Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 19

Pacific Island, Beach, Mai Tais

F or several days, Ottilie brooded over Baldoni’s comments. Love seemed an odd thing for someone to accuse her of. She’d never been in love before.

Or…now? Well. Ottilie was fairly sure her time with Monique wasn’t that. Not love.

Except…

She was still here. Days had turned into weeks since the last loose end had been tied up, and before she knew it, two months had passed. And still she stayed.

She hadn’t told Monique her work had been finalized and she was now free to fulfill her retirement dream: Pacific island, beaches, Mai Tais.

Nor had Ottilie made any plans for plane trips or checked that the housekeeper/cook she’d hired was waiting at her island destination.

Instead, she kept finding excuses to stay. Because it made Monique happy and that, in turn, suited her. What she didn’t want to analyze was what that meant.

Love makes you want to give that person everything they’ve ever wanted.

She’d hurled those words at Baldoni without even thinking. But now they plagued her. What did it mean that she’d even ruminated on what someone in love wants?

It was ridiculous because what Ottilie most wanted was to be on her Pacific island. Obviously. And yet what she was doing was something else entirely.

She was dining daily with Monique and inviting her into her bed each night. She greatly enjoyed sliding herself against the woman’s soft body, breathing in her scent, drawing her close, and murmuring about how she had been feeling cold without Monique—and wasn’t this an acceptable solution?

Monique always smiled at her nonsense, pulled her close, and said that she had a whole list of ways to warm Ottilie up, ways Ottilie had never even imagined. And would she like that?

Ottilie had found herself liking a great many of the things Monique wanted to try. Honestly? She was having the best time of her life.

Still, though, her island called. A dream of years was hard to forget. She didn’t want to forget it. But then Monique looked at her with so much fondness, a look just behind her darkening eyes that pleaded: Don’t go. Not yet. We’re not done. Stay?

And so Ottilie stayed.

What did it mean? For an intelligent woman, Ottilie was not especially fond of not knowing the answer. Or, perhaps, her problem was not believing it.

Because Ottilie Zimmermann, sixty-five-year-old former spy, had absolutely not caught a case of feelings .

* * *

Monique, naked and quivering, gasped as she came down from one hell of an orgasm. She peppered kisses all around her lover’s mouth and neck, while murmuring how beautiful she was.

Ottilie, sweaty in the afterglow, placed a hand on Monique’s biceps and squeezed lightly until she had her attention. Almost casually, she said, “By the way, my loose ends have been tied up.”

Fear chilled Monique, but then Ottilie squeezed her arm again, forestalling a reply.

“I should have left two months ago. I’ve been staying on for you. I thought you should know.”

On paper, the words sounded romantic and sweet, but there was little of that in the delivery. Even so, Monique’s heart had almost stopped beating.

Ottilie held her eye and said, “It confuses me, the pull you have that makes me stay. And I don’t like being confused.”

Was that why she was staying? To understand her confusion? “So I’m a knot you’re unpicking?” Monique asked, her stomach clenching.

“Maybe I am staying to see why you have this hold on me. But mainly I think I’d miss you if I left. I’m unaccustomed to that feeling.”

“I’d miss you too,” Monique said. “Honestly, I don’t want you to go.”

“It is unexpected.”

“Which part?”

“So many things,” Ottilie said. “Ordinarily, I don’t like anyone in my bed. Yet you fit just so.” She blinked. “You fit me just so.”

“I know the feeling, darling.”

Monique definitely did. Her feelings for Ottilie had sneaked up on her gradually.

It was odd to realize how her mind had started rearranging itself from me to us . When she spoke to Cleo now, she would sometimes say “we” in regards to her plans. It would just slip out. And Cleo would give a low chuckle each time and murmur, “Now I know it’s serious. Is there a U-Haul on the horizon?”

At first, she’d denied it—to herself and her friend. It was only casual and would stay that way until Ottilie moved on, because of course she would. It was foolish to hope for more. It was her and Cleo all over again. Ottilie had been clear the moment they’d met what her plans were—and none of them involved shacking up permanently with a sexual fantasies expert in a hotel in Vegas.

Even just saying that screamed unserious , didn’t it? How could anyone take Monique seriously, given she sold fleeting X-rated encounters to strangers in a city of garish, neon dreams?

She didn’t even take herself seriously half the time. It had been so easy to skim over the surface of life. Avoiding commitments, avoiding friendships. Avoiding anything too hard or painful. She never wanted to hurt like she had in the past: Stacy. Cleo.

