Page 207 of The Black Trilogy

“What’s up with the new girl?”

I’d said hello to her when I came in, and she seemed nice enough, but there was no way her chest wasn’t surgically enhanced.

“Nothing. The men love her, and it was mighty kind of Black to provide her, as well as the cleaning crew. The only problem is she can be a little slow. It took her a week to learn how to swipe the membership cards, and she’s still struggling with the computer.”

“She’ll learn. It just might take her a while.”

Like a year or two.

The day we were due to fly back to the States, Black surprised me.

“I thought we’d go home via Paris. I have a meeting there, and it’d be good for you to practise your French.”

Well, I wasn’t going to say no to that.

While Black did his business stuff, I spent a pleasant morning climbing the Eiffel Tower, using the steps all the way. Not just because Black would have gone mental if he found I’d used the elevator, but rather my mindset had changed, and I’d have been disappointed in myself if I’d resorted to cheating.

At lunch, Black made me do all the ordering even though he was, of course, fluent in French, then we spent the afternoon exploring the Louvre. Black had several paintings on loan to the museum, so the director came out and gave us a personal tour.

The two-bedroom suite in the Ritz where we stayed for the night was easily the most beautiful place I’d ever been. Before dinner, we swam laps in the indoor pool then availed ourselves of the sauna.

“I should get one of these,” Black said. “We could use it on our afternoons off.”

“I’m surprised you don’t already have one.”

“I wouldn’t have used it before. It’s not just you who’s changed in these last few months.” He fell silent, thinking. I leaned back against the wall and nearly burned myself. Black laughed as I shot forwards, trying to look casual.

“We should go and get dinner,” he said. “Before we cook all the way through.”

“We’re eating French tonight. Even you can’t be so much of a heathen as to eat Italian in Paris.”

The next morning we flew back to Virginia, and it was nose to the grindstone again. Or rabotat’ kak loshad’ as Alex, who was waiting for me when we arrived, would say. He insisted on teaching me Russian while I exercised—you know, kill two birds with one stone.

Or in his case, kill one bird with a set of dumbbells and a pair of running shoes.

While I was busy training, Black and Nate worked ever-longer hours as their company, Blackwood Security, Inc. got busier. In the last month, they’d rented an office in Richmond and hired a secretary to answer the phones and sort out their diaries. They’d also taken on a few permanent staff—a small team of bodyguards and a couple of investigators to start with, all carefully hand-picked and vetted—but they were still rushed off their feet.

A fortnight after we got back from Paris, Black arrived home late one evening, dark circles under his eyes showing how little sleep he’d got that week.

“Rough day?” I asked.

“Nothing unusual.”

“Why do you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t need to work, do you? You could retire right now. Buy yourself a set of golf clubs and a tropical island.”

He reached forward and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

I thought he was going to say something else, but he took a step back.

“Even if it kills you?” I asked.

“I have to do it.”

By then, I’d felt the rush that came with achieving the impossible. I understood what he was saying and gave him a small smile.

---