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Ghost knows my mind.
That is considerably more frightening than someone knowing my body.
What if he looks at me and the mystery is better than the woman?
I chew my lower lip.
The same one I once photographed for him.
His response had arrived eleven seconds later.
GHOST: Cruel.
I remember lying in bed smiling at the screen like an idiot.
Then the photograph he sent back.
No face.
Just a white shirt dragged upward enough to show part of a stomach that had absolutely no business belonging to the kind of man I had invented.
That picture caused problems.
Considerable problems.
Ghost is either unusually committed to the long con or he is physically—
I stop myself.
No.
I am not sitting in a Paris café fantasizing about anonymous abdominal muscles before ten in the morning.
My coffee arrives.
I thank the waiter.
When he's gone, I open the photograph vault.
This is research.
The image appears.
Dark fabric.
Male hand.
A sharp line of muscle.
Skin.
No identifying tattoos.
No background.
No useful reflection.
I zoom in.