God, not again!

She was stuck once more, waiting for the impending pain that came from loving and losing. And she was helpless to stop it.

Monique had often found Ottilie poring over a website with island pictures on it, and every time, her heart would stutter. Is this it? she’d wonder.

But Ottilie would catch her looking and always say, “It’s for later. Only when it’s time.”

When it’s time. And yet it now seemed to be time, and Ottilie hadn’t left. To both their confusion, it seemed.

And, as bizarre as it sounded, they simply held each other after Ottilie’s confession, studying the other’s face for a long while. Then they kissed and didn’t discuss it again.

* * *

Monique put down her cell phone and stared at it in surprise. That clinched it: she was officially having a crisis. One of those slow-moving ones she’d been having for at least five months but that was only just catching up with her.

The caller had been a regular client, a statuesque news anchor from Atlanta with adorable dimples and a wicked sense of humor. She’d just cancelled, and Monique felt relief .

Relief!

The oddest part about the feeling was that she genuinely enjoyed Roberta James. The deeply closeted client was respectful, unproblematic in every way, and always appreciative of spending time with Monique.

Roberta loved being dominated over a desk—a request Monique could do in her sleep. And yet, Monique discovered, she was just no longer interested.

Hence: crisis.

What is wrong with me?

Am I tired of sex work?

Am I tired of sex?

That didn’t seem likely. She loved fucking Ottilie at every possible opportunity. She’d been even more addicted to her since Ottilie had confessed weeks ago that she had no other reason than Monique for staying in Vegas.

Am I wanting to have sex exclusively with Ottilie now?

Was that it?

She was no nearer to deciding her malfunction that night, when she slid into Ottilie’s bed and pulled her possessively against her. Ottilie murmured her approval and pressed back into her, and it was like aurora borealis had ignited inside her.

Monique knew in that moment: She didn’t want to leave this bed. And she didn’t want to be with anyone else. She just didn’t know what to do about it.

So much had changed between them since Ottilie’s confession that she no longer needed to be in Vegas. They’d taken to sharing more than just beds with each other.

Fairly regularly now, Ottilie would lounge in an armchair, sipping her tea, listening to a classical music station on the radio she’d relocated to Monique’s business suite for just this purpose, The Art of War in her lap.

Monique had long since stopped goggling at Ottilie’s eclectic reading choices. They ranged from philosophy to chess tactics to exotic fish, and, most recently, Chinese military strategy.

In turn, Monique had begun enjoying curling up next to her, indulging in reading about her own passion, ancient Egypt. No one in Monique’s life had ever shared this obscure interest of hers, not even Cleo, despite her stage name. It hardly mattered, of course. Monique wasn’t so young as to believe shared obsessions were vital to a relationship’s success.

One day, Monique had teased Ottilie that she was Pharaoh Hatshepsut, the most pragmatic of all the rulers. After all, Hatshepsut, who had declared herself king, had later instructed that her image be shown with a male king’s body and false beard so as to appear a typical pharaoh. No upsetting of political or social apple carts for Hatshepsut.

Without even looking up from her reading, Ottilie had said, “Of course I am Hatshepsut. Her stepson, Tuthmosis III, had her erased from history. Invisible to the end. Relatable.” She’d smirked and then gone back to her book.

“Well, until they found her tomb,” Monique had murmured, still in complete shock at the factoid her lover had plucked out of thin air.

The sheer breadth of knowledge Ottilie possessed on a great many subjects confounded Monique. She was often in awe. It was fascinating, yes, but the more she saw all the sides of Ottilie, all the random quirky things that made her her , the more Monique feared she again was in so much trouble. So what was new?

Today, Monique was secretly watching Ottilie reading when she should be focused on her paperwork. She was so beautiful in repose, serene and calm. As much as Monique wanted to pounce on her, she’d promised herself she’d review her annual general meeting report first. She’d ravish her adorable woman a little later.

Yes, her woman . Because she’d no longer indulge her delusion this was a casual fling. At least to her own heart. Monique had already been down this path before, caring more for someone than they did her. But, try as she might, she couldn’t harden her heart over the pain she knew was coming. One look at Ottilie and she wanted to give her the heavens. What a fool she was.

Love made everyone a fool.

A familiar heavy staccato knock sounded, startling her out of her daydreams. She recognized the knock, which came from farther down the hall, on the exterior door of her adjoining suite.

Monique glanced at Ottilie, who’d looked up. “Darling, could you please disappear onto the balcony for a few minutes? I believe Hotel Duxton’s CEO wants a word with me. I’d like him to feel he can talk freely.”

