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STEFI

T here’s a dress spread out on the bed when I get out of the bathtub. It’s a simple sheath, emerald-green in color, with just enough ruching at the waist to be flattering.

I swirl around to stare at Joao. “You bought me a dress? When? Why?”

He shrugs his shoulders, as if it’s no big deal. “I made us dinner reservations,” he says. “I figured you’d want something to wear that isn’t the same pair of jeans you’ve been wearing for a week in a row. There’s a boutique across the street, and the dress was in their window. I took a guess on the size.”

“You made a dinner reservation?” I repeat like an idiot. Beautiful dress, nice restaurant—this feels a lot like a date. Anticipation winds through me. I haven’t been on a date with Joao in a very long time.

“You’ve heard of the concept?” he teases. “A couple of glasses of wine, food that isn’t stale or out of a can, dessert to finish. What do you think?”

“I love it.”

I catch a glimpse of my hair in the mirror and grimace. It’s thin and stringy, an indeterminate shade of brown, and it looks like someone was wearing a blindfold when they cut it. It could use some attention from a stylist who knows what they’re doing. Who am I kidding? They would have to work overtime to restore this to some semblance of style.

“What time are we eating?”

“Eight. Why?”

I glance at the time and see that it’s a little after five. Wow, I was in that bathtub for ages. “I saw a salon downstairs. I thought I might do something about this.” I wave a hand in the direction of my hair.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Men. “It’s a disaster; that’s what’s wrong with it.”

“It looks fine to me.” I start to ask him if he’s being willfully blind or just insane, but before I can get that thought out, he holds up his hands. “I’m never going to think you look anything but beautiful, but if you want to go to the salon, knock yourself out.” He hands me an envelope. “There’s ten thousand euros in there.”

“How expensive do you think a woman’s haircut is?”

He doesn’t answer; he’s too busy handing me more things. A passport, a phone, a pair of credit cards. “Wow,” I say cattily. “Mathilde must really like you.”

He grins. “Jealous?”

Absolutely. “Not at all. I’m just wondering if it’s safe to trust her.”

“You have to trust someone, sometime.” He levels a look at me. “For example, you have a bad habit of trying to run away from me. First in Zurich, then in Paris. But instead of putting a pair of handcuffs on you, I’m giving you a passport and the means to escape because I trust you won’t disappear on me.”

If I think too hard about the way he’s trusting me, I’m going to start crying, so I make a joke to tide me over the moment. “A blow to the heart,” I say, clutching my chest in mock agony. “This coming from the man who pointed a gun at me less than a month ago and ordered me to strip.” I grin and tilt my head to the side. “We keep circling back to handcuffs. I mean, you could try it, but you know I can get out of them.”

He laughs out loud. “As you admitted in the farmhouse, not as quickly as me. And now that you mention it, I’m getting some very interesting ideas.” He glances meaningfully at the bed. “What do you say, little fox? We do have a few hours before dinner.”

I’m about to take him up on his offer when I catch another glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and it’s horrifying enough that I push down my desire and shake my head. “It’s a tempting offer, but I need to fix this disaster.” I stand up on tiptoe to kiss him. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

“I’ll amuse myself,” he says. “And before you ask, no, I’m not going to contact anyone in Venice. Not yet. Not until we get to Berlin. I figured I’d finalize the plan details now that I have a laptop.”

A spike of anxiety goes through me at his mention of Venice, but I push it aside. I have a date tonight, a date with Joao. I’ve been promised good food and drink and possibly some fun with handcuffs. It’s going to be a perfect evening, and I’m not going to let anything ruin it.

I head to the salon downstairs. The stylist takes a despairing look at my hair and throws his hands up in exaggerated horror. “Who did this to you?” he demands. “This is a crime scene, an offense against humanity, a stain?—”

“Can you fix it?” I ask, interrupting him. For all I know, if I let him rant, his diatribe could go on for another five minutes.

