Kuryakin arrived at the stroke of eight; when he wasn't lying in a hospital bed with a bullet in his chest, the man was punctual to a fault. She could set a watch by his twice weekly phone calls—always precisely at 11 PM—always precisely fifteen minutes long, sort of like a doctor's visit. Just once she would have loved for him to call out of the blue as though he'd had some overwhelming, irresistible desire to hear her voice.

There was an uncharacteristic tension in his shoulders as he set down the overnight bag and sloughed off his jacket. While he certainly looked better than the last time she'd seen him, his face seemed drawn and pale. He slipped off the leather holster with his weapon, and positioned it carefully on the top of the wardrobe—out of sight but not out of reach.

There was an awkwardness as he leaned in to kiss her, and for a moment her worst fears were confirmed, but his lips touched hers and he kissed her with a passion that quickly quashed any question that he was pleased to be there with her. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in closer and he eagerly responded. His hands moved lightly up her arms and she sighed with anticipation. The tension was gone and he seemed like his old self.

He pulled back from her and studied her face for a few moments. "I've missed you," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

He was in the process of unzipping her dress when they were interrupted by the very audible grumbling of his stomach. She pulled away from him and laughed.

"Didn't you eat on the plane?" she asked.

"That was several hours ago," he responded with a sheepish grin.

"You really are bottomless pit," she chided him as she retrieved the cheese plate and vodka from the fridge. She poured a generous serving of the icy vodka into one of the Baccarat crystal glasses and offered it to him.

"Dinner should be here in twenty minutes. Marcel put together a small selection of the local cheeses—I think you'll find them interesting." He settled himself in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and she perched on the arm laying her head on his shoulder.

"Lisa wanted me to be sure to tell you how much she loves the Chanel suits and the dress you had delivered to her. They fit her perfectly and she looks fantastic in them. I strongly suspect that was why she gave me the courier assignment to Paris."

"She sent some lovely flowers with a thank you note to my photoshoot in Siena. When I met her, she mentioned upgrading her wardrobe for her new position. It seemed as though it was a source of anxiety for her. I saw a few things I thought would work on her at one of the shoots I did in Milan and snagged them for her—one of the perks of my profession."

"Well, she was very appreciative of your thoughtfulness, as was our boss. It's the first time we've had a woman in a position at that level—much less such a young woman- and there's been some…I guess pushback would be the term. A few of my less evolved colleagues would prefer to look upon her as a glorified secretary—and our boss feels that her clothing should better reflect the level of power that comes with her position—to 'dress the part' as it were. Honestly, I thought it was all nonsense—but the first time I saw her in that navy Chanel suit, I understood what he meant."

"She was very kind to me when you were…you know…at the hospital."

The tension in his shoulders returned. She sighed and pulled back from him. Apparently, she'd crossed another of his multiplicity of inflexible conversational boundaries.

But he favored her with that shy crooked smile she had never been able to resist and pulled her to him for a sweet lingering kiss.

"Sorry, I'm still a bit jet lagged," he said.

There was a soft knocking on the door.

"That should be our dinner," she said getting up from the arm of the chair to open the door.

"Bonsoir," Marcel said as he wheeled in a cart and proceeded to cover the table by the panoramic window with a crisp white tablecloth.

"It smells wonderful. If you don't mind, I'll just take a few minutes to freshen up from the flight before we sit down," Kuryakin said picking up his overnight bag. She led him into the bedroom and pointed out his bathroom.

He returned a few minutes later having exchanged his navy turtleneck for a white shirt and, she was pleased to see, the Hermes tie she'd given him for his birthday.

"The bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment," he said and her heart sank at the prospect of a ten-minute diatribe at the decadence of their accommodations, but was pleasantly surprised when he simply seated himself and complimented her on the meal she'd selected. Marcel presented the bottle of 1953 Margaux the sommelier at Maxim's had recommended for Kuryakin's inspection. He nodded tightly and Marcel proceeded to remove the cork and poured a sampling into the fine crystal glass for him to taste.

"I'm not well versed in French wines," he said apologetically, "but it tastes wonderful."

"Very good, sir," Marcel responded as he first filled Imogen's glass then Kuryakin's.

"You'll begin this evening with a traditional chestnut potage," he said, carefully ladling the rich looking soup into the gleaming china bowls. Next for your starter there is the foie gras—the finest in all of France I'm told," he continued indicating the covered dish on the cart.

"Then the beef chops por deux with truffles—another specialty of the house. Are you certain you don't wish me to stay and serve you?"

He cast her a questioning glance and she shook her head no. "No, thank you, Marcel. We'll be fine."

"There is coffee and a splendid fresh raspberry Charlotte on the bar along with a selection of digestifs—I particularly recommend the Chartreuse—or the Amaro is also quite pleasant after a rich meal. If there is anything else you need, please don't hesitate to call me.

"Bon Appetit."

"The only truffles I've had before this were the chocolate truffles Lisa keeps hidden in her bottom desk drawer," he said as he brought the coffee to the table.

"You go through her drawers?"

"No," he said with a soft laugh. "I've been working in her office while I…recover. She ascribes certain apocryphal medicinal properties to them. Apparently, they are highly effective at alleviating the neck pain she claims is caused by some of her colleagues—myself in particular."

"I can't imagine why anyone would find you a pain in the neck?" she responded playfully.

"I'm sorry about my reaction earlier. What you…experienced at the hospital has obviously raised questions—I understand and I know we haven't talked about it—but it's not something I'm free to discuss with you."

"I know you were… displeased to find me there when you woke up."

"No," he responded reaching across the table and taking her hand in his. "Not displeased, surprised perhaps-I wasn't expecting you to be there. It took me off-guard."

"I called the number on the card, Lisa suggested I come to the hospital —it's not like I just showed up out of the blue uninvited," she responded feeling irrationally defensive.

"As I'm sure you've figured out by now, I'm uncomfortable with mixing my personal life with my work life. I maintain those boundaries for a reason."

"It must be so convenient having your life separated into all of those tidy little boxes instead of all jumbled together like the rest of us," she said more sharply than she'd intended.

He sighed deeply and leaned back into his chair. "It's actually quite inconvenient, but as I've told you in the past, it's necessary."

"It's just sometimes all of the secrecy it makes me wonder…"

"What does it make you wonder?" he responded.

"Sometimes I…I feel like there's something you're keeping from me—and it makes me wonder if…maybe you're seeing someone else. I mean…it's not like we've ever said we're… exclusive."

"There are things I'm not able to share with you—we can't keep revisiting that- it won't change, but I'm not seeing anyone but you, Imogen. Are you seeing anyone else?"

"No."

"We're in the most romantic city in the world—perhaps we can focus on that for tonight?" he asked as he refilled her wineglass. "Tell me about your photoshoot in Siena."