Ottilie gave a nod and relocated, tea in hand, through the doors. An absolute advantage of having a former spy in one’s love life was never having to explain the need for anything even remotely sneaky. She simply understood.

Monique opened the door and stuck her head out. Sure enough, Simon Duxton stood waiting in the hall in front of her other suite, running his hands down his jacket repeatedly.

“Mr. Duxton,” she called. “I’m in this one today.”

He immediately turned toward her. She studied his scrambling approach. Anxiety was making him clumsy. Which, in turn, made her nervous.

“I…” he began, then stopped and swallowed.

Very nervous.

“Why don’t you come in?” she offered. “If this is going to be one of those conversations.”

He bobbed his head once in agreement and entered, before closing the door after himself. Standing awkwardly, he glanced around, taking in the neat room and its various piles of financial documents she was working through.

“Have a seat.” She waved him to the couch and took the armchair opposite.

“Thank you,” he murmured and then sank onto it.

A long silence fell.

“Well?” Monique finally asked.

“I asked around about you,” he said. “What sort of a guest you are. You’re well-liked. Even Mrs. Menzies said you were exemplary, and I swear, that woman dislikes everyone.”

Monique waited for the but .

He raked one hand through his floppy blond hair. “I know you’re in business with my cousin Amelia. Congratulations on that deal. Everyone wanted a piece of that one.”

“Yes. I’m well aware.”

“I also looked up the security feed, the one in the hall outside. To see that you weren’t, you know…running some prostitution ring. Just in case. I mean, what if you’d fooled everyone? What if someone needed help and I’d ignored it?” He frowned. “I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

Monique’s blood went cold. “And?”

“You have a lot of clients, Ms. Carson. For your…investment company.” He eyed her. “Some of them are really famous. A pop star. Senator. Finance journalist. A TV news anchor.”

“News anchor?” Monique repeated as she stalled, her mind racing frantically.

“I think she’s from Atlanta? Tall? Black? Has the”—he waved at his cheeks—“dimples?”

As if she could ever forget Roberta James. “Well, everyone needs investment advice.”

“That’s just the thing, though,” Duxton said. “None of your clients had briefcases or folders or anything else you’d bring to get your financials done. That doesn’t seem credible.”

Monique’s heartrate sped up. “The world is electronic these days, Mr. Duxton.”

“Maybe.” He leaned back. “But that doesn’t explain why all of your clients are women.”

And shit . A sick, cold feeling threaded its way through her.

“I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks,” he said, meeting her eye coolly. “It’s no secret I don’t want to be here. Sure, I’d prefer to be back in Sydney with my little girl, seeing the beach more than once a month. Instead, I’m stuck here trying to fix a wages scandal that the Nevada governor keeps threatening to get involved in.” He blew out a sharp breath. “And I’m not so stupid that I don’t know a high-class hooker when I see one.”

Her lips thinned.

“Sorry, was that not the right term? Escort ? Prostitute ? Sex worker ?”

“I don’t know what you think you know but—”

“No. Don’t disrespect me with another lie.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I found your website.” He pushed a printout of her menu page over to her. “I’m sure if I call the number listed there, some cell phone in this room will ring, right?”

Monique stared in dismay. How had he worked it out? Only her surname was on the website, and even then, she’d spelled it Carsen not Carson, despite how common her real surname was. She should have chosen a different name entirely.

“Shall we test it?” he asked.

Monique exhaled. “No.”

“Does Amelia know?” His lips tugged down in dismay. “My cousin assured me you weren’t running a prostitution ring.” He gave a low bark. “I guess the emphasis is on the word ring , isn’t it? She doesn’t lie, but she chooses her words carefully. You both played me for a fool.” He glared, but there was no real weight to it. “But if she vouched for you, there’s a reason for it.”

“We’re in business together.”

“Yeah. But she doesn’t vouch for everyone she’s in business with. She must believe you’re decent enough to stand by.”

Monique found that rather a warming sentiment, especially since Amelia usually spent most of her time with Monique sighing at all her inappropriate comments.

“Which makes what I’m about to say difficult. I want you to leave. I know you’ve been with us in Duxton Vegas for fourteen years. I’ll give you a month to vacate, which I think is generous.” He dipped his gaze to the floor.

“I don’t understand,” Monique protested. “Amelia seemed to think that as long as a guest pays on time and doesn’t cause problems, you don’t care about anything else. What is the issue?”

