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Part 1

Lady M sat down at her mahogany desk and gestured for her favorite client to do the same. After just a moment’s hesitation, he folded himself into the armchair opposite her, crossing his long legs and folding his hands in his lap. With the severe black suit and the tightly knotted tie, he looked as if he could be selling her a cemetery plot. His pale coloring and absolute stillness when he sat added to the image. She knew better. “Sherry,” she said, indicated the cut crystal glass before him. “We have not seen you in some little while, Mr. — Hammett, is it? This time?”

A small smile creased the impassive face before her. “That is correct. This time.”

She nodded. “I had assumed you wanted the usual arrangements. The tower suite is yours for the night. Fully stocked bar, two appetizer trays, cotton instead of silk sheets, and your companion...”

“As always, it is her choice. As always, the payment remains the same regardless of how long or short her visit is.”

Lady M bowed her head. “I did not wish to presume and so of course I wanted to check the arrangements with you.”

“Lady M, your service never fails to satisfy.”

“Mr. Hammett, you are one of our best patrons. I thank you for returning to us.” They bowed slightly to each other. She lifted one elegant hand to indicate the door behind her and to her left. He nodded and she followed him to it. “Have a good evening,” she said softly. He smiled at her before exiting and then closing the door firmly behind him. She locked it from her side and heard him doing the same on his. The evening had begun. She thought of Tiffany, the young woman who would be entering his suite from the main hall, and smiled a bit wistfully. She remembered when it had been her own evening with the redoubtable Mr. Hammett.



Tiffany knocked twice on the heavy oak door and then opened it, as directed. Her heart was pounding and she tried to get it to slow down. Lady M had impressed upon her that this was one of their most important clients during her regular pre-client briefing. “Our service offers intelligent conversation as well as companionship. With this particular client, expect the subject matter to go anywhere and everywhere. Wear a full length dress, as he is rather formal. Not stuffy, but very correct. No garters and stockings. He is not that sort of man. And give him whatever he requires. He may make you work tonight.” Lady M paused and looked at her with a knowing smile. “But you won’t notice it.”

Tiffany’s first thought was that he looked like death. He was sitting on the sofa, glass in hand, staring into the fire, and he was as still as the furniture. His coloring was so pale he might have been ill. Yet, even from across the room she could sense a certain energy, even vitality in him. His demeanor was completely composed, but there was a sort of coiled tension in his posture, in his feet flat against the floor as though ready to spring up in an instant, even the casual arrangement of his arms, set to push him up if need be. He turned his head as the door opened and then rose gracefully as she entered.

“Ms. Tiffany,” he said by way of greeting.

“Mr. Hammett.”

He invited her all the way in with an outstretched hand and she closed the door behind her. “May I offer you a drink?”

She gave him her best for-clients smile and walked down the three marble steps into the sitting room with as much confidence as possible. Lady M’s description had been correct but somehow didn’t cover the bases. His suit was very finely tailored and fit him in a way that showcased the length of his legs, the narrowness of his hips. She recognized custom work when she saw it, including the full formal cut of his shirt cuffs, pinned discreetly with gold cufflinks, the high diagonal lines of the white collar, tight against his throat with a closely knotted tie. His hair, almost like porcelain in the soft light of the sitting room, was swept back from his forehead and just brushed against the collar behind his ears. He was still looking at her and she noticed, with approval, that he held her eyes. She had grown used to clients, regardless of financial background and social status, who glanced momentarily at her face and then let their gaze wander up and down the length of her, coldly, as if regarding a fancy sports car in a window, or even a fine steak held up for inspection. Mr. Hammett did not do this. His brows were still raised slightly with his inquiry about the drink and she realized she had yet to answer. The echo of his question lingered, and she found herself drawn to the soft low tone of his voice as well as the sweet and warm drawl that marked him as a man from the deep South.

“Mr. Hammett, it is I who ought to be offering you a drink, or at least a refresher for the one you already have. That is why I am here.”

“On the contrary,” he said. He turned and crossed the room to the bar, long legs covering the distance in a remarkably short time. “I requested the pleasure of your company. I feel it befitting that I should ask you. What do you prefer? There seems to be no end of choices here.”

She smiled. “White wine would be perfect.”

He poured a glass for her, added a little more to his own, and then brought the drinks around to meet her. “Please,” he said, indicating the sofa. “Sit.”

She sat down on the sofa and was surprised when he positioned himself at a bit of a distance, close enough for conversation, but not touching. She began to wonder where exactly the evening was going. He was a most unusual man. Lady M had not really prepared her. Sitting here with her glass of wine, wondering what he had in mind for her, was unsettling and yet somehow exciting. As silly as it seemed, she felt as if she were being courted and by a man from a time that no longer existed, as if he had stepped out of an era that might have included horse-drawn carriages, walking sticks, top hats, and long, rustling gowns for the ladies complete with elbow-length gloves and veils on their hats. His air of timelessness and his manner made it impossible to guess his age. She met his glance and felt herself blush, he was looking at her so knowingly. Could he read her mind?

