BELLA'S POV
He was already at the table.
Of course he was.
Suit on, perfectly pressed, coffee in hand, a set of documents spread in front of him that he was reading with the calm focused attention of a man for whom the contents of his own mind had apparently raised no difficulties at all during the previous night.
He looked up when I came in.
"Bella."
"Morning," I said.
I went to the coffee machine. Put a cup under it. Pressed the button. Watched it fill with the focused attention of someone who needed to look at something other than him.
The maid, a quiet woman named Petra who moved through the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who had perfected the art of being invisible, slipped out of the room at the sound of my arrival, heading for the laundry or somewhere with enough tac
