Maria Lantos is a post grad Yale student researching illicit 18th-century literature. She’s become exceptionally well-versed in the narratives of classic erotic fantasy. She’s also Claudine, an in-demand escort specializing in sexual role play for an elite clientele. Anonymous. Satisfying. And discreet. Until the tenuous separation between her worlds starts to crack. It begins with the murder of a stranger. Where it leads is to two men who will test Maria's limits of control and awaken her own sexual desires. As her private nights bleed into day, Maria will discover the dangerous places that extend beyond the imagination, and secrets no longer consigned to the dark. The author is a bestselling, international award-winning Canadian novelist whose work has been published in many countries. She’s writing under the pen name Barbara Palmer , inspired by the famous 17th century English courtesan and royal mistress. CHAPTER I Claudine’s appointment was for eight P.M., and by design, she arrived precisely two minutes late. She stood between two elaborate topiaries under a portico at one of the residences making up the grand flank of white stucco town houses in London’s Grosvenor Square, Belgravia. It was a pleasant evening, if over-warm for April. She fanned herself and pressed a tentative finger to the bell. Chimes echoed inside. She smoothed the plain gray skirt that reached just below her knees, adjusted her glasses and pulled in her stomach. She fought back a flurry of nerves at the sound of steps approaching the entrance. The door opened. A housemaid in stark black shirt and slacks gave her a quick, appraising glance and beckoned her inside, accepting the business card Claudine presented as she passed through a wide rotunda. “This way, please,” the maid said without warmth, leading her to a room on the right. “The earl will be with you presently.” The door closed behind her with a soft click. The room had all the trappings of a male den, with bronze leather wingback chairs, somber oil paintings, an Oushak rug on the glossy parquet floor and a bar. Heavy damask drapes across the front window hid the room from prying eyes out on the street. Silver-framed photographs of a woman and three boys cluttered an antique davenport desk, and glass-fronted mahogany cases filled with books stretched across two walls. This wouldn’t be the earl’s main library, she surmised, but it was an impressive display. She sat in one of the deep leather chairs, kept her spine ramrod straight and crossed her legs primly. Her oversized faded leather bag lay across her lap; she noticed with dismay the fraying straps, tucked them inside the bag and took a deep, steadying breath. Had she dressed appropriately? Was she too dowdy? Or would her severe apparel give just the right impression of a young librarian applying for access to the earl’s substantial book collection? She took out her compact and gave herself a quick once-over. Her naturally long lashes required no mascara but she wondered if she should have softened her features with nude lipstick and a little blush. Claudine waited; checked her watch. It had been over fifteen minutes. She got up from the chair with the intention of surveying the volumes in the nearest case. She’d just plucked a handsome calfskin folio from the shelf when the door opened and the earl strode into the room. “Ah, there you are,” he said with a posh accent that hinted of exclusive clubs. “How do you do?” He gave her a friendly nod. “I’ve kept you waiting. I appreciate your promptness.” Claudine inclined her head in greeting and returned the book to its place. “Very pleased to meet you, sir.” He gave her a long look. “Splendid. Let’s have a drink, shall we?” Since it was the evening hour and she wanted to appear collegial she obliged. “Yes. That would be fine, thank you.” A quick smile lit up the earl’s features, and he went over to the bar. She took in his large blue eyes, thick hair—blond generously sprinkled with gray—and a ruddy complexion that made him look athletic and outdoorsy. Quite handsome, in an affluent, imposing kind of way. His smart burgundy smoking jacket with silken lapels was securely belted around his waist over dark trousers. He wore oxblood leather loafers. He held up a bottle of Campari, the bitter ruby red liquid sloshing a little as he did. “An Americano, in honor of your native country?” “Perfect,” she replied. In truth, she hated the taste of the sweet vermouth he added to the drink. He shot the drink with soda from a seltzer bottle, then fixed a whiskey, neat, for himself. He handed her the glass, took a seat in a leather wingback and motioned for her to settle in its mate. “I didn’t expect a librarian to actually look like one.” He surveyed her modest skirt and glasses with approval. She risked a cheeky comeback. “Occupational hazard. Does that mean you’ve decided to grant me access to your collection?” He relaxed, crossed his legs. Claudine got a whiff of his sweet, smoky cologn