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doesn’t respond; he isn’t meant to. I smile teasingly and leave the room.
    My bare feet pad lightly against the cold hardwood floor, down the hall, to the living room, where the bar is. I reach for the cognac. A strong drink, both rich and flavorful. I select two brandy snifters, pour the liquor, and then, over one glass, gently tap the garnet on my ring. The stone moves aside, revealing a miniature pillbox that forms the base of the ring itself.
    A pillbox filled with white powder.
    I was surprised by how easy it was to find such a ring and by how affordable they are, as if poison rings are just novelty items, as if their name means nothing.
    And no one expects sinister acts from a woman wearing pretty antique jewelry.
    I smile as the crushed sedative slips into the drink.
    When I reenter the bedroom he’s waiting for me, watching me . . . but he sees nothing. Not really.
    I step over a discarded pair of jeans. “You shouldn’t be so careless about where you leave your clothes, Lander.”
    “Brazen words from a woman whose clothes are currently strewn all over the living room.”
    “And whose fault is that?” I sit by his side, kiss him, give him one of the glasses. “To justice,” I say, raising the other.
    He nods, joins in my toast.
    As he takes a long sip, a new sense of calm washes over me. My eyes wander around the room. There to the right is another expensive nude, and to the left assorted thousand-dollar watches have been carelessly left on his dresser.
    “When I was a little girl, the doorman buildings were like castles to me.” I toss my hair over my shoulder, fix my gaze on the floor-to-ceiling windows. “They’re not, of course, but the people who live in places like this . . . They’re a little like royalty, aren’t they? Everyone bows before them, craves their attention. They’re treated like kings and queens, princes and princesses.”
    “Yes,” Lander says dryly. “My mother was treated like the dowager princess of Wales.”
    I don’t know what that means, other than that he’s flaunting his education and it bothers me. I’ve read all of Lander’s favorite Shakespeare plays, learned tennis and chess, studied finance and art—all toward the goal of understanding and manipulating the world of the Gables. I should at least understand this man’s references.
    Lander takes another sip and yawns. “Where did you grow up?” he asks.
    “Brighton Beach,” I lie. But it’s the perfect answer to give someone like him. It implies that I don’t come from wealth, but also not from a place of abject poverty. I need to be an outsider to keep Lander’s interest, just not as much of an outsider as I actually am.
    With our backs propped up by pillows, we drink and chat for a few more minutes about innocuous things—the gentrification of Brooklyn, the weather, the music we like—and then, as I snuggle up close to him, he yawns again.
    “I’m sorry,” he says as he puts his empty glass on the nightstand. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
    “I wore you out, baby,” I say, slipping back to my old speech patterns. It doesn’t matter; he won’t remember this anyway. I adjust the pillows and then put my hand on his chest. Gently but firmly I push him back so that we’re lying down again, his body relaxing into the firm mattress. “You surprised me tonight. You’re a lover and a fighter.”
    “Yes,” he says, but the s is drawn out, making the word sound like the hissing of a snake.
    “You learn those moves at Oxford?” I ask, and he smiles, mumbles something unintelligible. “Did you fuck lots of girls in Merry Ol’ England?” I ask, my voice laced with venom and sarcasm. I straddle him, my hair spilling forward again as his eyes go to half-mast. “Did the girls line up for you? Did you insist that they look at you when they took off their clothes? Did you make them admit to being wet for you?” I run my fingernails lightly along his throat. “You probably don’t