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cashing her trust fund checks, but she had done exactly the opposite. And now he had to get out of her life without satisfying her legitimate curiosity or getting her into trouble with the authorities, who were surely still looking for him.
    It was not going to be easy.
    When Helen returned she came into the bedroom carrying several wrapped packages and a brown paper grocery bag.
    “Angel Bites, as requested,” she announced, tossing a cellophane packet into his lap. “And what are you doing out of bed, may I ask?”
    “It’s time,” he answered flatly.
    “Clothes,” she said, dumping the parcels on the bed. “In the stated sizes. I don’t think you’ll make the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly , but they should do the trick as long as you don’t take off the shirt and display that shoulder to anybody.”
    “Thank you. Will you help me to the bathroom? I want to get cleaned up.”
    “Are you sure you’re strong enough for that?” she asked, challenging him.
    For an answer, he stood and took a step toward her. She moved to aid him, slipping her arm around his waist and walking at his side. She could feel the resurgence of his natural strength; it wouldn’t be long before he would depart her life as suddenly as he had entered it. She led him to the bathroom and took him past the whirlpool and the sauna closet to the sunken bathtub, made to order for Adrienne and inlaid with imported Italian tiles. The gold plated faucet had more gadgets and dials then a ship’s boiler, and Helen showed him how to regulate the temperature and flow. She left him leaning against the wall and went to the closet for the things he would need. She returned to find him unbuckling his belt, favoring his injured arm but otherwise holding up very well. Too well.
    He paused as she handed him a stack of Lord and Taylor towels, a bar of Adrienne’s gardenia scented soap and a bottle of her henna herbal “specially formulated for the client” shampoo. Adrienne kept the place stocked like a Paris salon, and so Helen had seized the opportunity to travel light and leave her own toiletries at home. She wasn’t sure Matteo would appreciate the amenities; he would probably emerge smelling like a high priced bordello. But he would undoubtedly be clean.
    “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me,” she said, watching as he set the towels on top of the rack and turned to face the tub. He was moving slowly, but gaining assurance with each passing second. He glanced at her and nodded.
    “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
    Helen left and closed the door behind her, listening as the rush of water began shortly afterward. It continued for a long time, sounding like Victoria Falls in the narrow hallway. When the shower stopped she waited anxiously, hoping that his impaired balance wouldn’t cause him to fall on the slippery tile floor. Seconds later the door opened, and a cloud of steam emerged. When it cleared she saw Matteo standing in front of the mirror over the sink, wearing a towel knotted around his waist. Barefoot, dripping, his soaking hair pushed back from his forehead, he was frowning down at Adrienne’s Lilliputian sterling silver razor. It was totally inadequate to handle his five day growth of coarse black beard.
    “Is this all you have?” he asked. “Your father didn’t leave a razor here?”
    “No, but I have a disposable one in my luggage. I’ll get it.”
    She went for the razor, and when she came back he was lathering his face, grimacing at his own image.
    “I look like a bus station degenerate,” he said grimly, and she had to laugh.
    “What bus station have you been hanging out in?” she asked playfully.
    “Port Authority,” he answered, before he thought. “At least I used to pass through there, years ago. I don’t imagine it’s changed much.”
    “How long since you’ve seen it?” Helen asked innocently, and his eyes met hers in the mirror.
    “All right,” she conceded grumpily. “I’m probing, I