‘It’s not perfect at all,’ he says quietly, inching past me. He sets his drink down, tweaks its position, then lights the candles running up the centre of the table. Moving across the kitchen, he puts his iPhone in the docking station before playing with a few buttons. I just stare at him as Ellie Goulding’s ‘Explosions’ seeps from the speakers and he slowly turns to face me. ‘It’s still not perfect,’ he says, wandering slowly over. He lifts his hand hesitantly and looks to me for permission. I nod, letting him gently take my hand, and follow his steps across the kitchen. The chair at one end is pulled out and he releases me, indicating for me to take a seat. I follow his request and let him tuck me neatly under. ‘Now it’s perfect,’ he whispers in my ear, stealing a nip of my lobe and throwing me into desire desolation. I’m tense everywhere, and he knows it. After ensuring I get a few unbearably gratifying moments of his heated breath in my ear, he takes his time ripping his bended body from my seated frame. ‘Wine?’ he asks.

I close my eyes briefly to gather some abandoned strength. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Being free from alcohol won’t sate your desire for me, Olivia.’

He places a cloth napkin across my lap before taking the chair at the other end. He’s right, of course, but avoiding alcohol might help me think clearer.

‘The distance is acceptable?’ he asks, indicating between us with a sway of his hand.

No, it’s not; he seems so far away, but it would be foolish to tell him so. Not that I need to tell him a thing. He knows very well. I nod and scan the table before me, my usual nerves present whenever I’m presented with a table set by Miller. ‘What are you feeding me?’

He restrains a grin and pours some red wine into one of the larger wine glasses. ‘I can’t feed you anything from over here.’

I bite my lip and resist the urge to fiddle with the fork at my place setting, knowing I’ll never replace it accurately.

‘Do you like me feeding you?’ he asks, pulling my eyes from the perfect table to his perfect face.

‘You know the answer to that question.’ Images of strawberries and puddles of dark chocolate jump all over my mind.

‘I do,’ he agrees. ‘And I don’t need to tell you how much I enjoy nourishing you.’

I nod in silent acknowledgment, remembering the satisfaction on his face.

‘And worshipping you.’

I squirm in my chair, fighting off the throb threatening to attack me between my thighs. No matter what persona he takes on, he has me every time. ‘We’re supposed to be talking,’ I point out, eager to steer away from thoughts of worshipping, strawberries dipped in warm chocolate, and Miller’s general magnetism.

‘We are talking.’

‘Why are you so terrified of elevators?’ I go for the jugular but feel immediately guilty when his face drops just a tiny bit. He quickly gathers himself, though.

‘I have a phobia of enclosed spaces.’ He swirls his wine thoughtfully while he watches me. ‘Which is why you’ll never convince me to hide in a closet.’

My guilt is increased by his confession and my unwitting demand in my bedroom that time. ‘I didn’t know,’ I whisper, also reminded of his terrified face when I refused to get out of the elevator. I’d worked it out as I fled the hotel and I used it against him.

‘Of course you didn’t. I didn’t tell you.’

‘Where does it stem from?’

His shoulders jump up a little and he looks away, evading my eyes. ‘I don’t know. Many people have phobias of certain things with no explanation.’

‘You have an explanation, though, don’t you?’ I press.

He won’t look at me.

‘It’s polite to look at me when I’m talking to you, and it’s polite to answer someone when they ask you a question.’

Blue eyes filled with irritation slowly find mine. ‘Overthinking, Olivia. I have a phobia of enclosed spaces, and that line of conversation will finish right there.’

‘What about your freakish tidiness?’

‘I have an appreciation for my possessions. That doesn’t make me a freak.’

‘You have more than that,’ I reply. ‘You have obsessive-compulsive disorder.’

Miller’s mouth drops open a little. ‘Because I like things a certain way, I have a disorder?’

I exhale a wary breath and stop my elbows from hitting the table just in time. He won’t acknowledge his freakish obsessiveness, and it’s clear I’m getting nothing on the claustrophobia front, either. But these are trivial issues in the grand scheme of things. There are more important things to address. ‘The newspaper. Why was the title changed?’

‘I realise how that looks, but it was for your benefit.’

‘How?’

His lips fix in a straight line. ‘To protect you. Trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ I fight off the urge to laugh in his face. ‘I trusted you with everything! How long have you been London’s most notorious male escort?’ The words feel like acid burning my tongue as I spit them from my mouth.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine?’ He lifts the bottle from the table and looks at me hopefully. It’s a pathetic attempt to avoid my question.

‘No, thank you. An answer would be nice, though.’

‘How about some appetisers?’ He stands and strides over to the fridge, without waiting for my answer. I can’t eat with my stomach in such knots and my brain a fuzz of unanswered questions, and I doubt my appetite will appear once I finally squeeze the answers from him.

He opens the huge mirrored fridge and pulls out a platter of something. Then he shuts the door but doesn’t return to the table, instead messing with whatever’s on the tray, poking and shifting things around. He’s trying to buy time, and when he glances cautiously up to the mirror, he catches me watching him in the reflection. He knows I know his game.

‘You said you’re ready to answer my questions,’ I remind him, keeping my determined stare on him in the mirror.

His eyes drop to the tray briefly, and then he slowly turns on a deep breath and makes his way back to the table, pushing that dark lock of hair off his forehead en route. I nearly choke when the platter is placed with utter accuracy, revealing a pile of oysters.

‘Help yourself.’ He gestures to the silver dish, then sits.

I ignore his offer, annoyed by his choice for starters, and ask my question once again. ‘How long?’

Lifting his plate, he takes three oysters and sets them neatly down. ‘I’ve been an escort for ten years,’ he says, choosing not to look at me as he delivers his answer.

I want to gasp in shock, but I resist, instead taking my water to moisten my suddenly parched mouth. ‘Why notorious?’

‘Because I’m unforgiving.’

Now I do gasp, and I hate myself for it. This shouldn’t be news to me. I’ve experienced him being unforgiving.

He sees me struggling but continues. ‘Because in the bedroom, I’m wicked, unloving, unfeeling, and unbothered by it. The women can’t get enough of me and the men can’t work out why that is.’

‘They pay for you—’

‘To be the best f**k of their life,’ he finishes for me. ‘And they pay obscene amounts for the privilege.’