CHAPTER [wordy Pour qui vive (n.) heightened awareness or watchfulness Wila “Tr Is TIME FOR LUNCH.” The lace hem of Yulia’s dress that went out of fashion two centuries ago swayed as she came to a stop in the doorway. I sat on the settee in the drawing room, sightlessly staring out the large front window. “I’m busy.” Stewing in my own despair . . . But busy all the same. Her eyes narrowed. I’d thrown tea into Ronan’s face, and he didn’t kill me. He didn’t even leave a permanent mark. On my body at least. As for my mind, pride wouldn’t let me dwell on it, especially because the burn of his scruff and the ache that came to life still hadn’t dissolved. It was there, a perverse and restless coil of need. Now I had the gut instinct he didn’t want to torture me physically, but I was also sure he found it a diverting amusement to smash my soft heart beneath his boot. Why else would he play with me for so long when revenge was his intention from the beginning? Maybe he was just trying to get a decent video. Although, he didn’t even attempt to come into my hotel room after he took me to lunch. “He will lock you back in your room,” Yulia warned. I gave her a look of resentment, then got to my feet and followed her to the dining room, asking, “Yulia, did you know my mother?” “Everyone knew your mother. She was famous.” She scrunched her nose. “I do not understand why God would allow that woman to be so talented. Though He does work in mysterious ways . . .”