Avery turns to look across the room at Evan. He's sitting with the escort near a window and scowling at a crystal glass filled with a lime green liquid. A small white flag hangs off the side of the cup.

"I believe Mr. Howel has been served a limeade," the waiter says. "It's especially sour."

Andrew laughs loudly and raises his juice toward Evan in a toast. Evan ignores him and downs the sour drink in a single swallow. Avery turns to look at Andrew and rolls her eyes.

"Jackson may be a pain in my ass, but he has a great sense of humor," Andrew says. "The white flag represents Evan's surrender, and the drink is as sour as defeat."

"You don't need to explain it to me," Avery says with a sigh. "I understood the joke. It wasn't especially subtle."

Andrew seems to be in too good a mood to care. He flips through the menu, smiling to himself. Finally, he tosses the booklet down on the table and smiles at Avery.

"What does my dear wife want?" Andrew asks.

"I'll have escargot, foie gras, and pasta," Avery says, snapping the menu shut. She looks up at the waiter and adds, "Please hurry—I'm quite hungry."

She glances over at Evan and the escort as the waiter walks away. The sooner I eat, the sooner I can get out of here, she thinks. As they wait, Andrew tries to make small talk, but she shoots him an icy glare, and he stops.

The food arrives quickly, and Avery begins to cut her foie gras into small pieces. She bends her head over the plate, trying to ignore everyone else around her. She stabs a small bite of the rich food with her fork and raises it to her mouth. Another fork knocks hers aside—Andrew has reached across the table and is trying to feed her.

She stares at him and shakes her head. Without breaking eye contact, she puts her fork down, takes her napkin off her lap, and presses her lips together. He's clearly just showing off because Evan is here, she thinks. I'm so sick of these childish games—they act like children fighting over a toy.

"Mrs. Clifford, what are you waiting for?" Andrew asks, his voice low and velvety. "Surely, you're not worried about people seeing us together."

Avery glares at him, but opens her mouth and lets him feed her. She chews slowly, appreciating the rich, complex flavors. Andrew leans back in his chair and watches her, like a man enjoying a theater performance. She takes another bite and then slams her fork onto the table.

"I'm going to lose my appetite if you keep staring at me like this," she snaps.

"You're so cute when you eat," Andrew says, unbothered by her outburst.

Avery closes her eyes and counts to ten, trying to calm the rage rising in her chest. A rough thumb traces her lips, and her eyes fly open. Andrew finishes wiping her mouth and then licks his finger. Avery fights the urge to stab him with her fork.

"You had some foie gras on your lip," he says.

"Why don't you focus on your own meal?" Avery asks.

"Honey, it's hard to focus on the food in front of me when you're sitting across from me," Andrew says. "You look like an absolute delicacy."

Avery drops her fork and knife and says, "That's enough—I'm done."

Andrew's forehead wrinkled with concern, and he says, "You've barely touched your food. Shouldn't a pregnant woman eat more?"

"I've lost my appetite," Avery says with a meaningful look. "So unless you're going to leave, I'll excuse myself."

"I'll take you upstairs," Andrew offers.

"Don't bother," Avery says, feeling nervous at the thought of being alone in the suite with him. "You might as well enjoy your meal. Don't forget—the heart in your chest is essential to me. You need to keep it strong."

"Are you worried about my health?" Andrew asks.

"I'm only concerned about your heart," Avery snaps. "Or I guess I should say Charles' heart."

"Fine," Andrew says with a frown. "My bodyguards will take you up to the room."

"Whatever," Avery says, standing up.

"Wait!" Andrew says.

He leaps to his feet and grabs her by her elbow, spinning her around to face him. Avery raises her hands defensively, but she's too slow. He pulls her tight against him and lowers his face to hers.

"Andrew," she hisses. "Don't push your luck!"

Andrew smirks and leans closer and closer. Very gently, he brushes his lips against hers. She shudders and tries to pull away, but he's holding her too tightly. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft as he kisses her. She wonders if Evan is watching, or if she imagines the icy gaze on her back.