“Honestly? I’m being pressured to show you the door. And it’s a pressure I’m not able to withstand right now. I don’t need any more drama. I’m up to my eyeballs in it. It’s not personal, Ms. Carson, but you have to go.”

“ Who is pressuring you?” Monique asked. “I’ll have my lawyers have a chat to them. Clear this all up.”

“Someone with more power than your rich lawyers.”

“Let me guess: is Carrie Jordan threatening to abandon her residency unless I’m gone?”

“What?” Bafflement crossed his face. “No! And, frankly, I wouldn’t care if she did. Her opening night show was such a screwup that I’ve had three cancellations from major entertainers scheduled to perform here next. She’s cost us more than she’s bringing in.”

“She called you last time, though, didn’t she? She’s who claimed I ran a prostitution ring.”

He squirmed. “I’m not commenting on that.”

That was a yes.

“All I’ll say,” he added, “is that this time the pressure is someone else.”

“Who?” she demanded.

He rolled his eyes. “She’s one of your visitors. I’m sure you can work out who. She’s an entitled pain in my ass. Political and powerful.”

It was a short list to work out who was political, powerful, threw around her weight, was entitled, and wanted retribution on Monique. A list of one.

“Phyllis Kensington has no real power,” she said sharply. “Not anymore.”

“Maybe not. But she’s friends with so many people who do have power. Including someone in the Office of the Labor Commissioner. I can’t risk her retaliation on top of everything else. Don’t you see the position I’m in?”

She did. The man had no spine and was starting to panic about his diminishing options. “Oh, I see. You folded like a cheap deck chair, and you’re trying to shove a loyal long-term guest out the door.”

He lifted his chin. “It’s every manager’s right to deny service to a guest as long as it’s not for discriminatory reasons.”

She knew that.

“Your last day is the twentieth of next month. Liaise with Mrs. Menzies for any outstanding issues we can help with, such as forwarding of mail. We’ll be happy to assist.” He rose to go. “I really am sorry, Ms. Carson.”

He was almost at the door when Monique said, “You aren’t a patch on Amelia. She’d have fought this. She doesn’t capitulate, no matter who demands it.”

“You think I don’t know that? How brilliant and terrifying she is to deal with?” He lifted an eyebrow. “But she’s not the one in charge. I am.” And with that, he left.

Ottilie pushed open the balcony doors a moment later, a soft frown on her face.

“You heard all that, I presume?” Monique said, her head dropping in resignation.

Ottilie put down her now empty teacup and came to sit in Monique’s armchair, sliding herself next to her. It was big enough for two, albeit a close fit.

“I’m about to be homeless,” Monique said dramatically. “Well, technically homeless. Obviously, I can afford to go elsewhere. It’s just I’ve been here fourteen years. I’ve…nested. And now, suddenly, it’s just, leave !” She scowled. “I’m too old for this. I keep saying that, you know.”

“Too old for what?”

“All the bullshit that comes with sex work. I’m so sick of it.” Suddenly, that felt like the truest thing she’d ever said.

“You can fight this eviction, though,” Ottilie said. “You have powerful allies. Amelia Duxton, for instance? She helped before. Her cousin Simon respects her. Surely if you called her—”

“No. I’m not going to do that.” That odd feeling came over Monique again. It felt the same as the relief when that client had cancelled, but it was much stronger this time. As if the universe was forcing her hand, and she was…what? Okay with it? More than that. Ready to move on.

Ottilie was watching her. “You’re not going to fight it?” she asked neutrally.

“No.” Monique met her gaze as her decision solidified. “Do you know, the absolute worst part of sex work—aside from potentially dangerous clients—is how vulnerable it leaves you to blackmail. It’s ongoing, always in the back of your mind: ‘What if Client A accidentally says the wrong thing to the wrong person?’ or ‘What if Client B retaliates because she’s angry about something?’ And I’m in a powerful position and financially independent. Imagine what someone without my privilege must experience every day.”

“Are you saying you’re thinking of retiring from sex work? Or pivoting to something adjacent?”

“Adjacent? You mean your sex podcast idea?” Monique smiled. “I do like that.” Her mind had turned it over ever since Ottilie had suggested it so long ago. How would it work? Would she have guests on her show? Who? Academics? Sex therapists? Authors? The more she thought about it, the more intrigued she became.

“I like it too. It means I’d worry about you less,” Ottilie admitted. Then a shadow crossed her face. “I do apologize. My opinion is irrelevant. It’s your decision entirely, of course.”

Ottilie worried about her? That sounded downright affectionate, didn’t it?

