a while when the cravings got too much during the lonely nights you’d go out and indulge in some anonymous encounters, you know?”
My voice is dry. “The only cravings I get at night are for warm waffles with rum and raisin ice cream, chopped hazelnuts, and sliced bananas, drowning in salted caramel sauce.”
She laughs. “Anyway, what did the doctor say?”
“I’m in the all-clear category, but I could’ve told her that. It’s hard to be riddled with STDs when you don’t have sex.
“Do you think he’s going to try to have sex with you tonight?” she whispers urgently.
“That must be the plan since he insisted I come to his house tonight rather than tomorrow like any normal person would.”
“You know, at first, I didn’t see the problem with this scenario. I even thought it was exciting, but now that I know just how desperate he is for you, I’m getting a little scared. The only good news is he is a public figure so he’s likely not an axe murderer. But,” she pauses dramatically, “get ready to collect as much evidence as you can. Everything that might protect you in the future—recordings, photos, anything.”
I listen to her words of warning, but no fear creeps in. I feel it in every cell in my body that he will not hurt me. I perfectly understand what he is feeling. I feel the same thing for him. I’m furious with the way he has manipulated me, but I want him. God, how I want him. No man has ever made me feel this way before.
“Look. I should go. Speak to you in the morning, okay?”
“Please be careful, babes,” she says.
“I will,” I say and put my phone away.
I know this area. We’re going to the southern end of Central Park in Manhattan and heading towards Billionaire’s Row. I canlist off the top of my head almost every listing available here, but given how small our agency is, I’ve never had the chance to be involved with such a property.
We stop in front of 220 Central Park South. A man steps forward smartly and opens the car door for me. I step out and look up at the tall skyscraper. So this is where he lives. For a quick second, I feel excited to be here, curious to see what it looks like inside.
“Miss Fitzpatrick,” the man says formally. “Let me help you with your bags.”
“No thank you. I can manage,” I say stiffly.
“Very well. Please follow me.”
We go through the plush foyer and ride the elevator in silence. He opens a pair of wooden double doors and I step into Ivan Ivanovich’s lair. I drop my rucksack on the floor and look around me in awe. Wow! What a magnificent space, with tall ceilings, glass walls, and a grand curving black marble staircase that leads up to more floors. But mostly my eyes are drawn to the many softly-lit beautiful paintings hanging on the walls. I don’t know what I expected, but it was not this worship of beauty and impeccable cleanliness. The entire space is spotless. Not so much as a smudge or speck of dust anywhere, and every hard surface gleams and shines with polish.
A woman dressed in black approaches us. Her eyes are pale, watchful and naturally wary, but I detect kindness in them too. I know immediately that this is the woman responsible for the immaculate state of the apartment. She nods at the man next to me. “Thank you and goodnight, Steven.” The man leaves and she turns to me.
“Good evening, Miss Fitzpatrick. I am Muriel Levine, Mr. Ivanovich’s housekeeper. Welcome. I hope you have a wonderful stay with us.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like something to drink or eat?”
My stomach growls loudly and I realize that I’ve been cooking and baking for hours but I haven’t had any food since lunch. I don’t think I can hold any food down though. I’m too nervous and stressed out.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say politely.
“Everything’s ready for you. If you’ll come with me, Miss. Fitzpatrick, I’ll show you to your room,” she says and begins to walk towards the stunning staircase. I pick up my rucksack and follow her up to the second floor.
“If you encounter any problems please let me know immediately,” she says as she shows me into a cream and white bedroom with touches of soft blue. I glance around at the luxurious decor. There is a white four-poster bed with silk curtains. It all looks so luxurious that I’m momentarily speechless. On the bed is a dark red nightie, and on the table by the lounge area is a white box with a red bow, a bucket of champagne with two tall flutes, a bowl of strawberries, and what looks like my contract in an envelope.
“If you have no other requests I’ll wish you a good night, Miss Fitzpatrick,” she says. “Please ring that bell if you need anything at all.”
“Um, are there any hidden cameras in this room?” I blurt out.
The involuntary widening of her eyes tells me I need have no such fears.