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That’s literally the arrangement.

Still, I find myself wanting to remind her that Anya is a person, not a handbag she can collect whenever she wants to make a point.

I gather the books and put them aside.

Then I decide I need some air.

The pool is on the far side of the western wing, surrounded by pale stone terraces, tall hedges, and enough lounge chairs to accommodate a small resort.

I follow the sound of voices through the garden, intending only to see whether Anya is enjoying herself before returning to the library.

Then I reach the terrace. And stop.

Nikolai is in the pool. Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has decided I have not suffered enough this week.

He is swimming toward the shallow end, water moving over his shoulders as he reaches the steps. I have seen him in suits, in shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and once kneeling in front of me while helping me get dressed.

None of those experiences has adequately prepared me for this.

He climbs out of the water, and I forget what I came outside to do.

He is broad through the shoulders and chest, his body leaner than I expected beneath the suits, with thick arms, a flat stomach, and the kind of muscle that looks earned rather than cultivated for photographs. Water runs down his skin and disappears beneath the waistband of his dark swim shorts.

There is a scar along one side of his ribs. Another near his shoulder.

I notice both. Then I notice his hands. Again.

For God's sake, Elle.

He reaches for a towel and drags it over his hair, pushing the wet strands back from his forehead.

The silver at his temples catches the sunlight. I remember those hands undoing my blouse. I remember how close his mouth had been to my shoulder.

And for one brief, mortifying moment, I imagine him pulling me against that wet chest, his hands sliding beneath my shirt while he kisses me hard enough to make me forget every sensible reason I should keep my distance.

I swallow. I need to get a grip on myself. I am standing in his garden with a bruised hip, fantasizing about a man who probably has women throwing themselves at him on a regular basis.

I need a hobby. A better one than this.

Irina, unfortunately, appears to have no such concerns.

She is sitting on one of the lounge chairs, watching Nikolai with an expression that makes it abundantly clear she is enjoying the view.

When he comes closer, she stands and reaches for the towel in his hand. “You should come inside before you catch a chill,” she says.

Nikolai looks at her. “It's seventy-eight degrees.”

“I meant later,” Irina says, smiling.

I look away before I can witness whatever that was supposed to become.

Anya is sitting at the edge of the pool with her feet in the water, talking to Viktor, who appears to have materialized with a drink and no obvious responsibilities.

He notices me. “Elle, come join us,” Viktor calls.

I consider pretending I haven't heard him.