Monique shook herself. “Well, it’s a moot point right now. A more pressing issue is where would I be doing my fabulous podcast from? I’m being evicted. And while I have a small apartment in New York because that’s where my investment business is headquartered, I truly hate the place. The city, not the apartment.”

Ottilie seemed to consider that. Then, voice far too casual, she said, “You know, as it turns out, I know a place. I’d been planning to go there on my own, but I’m sure I could make room for one more. If you need somewhere.”

Startled, Monique paused, then said lightly, “Let me guess: it’s an island in the Pacific that has a lovely beach and plentiful Mai Tais.”

“How did you know?” Ottilie teased. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She seemed…anxious? “I can also assure you it has an excellent satellite internet connection should you wish to continue your investment work remotely from said beach.”

Astonishment flooded Monique. That wasn’t an offer one made to a casual sex partner. Please come live with me on my island getaway. That was an offer you made to an actual partner, wasn’t it? “Is that so?” she asked cautiously.

“And that internet connection would be useful in case you wished to do your new podcast series extolling the virtues of sex, which I’m quite certain would be popular. One thing I’ve observed over the years is just how much people seem obsessed by sex.” Her lips tugged upward. “Personally, I’ve never fully understood the appeal until quite recently.”

“Quite recently?” Monique eyed her fondly.

“Mmm. Yes.”

“You really wouldn’t mind if I came along?” Monique held her breath, worrying. Would Ottilie minimize this, say it was just some practical, temporary solution, perhaps? Something she’d offer a friend? Maybe that’s exactly what she saw it as?

Oh hell. Is it?

“No, I don’t think I would mind.” Ottilie’s expression was so unreadable. “That’s a first for me, I admit. I like my solitude. On that note, there are a few distant guesthouses on the property. Far enough away from the main villa for absolute privacy. In case you wished to do your side job too. I wouldn’t interfere.”

“You…would expect me to continue my sex work?” Monique asked in complete confusion. “Bringing clients out to this island?”

“I understand the line between professional and personal. I always have. I admit that sometimes I have these feelings of…jealousy? Apparently, I’m not quite as intellectually evolved as I thought. I think about you with other women sometimes and it’s an odd sensation for me.”

She’d been jealous ? Monique started to dare hope there was something much more than casual going on here.

Ottilie exhaled and waved a flippant hand. “But that’s me being possessive of someone for the first time in my life. It’s unexpected. New. I’m aware these are issues for me to deal with. I would never ask you to give up your work if it fulfills you. And I’m quite certain that with time, I can compartmentalize being in a relationship with a woman who has sex with other women as part of her business.”

In a relationship?

Relationship ? Relief made her almost boneless. “This is a surprise,” Monique managed to say.

“Me being possessive? Yes, I agree. It turns out I’m really quite attached to you. I didn’t expect that. I’ve been on my own for so long that craving another person is unexpected indeed.”

Then she stopped short. “Or do you mean you’re surprised at me not wanting to prevent you from taking clients? That’s not my place. If this makes you happy, it makes you happy. I will adapt. Pragmatism is my special skill, after all.”

“ Ottilie .” Monique drew in a breath, wanting to be absolutely clear on the most important point. The only thing that mattered. “You see us as being in a relationship? A serious, committed relationship?”

“Are we not?” Suddenly, she reeled back, visible horror flooding Ottilie’s expression. “I apologize if I assumed.” Her cheeks were now stained deep red. “I see that is something I should have asked. I thought I was reading the signs correctly, and now… Oh dear. I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?” Her words sounded small, her expression crestfallen.

Monique leaped in quickly. “Darling, I am not dating anyone else. Why would I when I’m devoted to you? Just you . When I think of my life now, it seems absurd to me not having you beside me, making me think, making me laugh.” She paused for effect and added with a purr, “Making me come.”

Ottilie offered a small smile, and she sat up a little.

Monique powered on. “We’re discussing potentially moving to an island together, so please take that as a large flashing neon sign that we’re a committed couple.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good.” Ottilie’s shoulders relaxed. “I apologize that it never occurred to me check your views on the matter.”

“God, you’re utterly adorable when flummoxed.” Monique grinned.

Ottilie rolled her eyes. “It appears that the downside of being able to read people extremely well is always assuming you know what they’re thinking. It runs the risk of making one conversationally lazy.”

“I suppose that’s true. Communication is still important no matter how supremely talented we are at mind reading.” She chuckled at her flagrant lack of modesty about her skills. “On that note, let’s address your other question. The one where you’re jealous.”