“I’m the only person in a three-hundred-kilometer radius who can,” he replies arrogantly. “People come to me all the way from Berlin so I can cut their hair.” He nudges me toward the shampoo station. “The sooner we get started, the better.”

Henri might be dramatic, but he clearly knows what he’s doing. An hour and a half later, the dull brown is gone, replaced by a flattering shade of red that’s close to my natural color.

“So, what’s the occasion?” he asks as he dances around me with a pair of scissors. “What brought you in today?”

“I have a date.”

“A first date?”

“No. But it feels like one.” For the first time in eight years, I’m free of the guilt, and it’s not until I confessed the truth to Joao that I realized how crushing a weight it had been.

Back in Paris, Charlie asked me if I’d dated anyone else in the last eight years, and I said something vaguely discouraging to stop her from probing further. The truth is, I’ve never wanted anyone else but Joao.

It makes me nervous to hope for a future with him, but though I try to tell myself I’m being unwise, I hope anyway. There are no more secrets between us. Maybe—just maybe—we can get a fresh start.

Once my hair is done to Henri’s satisfaction, he hands me off to Lina, who does my makeup and insists I get a manicure and a pedicure. I’ve never been this thoroughly pampered in my life. The warmth of the water Lina soaks my feet in, the soothing scents of the creams—it feels indulgent, almost frivolous, and yet I can’t deny how much I enjoy it.

If you give up on your mission and go to Venice with Joao, your life could look like this.

It’s a quarter to eight by the time I get back to the room. Joao is already dressed and sitting on the couch, reading something on his computer.

He looks up when I get in.

“Sorry that took longer than I anticipated,” I say apologetically. “Give me a minute to change, and we can leave.”

“No rush.” I’m still in the clothes I wore this morning—jeans, T-shirt, running shoes—but he still gives me a slow once-over, and his eyes turn hungry. “You look good, little fox. Really good. Come here a second, will you?”

There’s a very obvious invitation in his eyes. “I know how this works,” I reply, resisting it with all of my willpower. “I come over there, we get naked, and we never make it to dinner. And I was promised wine.”

Amusement touches the corners of his eyes. He crooks his fingers, and I start making my way toward him before I realize what I’m doing.

“I have something for you,” he says. “Something I’ve wanted to give you for almost a month now.”

He gets to his feet, closes the distance between us, and unhooks the chain around his neck. My eyes widen when I see what hangs from it.

“Show me your hand,” he says quietly.

I hold it out. It’s shaking. I’m shaking. The expression on Joao’s face. . . He looked like this in Copenhagen, when he said ‘I do.’ “You kept it,” I say in a whisper, staring at the ring he’s holding, the same thin band of gold he slipped over my ring finger nine years ago when he promised to love me forever. He must have taken it off the assassin’s body in Mexico. “You kept it all these years.”

“Of course I did.” He takes my hand in his, his touch warm, his thumb caressing my palm. “It’s been close to my heart, but now it needs to go back where it belongs.” His voice is openly possessive. “My ring, on your finger.” He stares into my eyes. “Yes?”

My heart is racing, and there’s a tightness in my chest. But my answer is very, very certain. There’s never been anyone I’ve wanted the way I’ve wanted Joao. “Yes.”

He looks like a warlord claiming his bride when he slides the golden band into place, but his touch is soft, almost reverent. My breath hitches as the cool metal settles against my skin, a stark contrast to the flushed heat running through my body. My chest feels like it might burst from the mix of emotions running through me—love mixed with relief, joy mixed with a very dangerous hope.

“My wife,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive. “Mine.”

He pulls me into his body and kisses me hungrily, and I respond, standing on tiptoe, clutching his shirt, and kissing him back. We stay that way for a long time, bodies pressed up against each other, and then he pulls back with visible effort. “As much as I want to tear your clothes off you, I promised you a nice meal. Go get dressed.” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get back to this.”