Chapter 3

Because Max had craved love so desperately, he’d persuaded himself this man would be the love of his life.

He’d been so wrong…

Before he lost himself brooding about the past, the door to the doctor’s lounge opened, and Smitty strolled in, carrying a large box.

“Bonjour, bien-aimé,” Smitty said, and in spite of himself, Max cringed at his pronunciation. Smitty leaned down and brushed his lips over Max’s, and suddenly Max didn’t mind so much how his lover mangled Max’s native tongue.

“Bonjour, amoureux.”

“Wait, that’s a new one. What’s it mean?”

“Sweetheart.”

“Ah. I like it.” He gazed around the room. “Where’s Paget?”

M. Vincent had decided Max needed an assistant and had had M. Wallace bring in another doctor, this one a woman who intimidated most of the agents she came into contact with. She was only supposed to stay six months or so, but then the flu season hit them, and M. Wallace asked her to return.

“She’s off today, doing her Christmas shopping, I believe.”