Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro

so, Hughie watched himself in the mirror as he performed an act of utter ghastliness upon the enraptured Leticia. As her body shuddered beneath his, he gently pushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.

      Perhaps they might wander down to that tiny restaurant in Pimlico and have Chinese food afterwards.

      And maybe, he thought, just maybe, she’d let him hold her hand as they walked home.

      It wasn’t until later, when they were feasting on duck pancakes and jasmine tea, that the text came through.

       The job is yours. Welcome to the firm.

      Hughie walked Leticia home in glowing twilight. He wanted to be close to her. But each time he reached out to take her hand she deftly moved it away, swinging her handbag coyly. Finally, they stopped in front of the tall, terraced house where she owned a flat on the second floor, overlooking a leafy garden square.

      ‘So,’ he said.

      ‘So,’ she smiled up at him, tracing her fingers lightly along the lapel of Malcolm’s suit.

      ‘This is where we say goodnight. Unless, of course, you change your mind and invite me up,’ he grinned hopefully.

      ‘You know the Rules, Hughie.’

      ‘Ah, yes. The Rules.’

      ‘No point being sarcastic; they’re there for a reason.’

      His hand travelled into the small of her back, pressed her close. ‘No emotional attachments, no gifts, no staying over, no sweet sentiments …’

      ‘And no nasty surprises!’ she concluded. ‘The Rules keep us safe, Hughie. You don’t think for one moment we’d be having this much fun if we were a couple, do you?’

      ‘Hummm,’ he buried his face into the curve of her long neck. ‘I wonder …’

      She pushed him away. ‘You’re not in danger, are you?’ She looked at him hard. ‘Remember, if you’re falling in love …’

      ‘Only I’m not!’

      ‘Swear?’

      He went down on one knee. ‘I prostrate myself before you in indifference!’ Then, while he was down there, he tucked his head under her skirt. ‘Ahh! Here’s a bit I missed!’ His lips moved up her inner thigh.

      ‘Hughie! We’re in the middle of the street! Oh!’ she swooned, gripping the iron railings. ‘Oh, yes!’

      He poked his head out. ‘Of course, we could go upstairs …’

      ‘That would be against the Rules!’

      ‘Yes! But it would feel so wrong, wouldn’t it?’ Standing, he pulled her close. ‘It would be so incredibly … bad!’

      She couldn’t resist. He really was a terrific playmate. ‘Oh, here!’ Giggling, she dragged him across the street, into the garden square, behind a hedge. ‘Only I’m warning you …’

      He kissed her hard.

      They tumbled onto the sweet-smelling grass. He looked into her beautiful dark eyes, hair tousled, lips parted.

      ‘I don’t love you,’ he whispered.

      Her arms wrapped round his neck. ‘You say the sweetest things!’

       Professional Massagers of the Female Ego

      Two days later, Hughie found himself sitting on the same bench in Green Park, waiting for the man called Valentine. It was no name for a guy, that was for sure. He was wearing the same borrowed suit. (Already Malcolm was demanding that he have it professionally dry-cleaned.) The sunny day was almost identical to the one earlier on in the week and the whole experience was coloured by a strong sense of déjà vu. Hughie found himself scanning the figures in the distance; not searching for this unfortunately named man but for his red-headed woman instead. He was strangely disappointed when Valentine finally did appear.

      ‘You’re Hughie,’ Valentine announced, stopping in front of him and holding out a hand.

      ‘Yes,’ Hughie stood and shook it. It struck him as an odd way to begin the conversation.

      ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Valentine Charles. What do you say we go get a drink in Shepherd’s Market?’

      ‘Sure,’ Hughie smiled.

      Any job where your employer buys you a drink on the first day has to be good.

      They crossed the street and Valentine led him up a narrow alleyway. At the top, Shepherd’s Market emptied onto a tiny square and in one corner there was a pub called the Adam and Eve. The sign had a picture of a man and woman divided by an apple. They stepped inside and as Hughie’s eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness of the half-empty bar, he recognized a familiar face. She was sitting at a table in the corner, sipping a glass of white wine.

      ‘It’s you!’ Hughie was surprised by how pleased he was to see her.

      She smiled.

      ‘Allow me to introduce my assistant, Mrs Flickering. Flick for short.’

      She gestured to a chair. ‘Take a seat, Hughie.’

      ‘What will you have?’ Valentine asked.

      ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Surely this was a test; the right answer was probably to order a soft drink.

      ‘I’m having Scotch but that’s probably a bit old for you. A pint of something?’

      Hughie relaxed. ‘Yes, please.’

      Valentine went to the bar. They were alone.

      ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,’ he said softly.

      Flick traced her fingers along the edge of her glass. ‘And yet, here we are. Life’s a funny old business, isn’t it?’

      ‘I’ll say.’ He shifted, unsure of how to continue. ‘The other day in the park … what happened …’

      She stopped him. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t take it personally. All part of the interview process, Hughie. I’ve been through it a hundred times.’

      ‘I see.’ He looked crestfallen.

      ‘Why so serious?’ she laughed. ‘Surely you’re relieved!’

      He let out a sigh. ‘But how many times do you meet a stranger you can talk to?’ The directness of his gaze was unnerving. ‘That you really want to talk to?’

      ‘Well, yes, but the thing is …’ He had a knack for creating instant intimacy; disorientating her with his artlessness. She’d never encountered anything quite like it.

      Valentine came back with the drinks and sat down.

      ‘Cheers, Mr Venables-Smythe!’ They raised their glasses. ‘Congratulations on your appointment!’

      ‘Thank you!’ Hughie beamed.

      They beamed back.

      ‘So,’ he ventured, ‘what is it exactly that we do?’

      Valentine looked at him closely. ‘You’ve received one of the greatest honours of your life. You’ve been chosen; hand-selected to join one of the oldest and most secret professions in the world.’

      Hughie felt uneasy. ‘Not … the Oldest Profession?’

      ‘Hardly!’ Valentine bristled, offended. ‘We are professional massagers of the female ego. We notice, flatter, attend to the delicate matter of romantic yearnings, that despite science and technology and sexual revolutions of all descriptions, still linger, languishing, in the human soul.

      ‘In