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being dressed by him. Then she saw the evening dresses on a free-standing clothes rack.
    “Was there something you wished to say, Miss Creed?” Gesauldi asked.
    Despite her irritation at Garin, Annja was mesmerized by the dresses. “Wow,” she said.
    Gesauldi gestured grandly toward the rack. “These are some of Gesauldi’s very best. And, I might add, people do not usually get fitted by Gesauldi himself.”
    “May I?” Annja asked.
    “But of course. Your attention and your pleasures warm Gesauldi’s heart.” The man took her by the elbow and walked her over to the dresses.
    Annja ran her fingers along the material. It was smooth and silky, and she could only imagine what it might feel like against her skin.
    “Wow,” she said again.
    “Of course you would feel that way. Gesauldi knew you would feel that way. Gesauldi’s creations always leave people feeling this way.”
    “You’re a dressmaker?”
    He scowled. “Dear woman, Gesauldi is an artist!”
    Annja examined the dresses. “Of course you are.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry. “Garin really didn’t think I could dress myself, did he?”
    “Did you have a Gesauldi dress for tonight?”
    “No.”
    “Then you couldn’t have dressed yourself.”
    For a moment Annja considered telling the man to take his dresses and go. But she couldn’t. She’d never worn anything that glamorous in her life.
    She turned to Gesauldi. “Are you in the habit of delivering your dresses yourself, Mr. Gesauldi?”
    He grinned at her, obviously pleased that she was so enraptured. “Only for very special clients or very beautiful women, Miss Creed.” He inclined his head in a respectful bow. “Tonight I am honored to do both.”
    Johan leaned forward and whispered behind his hand to Annja. “Do you see, Miss Creed? I could hardly have thrown such a man from the hotel.”
    “No,” Annja agreed. “You couldn’t have.”
    * * * *
    Later, soaking in a fragrant bath while Gesauldi arranged the dresses and his tools, Annja sipped green tea and thought about her date. She wondered what Garin was up to.
    The attention was extremely flattering. Or quite unflattering, depending on how she chose to view Garin’s efforts. Either he wants to treat me like royalty or he wants to make sure I measured up to his standards. That was an unhappy thought. Annja sipped her tea and chose not to think like that.
    * * * *
    The phone rang while Annja, feeling much refreshed and looking forward to Gesauldi’s fitting, was drying off from the bath. She’d soaked to just preprune stage. She wrapped a towel around herself and picked up her phone.
    The phone number was European, but that was all she knew.
    “Hello.”
    “Don’t tell me it’s true.”
    Annja recognized Roux’s voice at once. The old man had a raspy voice that was unmistakable.
    “It’s not true,” Annja said, sensing from Roux’s tone that he wanted confirmation.
    “Good.” Roux sounded minutely appeased.
    “Now,” Annja said, “what’s not true?”
    Roux took a deep breath and it made the phone connection sound cavernous.
    “That you’re going out with Garin,” Roux snapped. “Tell me that’s not true.”
    Despite having grown up in an orphanage in New Orleans, Annja suddenly got the idea of what it might have been like to have to deal with a displeased father. Not surprisingly, it felt a lot like dealing with an irate nun.
    “Where did you hear something like that?” Annja asked.
    Roux cursed. “So it is true.”
    “Who I go out with is hardly any business of yours.” Annja put her phone on hands-free mode, tightened the towel around her and reached for another to wrap her hair.
    “It is when it’s Garin,” Roux said.
    “I can take care of myself.”
    “Not against Garin. Are you going out with him?”
    “We’re having dinner.”
    Roux cursed again. “Do you find yourself so enamored of him that you can’t control your hormones?”
    “I resent that,” Annja