“Hello, American,” I said as I eased myself down in the chair beside him at the table. He was looking at my bare chest, and I knew that look. . . .

“Yes, I’m an American,” he said, a bit flustered. “. . . but how . . . ?”

“And your name is Clifford,” I said, and then I grinned.

“Now you do have me at a disadvantage,” he replied. He was smiling, but there was confusion in his smile. And I felt he was becoming more reserved.

“I hope that will be the case,” I said. But then I rushed on. “The woman who rented you the villa. Layla. She told me to come here for you.”

“Layla? Come here for me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not that good with English. And sometimes I am too, what do you say, straightforward.”

“Your English is fine,” the American said. “Quite fine,” he repeated. But I somehow thought, from the trembling of his hand, that he was talking about something other than my language skills. He was tense, nervous, and fidgety, like a thoroughbred horse. His nostrils were flaring. I knew he was interested—that he wanted me. But I also knew that he was struggling with himself.

“Layla told me that you needed a companion, someone who could help you at the villa,” I said.

“I told Ms. Ergun that I wanted someone a couple of days a week, and she convinced me I didn’t need anyone,” he said frowning. “But . . . ,” he hesitated, not wanting to make waves. Yes, he was very high strung, I thought. Stretched tight as violin strings. Needing to be loosened up—set free of something, something I could not name yet.