“Do you like music?” he asked. “And please, if anything I ask is too personal, do let me know. I am not trying to offend.”

His deference confused her. “Ummm, yes. I like music. I love music, actually, and can’t really get through the day without it.”

“Ah,” he said, and he seemed delighted. “And what do you listen to?”

“All of it,” she said. “Depending on mood. Rock, alternative, rap, classical.”

“Please do not tell me you are a devotee of the opera.”

She smiled at him and this time the smile was genuine. “You don’t like opera?”

He groaned. “I have had it inflicted upon me throughout my life, at nearly every turn. No, I am afraid I do not like opera.”

“I don’t listen to it much, myself,” she confided. “I like a few overtures. I like some arias. But I definitely prefer the orchestra. Actually, I have a strong preference for Baroque.”

“Vivaldi? Bach? Am I being too obvious?”

“Of course Vivaldi and Bach. But Corelli and Purcell, also.”

“I admit I prefer pure classical.”

“The emperor had it right in Amadeus. Too many notes.” He laughed with her and she was startled at how pleased she was that he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“And what do you read?”

“I used to be very good and read the classics. And I mean the classics. Cellini, Cervantes, Dante.”

He smiled. “And now?”

“Murder mysteries,” she confessed, a little embarrassed.

“I have a friend who writes those. Or who has written one or two. Perhaps you’ve read Angels of Purgatory?”

“Oh, yes. I liked that one. It was very realistic. I felt the writer really knew what he was talking about.”

“I shall have to tell him so. He will be pleased.” He took a sip of his drink and studied it for a moment. “And what of poetry?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Again, not as I once did.” She looked at him carefully. “If you were reading poetry, I would guess... Hmmm. Pound, maybe? Eliot? Or maybe Beaudelaire?”

He widened his eyes as if shocked. “My dear woman,” he said. “Beaudelaire?”

“I apologize,” she said, bemused, playing along. “I would have thought—”

“I meant, why did you not name him first?” They laughed again, and she realized with a start that she was enjoying herself as well. She had learned early on that this job had nothing to do with enjoyment, although the paycheck and Lady M’s benefits were very nice. But it was a job, one that she sometimes fought hard to rationalize to herself. Tonight was starting out on a spectacularly different note. But she knew better. She would wait and see.

He put his drink on the coffee table and rose. She moved to follow him but he gestured her back. “I’m just going to get one of those delectable trays of food that Lady M provided. Will you join me?” He brought a tray of cheese and fruit from the bar to the coffee table.

She allowed herself a biscuit and a small wedge of aged cheddar, then restricted herself to fruit. He nibbled at grapes, at one or two slices of cheese, perhaps half a biscuit. But he seemed more interested in conversing with her. They talked, it seemed for hours, as he pulled endless information from her with very little effort: what she had studied, what her hopes had been in coming to New York from Connecticut, what she eventually hoped to do further down the road of life. He gave away very little information about himself, yet she learned that he was alone, that he was compelled to do his job, whatever it was exactly, and that it gave him great satisfaction and yet left him somehow hollow at the end of it. “I work with bad people.” He looked at her face and smiled with his eyes. “I catch them,” he explained softly.

“So you’re—” she began and he held up a finger to stop her.

“Sometimes I’m in a position to help people, as well. Should they have a need.”

He skirted any topics related to family. He did tell her that he had a Ph.D. and she ferreted out of him that he had a second one as well. “Shall I call you ‘doctor’?” she had asked, only half-teasing.

“No, no. That was someone else in my family.” The door shut firmly on that topic.

After a while, when the conversation had run much of its course, she found herself trying to stifle a yawn. She was embarrassed: this would not be what Lady M would have called professional or even acceptable. She tried to hide it, but he, with his quick glittering eyes, had seen.

“You are tired,” he said. “And the hour is late. Please, come and rest yourself.”

Now she was completely embarrassed. “No, I am so sorry. Perhaps it was the wine. I’m fine, really.”

But despite her protests, he had climbed the three marble stairs directly opposite to those at the main door and leading to the bedchamber, and begun to turn down the duvet on the bed. She hurried to his side, worrying that the evening had gone suddenly askew. “Please,” she said. “Don’t. It is not for you to be taking care of me.” She placed a hand on his to still his motions and was jolted by the touch. She looked up at him and found...

...he was looking down at her, completely motionless, something uncertain and somehow hopeful in his eyes. That was not right. He had paid for the evening. He had paid for her companionship. Why was he looking at her like this? But before she could think any further, he moved his head ever so slightly and she leaned forward in her own right so that their lips met.

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