Ottilie frowned. “I’m trying not to be, in the interest of accuracy.”

“Either way, I don’t want to take any more clients, not even regulars. That’s a decision that’s been coming for a long time. Even if I’m perfectly comfortable with my line of work, the risks of being disrespected, outed, or blackmailed hang over me. I also don’t like hearing that my work makes you unhappy, even if you somehow force yourself to compartmentalize it all away. I want us both happy. And, above all else, I’m not going to invite the potential of danger to our world, especially if we’ll be out in the middle of nowhere.”

“I do know how to deal with danger,” Ottilie said. “Have I not demonstrated I’m mission ready?”

Monique’s whole body laughed at that, her chest rising and falling like waves. “ Mission ready ? Do you mean like when you were my adorable protective ninja who dealt with that singer and defended my honor?”

“Adorable! I’m no such thing,” she said, sounding askance.

“I beg to differ. And that was appreciated, by the way. You know, this sounds perilously close to a commitment,” she teased. “Declaring yourself ready to take on danger for me. See, you read things accurately; all the signs were there.”

“As I correctly deduced,” Ottilie said, then elbowed her gently in the ribs. “But do stop being annoying.”

Monique chuckled. “Have I mentioned lately you are the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met? The sense of rightness I feel being around you is powerful. I care for you a great deal.”

Nodding, Ottilie said, “And I am accustomed to you.”

Accustomed ? The word made Monique deflate, suddenly hurt and confused. As declarations of passion, or even affection went, this was supremely underwhelming. So much for understanding each other. When it came to their feelings, it seemed they were miles apart. All Monique’s previous amusement fled along with any romantic notions of sipping cocktails on a beach with her lover.

“What’s wrong?” Ottilie asked, concern in her eyes.

“I am not certain this will work,” Monique said flatly. “It’s too soon.” Maybe they’d never get there. Able to bridge the gulf in how she saw Ottilie— adored Ottilie—and how Ottilie saw her. To Ottilie, Monique was just someone she liked having around. Nothing more.

“How so?” Ottilie asked, confusion and disappointment in her voice.

Sadness washed through her now. “I’m not like you, who can skate across a relationship, never dropping your hooks in too deep. Me? I need to be needed. I’m aware it’s not a very evolved trait for an independent businesswoman like myself to have,” Monique admitted. “But I love to give. I discovered sex work as a way to be needed, not just a way to share my expertise. In many cases, women don’t just delight in my body, they need me . I thrive on that. Do you understand?”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind and want to keep doing sex work in the future?” Ottilie asked, sounding utterly confused.

“No!” Monique blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m saying I’ve been down this road before, with Cleo. I hated it. I need to be with someone who adores me too, who needs me—passionately and desperately and thoroughly. Someone who’d miss me terribly if I wasn’t there. Tempting as it sounds, I can’t go to your perfect island and lie around drinking cocktails while knowing the whole time that you’re not that into me. I need you to need me too .”

Monique spread out her hands. “I can’t essentially ‘move in’ with a woman who fills my every thought but who thinks of me as someone they’re merely accustomed to. I’m sorry, darling. Thank you for the beautiful offer—one that I know is rare for you—but I need more. I can’t settle for living with someone who feels…ambivalent…toward me.”

Ottilie didn’t speak for a moment and then said, voice low and tight, “I don’t think you understand what that word means to me.”

Accustomed? What other way was there to interpret it?

“You know that I adapt well to circumstances, even those I’m uncomfortable with. I always find a path to coping with a new reality. This allows me to deal with almost any event, no matter how appalling. But it seems even I have my limits.”

Monique listened, mystified.

Ottilie’s gaze dipped. “I find I cannot be pragmatic about the idea of leaving here alone. Of missing you. I cannot simply accept this new reality and wave it away through sheer force of will. I cannot just adapt . I look at what lies ahead and know with absolute clarity that, without you, my life would be dull, insubstantial, and lacking purpose.”

With a wry glance up, she added, “It always would have been that, though. I suspect boredom would have settled in. There are not enough Mai Tais in the world to bury the lack of intellectual stimulation.”

“Then why—”

“It was an escape and a choice. I assumed I’d learn to switch off, read a lot, and find a way not to think quite so much. I hoped I’d eventually succeed. But what I didn’t anticipate was you.” She met Monique’s eyes with fierceness. “Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of what I’ll be missing out on. I’m accustomed to you now. I find that sensation to be so profound that I cannot work around it. There are no other paths to circumvent this, to satisfy my pragmatic nature. My options come down to only this : being with you or not being with you.”

