Then he wrapped her in very plush white towels, swaddled her like a baby. When he settled her on the closed toilet seat, he held out a glass of something for her to drink.

“Take this,” he said. “It will help you. Honestly it will.”

Kim shook her head, said, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Do you want to remember this evening, Kim?”

“You've got to be kidding, you effing pervert.”

“This drink will help you forget. And I want you to be asleep when I take you home.”

“When are you taking me home?”

“It's almost over,” he said.

Kim raised her hands toward him, noticing that the rope binding her wrists together was different now. It was dark blue, possibly silk, and the pattern of knots was intricate, almost beautiful. She took the glass from him and emptied it down.

Next the stranger asked her to bend her head forward. She did, and he towel-dried her hair. Then he brushed it, making tendrils and curls with his fingers, and he brought bottles and brushes out of the long drawer of the vanity surrounding the sink.

He applied makeup to her cheeks and lips and eyes with a deft hand, dabbing a little concealer at a raw place near her left eye, wetting the brush with his tongue, blending the foundation in, saying, “I'm very good at this, don't worry.”

He finished his work, then reached his arms around and under her, lifted her towel-wrapped body, and carried her into the other room.

Kim's head lolled back as he placed her on the bed. She was aware that he was dressing her, but she didn't assist him at all as he pulled a bikini bottom up her thighs. Then he tied the strap of the swimsuit top behind her back.

The suit looked to Kim a lot like the Perry Ellis she'd been wearing toward the end of the shoot. Red with a silver sheen. She must have mumbled, “Perry Ellis,” because James Blond said, “It's even better. I picked this out myself when I was in Saint-Tropez. I got it just for you.”