Andrew pulls away and gazes lovingly into her eyes. She glares back, but he just smirks. His arms relax, and she squirms away from him and runs out of the restaurant as fast as she can. She returns to the suite and throws herself down on the silky sofa.

She watches TV and flips from channel to channel. For a few minutes, she watches a nature documentary, and then for another few, an old sitcom, and then part of a tennis match. Nothing can hold her attention—she's worried that Andrew might come back at any minute. There's only one bed in the room, and she's scared he'll insist on sharing it. He can't have sex with her right now, but she shudders at the thought of being so close to him.

She sighs and reaches for her phone, but it's not on the table. She checks her suit pocket, and it's not there either. Suddenly, she remembers it's still in her purse. But where's my purse? She wonders. She gets up and checks the entryway, the changing room, the bathroom, and even the bedroom, but there's no sign of it anywhere.

She closes her eyes and tries to remember the last time she had it. I must have dropped it in Evan's room, she thinks. Her stomach sinks, and her heart hammers nervously in her chest. She opens the door into the hallway and checks for Andrew's guards, but they seem to have disappeared. She hesitates outside Evan's door and then knocks twice.

The escort opens the door wearing nothing but a bathrobe. The robe is tied loosely around her small waist, and the top hangs open, exposing her tan, firm breasts. Cool air-conditioned air rushes into the hall and makes Avery shiver. The escort leans against the doorframe and glares at Avery.

"What do you want?" the escort asks.

Avery looks down at the woman's exposed neck and breasts and sees small bite marks and hickeys speckling her skin. She looks up again and notices the escort smirking at her. Avery feels her stomach turn and wonders if she'll be sick.

"I left my handbag here," Avery says. "Would you mind grabbing it for me?"

"Why would your bag be here?" the escort asks. "Besides, I haven't seen one."

"It's a black crocodile bag," Avery says, ignoring the escort's comments. "It has my phone, my wallet, and a few personal items."

"Well, I haven't seen it," the escort says.

The escort starts to close the door, and Avery sticks her hand in the doorframe. The escort smiles cruelly and slams the door. The heavy wood smashes into Avery's fingers, and she screams out in pain. She clutches her hand to her chest as her fingers throb and sting.

"Where is Robert?" Avery asks.

"He's not here," the escort says. "I needed some privacy with Evan."

"Fine, where's Evan?" Avery asks.

"He's in the shower," the escort answers.

Avery pushes past the escort and starts to look around the room. The woman chases after her.

"Hey, what are you doing?" the escort screams. "You can't be in here!"

"How many times do I have to repeat myself?" Avery asks. "I'm looking for my handbag."

Before the woman can say anything, the door to the bathroom flies open. Evan stands in the doorway, and steam drifts out around him. He has a bath towel wrapped around his hips, and drops of water drip down his chiseled abs. A line of dark hair starts below his navel and disappears into the towel. Avery tries not to look, but she can't help but stare at his hard, tanned muscles.

"Evan, this crazy woman barged in," the escort complains. "She says she's looking for some handbags. I told her there isn't anything like that here, but she insists. Do you want me to call security?"

"Why would your handbag be here?" Evan asks Avery.

Avery bites her lip and looks down at her feet. He really must not realize that I was in here before, she thinks. But I can't tell him that I almost fucked him a few hours ago—that's too humiliating. What excuse can I make?

"You can't answer a simple question?" Evan asks, his voice cold and mocking. "I bet that's because there isn't any handbag. Couldn't you come up with a better excuse to see me? What did you hope would happen? Did you think I'd see you and want you back? You may look nice, but don't forget, I threw you out. I don't want you anymore."

Avery bites her lip harder to keep it from trembling. I should never have come here, she thinks. I should have just asked Robert to get my purse. This is embarrassing. I can't tell Evan I was here before when he obviously doesn't even remember.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she says, turning toward the door.

"Wait," Evan says.

Avery freezes and looks up at him. He steps out of the bathroom and into the light of the bedroom. Water drips down his face and jaw, and he lazily pushes his wet hair away from his forehead. He squints his eyes and slowly looks her up and down.

"You know, I have the strongest memory of fucking a woman against the door a few hours ago," Evan says. "That wasn't you, was it?"