Monique felt a shiver at the power of her words.

“All my life,” Ottilie continued, “I have been unused to noticing space, to that ‘void’ I’m told that comes from missing things or people. I’m perfectly happy on my own. Or I was. But now I’m aware that I will not adapt to the empty space your absence would leave. I, the ultimate pragmatist, must admit I Will. Not. Adapt. Not without you. Which leads me to the next thought: I know with absolute certainty what will happen without you.”

“What?” Monique asked, scarcely able to breathe.

“I’ll fade back into the wall.” Ottilie’s words were sober but delivered without sadness. “Or into the sand, as the case may be. Invisible and unremarkable, uninvolved until the end of my days. And then I will simply pass away into nothingness, forgotten and unnoticed. And I will deserve that ending. It is, after all, fitting, given how I have lived my life: untouched and untouchable, leaving little of myself behind.”

Ottilie’s intense gaze had a grip on Monique. “But now I see the other door,” she continued. “Another choice. With you, I might exist in a way I haven’t before. You make me more substantial, Monique. Just by seeing me as you do, I don’t fear I’ll slip away, just dust on sand, lost. Gone. I would be visible to the very end. Through your eyes, I feel anchored. Whole and substantial. I’m a presence beyond my own shadow. So, yes, please, understand me well when I say: I am accustomed to you .”

In wonder, Monique leaned in, kissing her, unable to articulate in any other way how much her words affected her. She drew away and whispered, “Thank you. But I promise you this: no matter what happens to you or between us, you will never be forgotten. Not by me. It’s not possible. I will always remember the remarkable woman you are. And I appreciate you explaining how you feel.”

“I won’t lie. I’m still a little confused by this,” Ottilie said. “How this feels so inevitable. That part, I don’t understand at all. It’s as though we are meant to be. Yet I’ve always disdained the idea of romantic inevitability.”

“Why bother trying to understand it? Just go with it. I know I am.” Monique felt that mood all the way to her bones. “Besides, I love a good mystery.”

“Well, I hate them. Unsolved mysteries fly in the face of who I am,” Ottilie said, looking appalled. “But I’ve decided I’m going to simply accept that sometimes in life there are things that cannot be understood. You being meant for me, and I for you, is apparently one more mystery one must endure.” Her lips twitched to show she was teasing.

“Excellent,” Monique said with satisfaction. “Now, I think it’s time you told me about this distant island of yours is. I’m not sure that Pacific island with Mai Tais will work as a forwarding address. Where is it, exactly?”

“Exactly? It’s located at sixteen degrees, thirty minutes, nine-point-one seconds south by one hundred fifty-one degrees, forty-two minutes and point-five-six seconds west.”

Monique blinked. “You know that off the top of your head?”

“I’ve been dreaming of it for a long time. It’s a private escape off Bora Bora if you want to be less precise.”

“Do you think it’ll be available to accommodate us on short notice? Or have you already booked ahead? How long can we stay?”

“Honestly,” Ottilie said with an amused look, “it’s like you don’t know me at all. I’ve been planning this for three years now. I’ve left nothing to chance. I assure you my little island will be able to accommodate us immediately and indefinitely. After all, I own it outright. I bought it about eighteen months ago.”

“You bought an island?” Monique peered at her. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?” Ottilie asked, perplexed.

“You bought an actual island? Off Bora Bora,” she mumbled.

“Yes. Why is this so hard to believe?”

“It sounds…” Monique had always assumed she would have the most wealth in their relationship. Perhaps she should reassess that assumption. “Expensive, for one.”

“I bargained them down to fifty-two million. It was a steal.”

Monique inhaled. “How on earth could you afford that on a PA’s salary?”

“I wasn’t on a PA’s salary.” Ottilie hesitated. Worry flitted into her eyes. “I suppose I should tell you. Very few people know this. It’s an act of trust telling you.” She swallowed.

“You were on The Fixers’s board,” Monique said flatly.

Shock radiated from Ottilie. “How—?”

“During our conversation at the spa about power corrupting, you said that it had never happened to you. I knew then that you were more than the PA you claimed to be.”

“But a lot of PAs have indirect power. Power to influence their more powerful bosses. Why did you decide I was that high up?”

“Originally, I didn’t. But I noticed how odd it was that you mentioned the board so often. What they thought, what they did, as though you were in all those meetings. You even complained directly to them—twice—about Phyllis Kensington. I deal with plenty of boards in my investment job, and they do not open themselves up to hearing the complaints from lowly assistants. Conclusion: you were not a lowly assistant.”

