“And one for her, too,” he said, nodding toward Sam. “Whatever she wants.”

“Those are five-thousand dollar suits, King,” Sam said in wide-eyed shock.

“Pick whatever you want,” he said, slapping her on the back. “Daddy’s buying.”

The fitting ended, and Kingsley put in an order for twelve new suits in various vintage and royal styles including Regency, Victorian and Edwardian. Sam insisted on the Regency. She blamed her childhood love of romance novels for her breeches fetish.

“Can I have your old shirt?” Sam asked as she gathered up his clothes. “You know, after you get all your new shirts.”

“That is not a good idea.”

“It’s really nice,” she said. “I love Brooks Brothers. That shit lasts forever. This would be perfect to sleep in.”

She held out the shirt he’d worn to the fitting, a white button-down, and pulled it on over her vest.

“Sam, don’t.” Kingsley walked over to where she stood by the mirror.

“You’re that attached to this shirt?” she asked, smiling at him. “You have two dozen new ones being made for you.”

“It’s not the shirt, it’s the principle of the shirt.”

“Your shirts have principles?” She buttoned the three middle buttons.

“You don’t know anything about men, so let me fill you in on a little secret,” he said, standing in front of her. “When a woman wears one of our shirts, one we’ve worn, one we’ve lived in, it’s as if she’s saying ‘He is mine.’”

“And that’s bad?”

“It’s very good under the right conditions. But you wearing my shirt and sleeping in it and keeping it is the female equivalent of me coming on your back. It’s like marking your territory. Do you consider me your property?”

Sam met his eyes, and he saw surprise in them.

“No,” she said. “Of course not. You’re my employer, Captain.” She saluted him.

Kingsley raised his hands and unbuttoned the shirt.

“I know you aren’t attracted to me,” he said as he slid the shirt off her arms and pulled it back on. “But I am attracted to you, and I’m doing my best to not think of you like that. You wearing my shirt isn’t helping me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t... I honestly didn’t even think about that.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.”

Kingsley glanced up at the clock in the fitting room and sighed.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m running late.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“How can you be late to nowhere?”

“Sam, please. I’m not in the mood right now.”

“King? What’s going on?” she asked and gave him a concerned look. “Talk to me.”

Kingsley paused and weighed the costs and benefits of telling Sam. If he didn’t tell her, she’d continue to worry without knowing the reason. If he did tell her, she’d have a reason to worry. Either way, she was going to worry. Might as well get it out.

“I have an appointment,” he said. “I had some tests done, and I’m getting the results back.”

“Tests? What kind of tests?”

“The kind of tests a twenty-eight year old man who’s had sex with half of Europe has to have on occasion.”

“Oh, fuck. Those kinds of tests. I wish I could empathize, but the only disease lesbians get from sex is lockjaw.”

Kingsley laughed. God, she was good at making him laugh.

“It’s fine. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for two weeks, so no matter what, at least I’ll know.”

“We’ll know. I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“I don’t have to,” she said. “But I want to. And you want me to. No one wants to be alone for this stuff. Not even you.”

“You are too good to me,” he said, taking her hand and kissing inside her wrist.

“Stop stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, I’m flirting.”

“You’re a man flirting with a lesbian. That is the very definition of stalling. It’s not going to work. I have a lock on my pants, and I threw away the key.”

He looked down.

“I don’t see a lock.”

“It’s an invisible lock.”

“I’ll hire an invisible locksmith.”

“I’ll put that on the checklist. Now come on. Whatever the news is, better to get it over with.”

“If it’s bad news, I’d prefer to put it off indefinitely.”

“Then I guess you don’t want to see this bad news?” She pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket.

“What is it?”

“The bill from Signore Vitale.”

He took it from her and glanced at the total. He whistled at the figure.

“Good thing I’m rich.”

“How does a captain in the French Foreign Legion get rich?”

“Catholic guilt,” Kingsley said.

“You can make money off that?” Sam asked.

“Apparently so.”

“How do I get in on that action?”

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘if you marry money, expect to earn every penny’?”