Jane sank lower in the bathtub, the bubbles tickling her collarbone. She lifted one lazy hand out of the water and turned it over: her engagement ring sparkled wildly even in the muted light. She stared at it, trying to convince herself that the evening had really happened. There was the evidence, certainly: the ring itself, for one thing, and then also the fact that she was lounging in a massive marble tub with a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower, for another. But as soon as Malcolm had left the suite to pick up a quart of salted-caramel ice cream—Jane’s favorite—a feeling of unreality had set in.

She glanced involuntarily toward the door; it was too soon for Malcolm to be back yet, but she couldn’t help hoping anyway. She had objected to his going out—wasn’t that what the hotel staff was there for?—but he had been too intent to talk down. He had insisted that this was the sort of thing that fiancés did, and Jane, who had never had a fiancé before, had been hard-pressed to argue otherwise.

A curl of steam rose off the water, and outside a crow landed on the roof across the street. Jane wondered if it should bother her that she seemed to be adjusting to Malcolm’s lavish lifestyle of concierges and penthouse suites so quickly, but she inhaled the steam and brushed the worry aside. Why shouldn’t she be comfortable? It was her lifestyle now, too.

There would be loose ends to tie up, of course. She had an apartment lease to terminate, and friends to say good-bye to. She began mentally tallying her projects at work, all in various stages of completion. And my very first solo client, she thought, feeling a tiny pang of regret, but she was a talented architect, and New York was a perfectly good place to be that . . . especially with some newly acquired family connections to smooth the way. I’ll have a family, she thought happily, and wiggled her toes to watch the ripples spread.

Even when she had lived with Gran, she’d felt alone. Gran loved her, certainly, but in the old woman’s nervous mind, “love” seemed to mean “worry,” pretty much to the exclusion of anything else. Even if the standoffish villagers in their Alsatian town had wanted to be friends, Jane wouldn’t have been allowed to spend time with them unchaperoned. She hadn’t even been allowed to attend the half-timbered school in the center of town, and Gran would come looking for her if her market shopping took five minutes longer than usual. Gran had never been willing or able to explain what it was that she thought was so dangerous in the outside world, but her determination that Jane should never encounter it had formed a wedge between them, and every passing year had driven it deeper. Jane, beside herself with frustration, had left the little gray farmhouse nestled at the base of the foothills the day she’d received her letter of acceptance to the university. She had not gone back once in the six years since.

The sconces lining the bathroom wall flickered, the shadows shifting like the branches of ancient trees. She’d have to tell Gran she was leaving, Jane realized, shivering a little in spite of the steam. They had exchanged a few stiff and awkward letters over the years, but the farmhouse didn’t have a phone. A visit felt more appropriate now—and, of course, Gran would want to meet her fiancé. But it would be so cold and dark this time of year . . .

Gran might be happy for her, she reflected; stranger things had surely happened. She wouldn’t be thrilled about Jane moving all the way across an ocean. She had never even approved of Jane’s move to Paris, referring to it unfailingly as “when you ran away,” and Jane really wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that she planned to leave the country entirely. But Gran’s main concern had always been Jane’s safety, and no parent (or grandparent) could ask for a better protector than Malcolm Doran. He was kind, caring, attentive, and had the resources to take very, very good care of her. All that aside, he was madly, desperately, head-over-heels in love with her, just as she was with him.

As soon as Jane lowered her hand back under the water, a low, scratching sound snagged through the silence, interrupting her reverie. It was a small noise: a scrape of metal on metal, but in the silence it sounded hard . . . and close. The bathroom lights abruptly flashed and died. Water splashed around her, and moonlight streamed in through the windows, turning the room as flat and cold as Alsace’s landscape in wintertime. It took a few moments of listening to her heart pounding before she noticed that no light was coming in under the door. Somehow, the entire suite had gone dark.

Then she heard another sound. It was soft at first, but as it drew closer, the steady fall of shoes on carpet became unmistakable.

Someone’s here.

Jane felt panic bubble up in her throat. There was no way Malcolm could be back yet. He’d only been gone ten minutes. She had just enough time to wonder if the panoramic windows behind her could be opened before the door of the bathroom swung toward her. In the deep shadows on the other side, there was an even deeper shadow in the unmistakable shape of a very tall man.

Jane shrieked, and tried to stand up, but her feet skidded on the slick bottom of the tub. She fell back heavily into the bath, smashing her elbow hard on the marble and sending soapy water racing across the floor.

“Jane?”

She froze.

The Eiffel Tower’s festive hourly sparkling lit up the sky, as well as the face of the intruder. “Malcolm, you scared me!” She sighed and cradled her elbow, feeling too foolish for words. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“Clearly.” He chuckled. “The power went out right after I came in. No wonder you’re jumpy.” He moved quickly to the side of the tub, offering a hand to help her up. She noticed a frosted carton of ice cream in his other hand. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” he told her gently. He folded her tightly against him, and her shivering subsided in his warmth.

“There is one thing, actually,” she murmured against his chest, remembering the wide, gray landscape that had invaded the room just ahead of Malcolm’s steadying presence.

He drew away sharply. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Her heart melted at his immediate concern. “Nothing like that,” she assured him quickly. “I was just thinking that I’d like to see my grandmother before I leave France. And I’d really like you to meet her.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers meaningfully; the diamond threw the glittering tower lights around the room like merry, blue fireflies.

She had expected him to relax a little at her explanation, but he remained in the same posture: holding her stiffly away, a line of worry creasing his forehead. They stayed that way for a few tense moments, and then he seemed to finally register that she was truly okay.

“Of course,” he agreed hastily. “We could go for Christmas, if you’d like.” With that, he pressed his lips to hers and slid his hands lightly across the slick, wet skin of her breasts. She moaned softly. “I feel overdressed,” he added, smiling into her cheek.

Agreeing wholeheartedly, she unbuttoned his shirt with the speed of frequent practice. His perfectly creased black pants followed easily to the floor while Jane kissed the golden skin of his chest, inhaling his spiced scent the way a drowning woman would inhale air. Maybe I should be scared, a tiny part of her brain told her. This can’t be normal.

Then his fingers found her, stroking expertly, and she could feel him hard and ready in the darkness between them, and she shut off the thinking, worrying part of her brain entirely. With a wolfish grin, Malcolm lifted her by the hips and set her down on the counter next to the sink. She dug her nails into his back as he entered her, and wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to pull him as deeply inside as she could. He braced himself with one hand against the mirror, and with the other he began to stroke her again, so when they climaxed, it was together.

The lights came back on as he carried her to the bed, kissing her sore elbow tenderly. It seemed as though every lamp in the suite was glowing—far more than she remembered turning on before—but Malcolm tapped the master switch beside the bed, and she was asleep almost as soon as the room was dark again.