“Ah.” An air of respect tinged Ottilie’s tone.

“Lastly, though hardly conclusive, in my experience, a board with only four members—while not unheard of—is too small, can’t reach a quorum, and faces deadlocks. I suspected The Fixers probably had five board members, maybe more. That occurred to me long before we’d ever met.”

“And how do you feel now?” Ottilie asked cautiously. “About me being one of them?”

“You were never one of them. I worked that out too. How often did they dismiss you, ignore your advice, let their egos rule? Did they listen to your complaints about Kensington? If you were truly one of them, they’d have fired her. I heard all the things you weren’t saying.”

Ottilie sighed. “In the early days, I wondered why they asked me to join the board. Maybe they wanted a different perspective? But I warned them often when catastrophe was looming. They always knew better and just waved my opinion away. Later, I realized they chose me just to utilize me as a spy on the office floor—someone who would never leave nor turn on them because blood would be on my hands too.”

“More fool them for not appreciating all your talents. They sound terrible.”

“In its original incarnation, how they sold it to me, The Fixers wasn’t terrible,” Ottilie said ruefully. “If I’d known then what it would become, I would never have joined them.”

“Why did you stay? When you saw where it was headed?”

“I was too focused on the wrong thing.”

“Efficiency,” Monique said. “Right?”

“Yes,” she muttered. “Efficiency.”

She sounded so annoyed at herself that Monique said, “We don’t need to go over all this again. I understand who you were, even if I don’t agree with the choices you made. But the main thing is that you didn’t just walk away from that evil place. You burned it to the fucking ground after you.”

Ottilie snorted. “I did. Yes. Honestly? The best thing I’ve done with my life was destroying that organization. I see that now.” She hesitated. “Of course, if anyone asks, I will always say I did it because it suited me.”

“It didn’t suit you?” Monique asked, confused. “Destroying them?”

“Of course it did. But the whole truth is I did it because I was angry: At the board. At their arrogance. At Kensington. And because I was also ashamed of what it had become, and my part in that. Destroying The Fixers gave me enormous pleasure. It staggered me how much. I loved seeing it burn. When I pulled that emotion apart later, I realized how much I had wanted to be gone from there. My need to leave had been so strong that I constantly fixated on my retirement…yet I never wondered why.”

“And that’s why you bought an island to escape to.”

“My subconscious is not subtle, apparently. And it was as far away from The Fixers as I could get.”

Knowing the truth of how high up Ottilie had been in The Fixers didn’t change Monique’s view of her. The first time she’d ever seen her striding down that hotel hallway, she’d recognized someone powerful. If anything, knowing the truth just confirmed Monique had been right about her all along.

Hearing her regrets, though, was the nub of it. Ottilie wasn’t proud of what she’d done, what her company had turned into. And, most critically, she had blown it up on the way out of the door. That part? That was everything.

“Still…a whole island?” Monique said pivoting back to the original topic. “Who does that?”

“Me,” Ottilie said firmly. “Your relationship partner.”

Monique chuckled. “Well, I did ask.”

“So,” Ottilie said, reaching for her phone, “would you like to look at the ninety-two-thousand-gallon aquarium, the seven bedrooms, the home theater, the staff house, the guest shacks, the spa, the sundeck, or the beach at sunset?”

“The…” Monique choked. “I’m sorry what?”

“The beach at sunset it is, then.” Ottilie loaded up a photo. “This is my favorite view.” Two empty swinging cane chairs sat side by side on a pale white shore silhouetted against the orange setting sun. “So? How do you feel about leaving Las Vegas?”

Monique gazed at the image. “With you? I can’t imagine anything better.” She tapped a photo. “Although, I wouldn’t mind looking at the ninety-two thousand-gallon aquarium first because that sounds fake.”

“I assure you it’s not.” Ottilie loaded up the picture. “It’s the largest private aquarium in the world.”

“Of course it is.” Monique shook her head slowly. “What else would you get? Second largest?”

“Exactly.” Ottilie pursed her lips. “What a thought.”

“Okay, before I commit to escaping to paradise with you, I do have one very important question.”

Ottilie’s smile dropped away. “Yes?”

“What on earth is your surname?”

Shoulders relaxing, Ottilie said: “That’s classified.”

“Would you tell me for a kiss?”

“It turns out I can be bribed.” Ottilie leaned in close. “Make it a good one.”