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“Because no one comes here unless I want them to.”

The car winds up a narrow road lined with cypress trees. At the top of the hill, an estate emerges from the mist. It’s a chateau built from honey-colored stone, with tall windows and a slateroof gone green with age. Wild roses climb the walls. A fountain sits dry in the circular drive.

“My home away from home,” Lukas explains as the car stops. “When I need to disappear.”

I step out onto gravel that crunches under my feet. The morning air is cool and smells like soil and fresh flowers.

The driver doesn’t follow us inside. He just gets back in the car and drives away.

I watch the car disappear down the hill, then turn my eyes to the house. I haven’t heard so much as a peep from within. “No staff?” I ask.

Lukas shakes his head. “Not today.”

“No security?”

“Not here.”

I turn to face him. “So it’s just us.”

“Just us,” he confirms. His gray eyes hold mine. “Does that frighten you?”

I don’t answer. We both know it does.

He leads me inside. The foyer is dim, full of dark wood and stone floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Doors line the hallway on either side. Every single one is closed.

Locked, too, probably. Like everything else about this man.

Lukas leads me up a staircase that creaks under our feet. The hallway at the top is narrow. Faded portraits line the walls. Dead people in old clothes, watching us pass.

He stops at a door near the end. “Your room.”

I look past him. Another door stands maybe ten feet farther down the hall. “And that one?”

“Mine.”

He pushes my door open. The room inside is pretty, in a dusty sort of way. A four-poster bed with white linens sits between windows that look out over the vineyard and a fireplace that hasn’t been lit in years.

“Bathroom’s through there.” He nods toward a door on the far wall. “It connects to my room, just so you know.”

I walk over and try the handle. It turns easily, and when I look closer, I see why: There’s no lock.

“Old house,” he says from behind me. I’m guessing that’s his idea of an explanation, but it’s sorely lacking in my opinion. To no one’s surprise, he doesn’t sound sorry about it.

“Right.” I let the handle go. “Old house.That’swhy there’s no lock between your bathroom and mine.”

“I could have one installed, if it bothers you.”

“Would it matter if I said yes?”

He shrugs. “Probably not.”

“How lovely.”

“Get some sleep,” he says, turning toward the door. “You didn’t rest on the plane.” He pauses at the threshold. “We’ll meet for dinner at sundown.”

Then he leaves.

I strip off my shoes and clothes and cannon-ball into bed. It’s old, but still comfortable. The sheets smell like lavender and something older, mustier. History, maybe.