I carry it over to the couch and sit next to Winston. ‘What’s this, boy?’ I ask him, but he’s deep in sleep now, snoring happily. I pull the leather strip delicately until the bow unravels, and then pull the cover open.

The first page has a photograph of Picasso’s Harlequin Head stuck to the paper and handwritten information is noted down the side. ‘Wow.’ I turn to the next page, finding a photograph of a Fabergé egg, again stuck to the page, and more paragraphs of handwritten information. The next page reveals another photograph, except this time the photo is of a violin. I pout, disappointed . . . until I realise it’s a Stradivarius. ‘Jesus.’ I gulp, turning another page. The pictures of priceless treasures go on and on, until I reach the back and find a folded piece of parchment paper. It’s old, delicate, and I can see clearly there’s a tear down one side. I gingerly push at the corner and frown, tilting my head. A map. A very old map of the world.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I open it up, seeing rips in the centre. A hole. It’s not damaged from age or handling. A section has been ripped out, leaving a hole in the middle of the ancient map. I scan it, figuring out quickly that it’s a part of Europe that’s missing.

Wow. What is this?

My studying stops when I hear movements coming from outside the library doors. ‘Shit.’ I quickly fold it back up, carefully slot it in the leather book, and fly across the room like a bullet, trying to tie the cord as I go. I don’t know how, but I manage to secure it before slipping it into the black hole and pushing the section of bookcase closed until it clicks. Then I bolt for the bookcase where the Spanish tapestry file is stored and pull it from the shelf, opening it up and beginning to walk casually up and down, my heart pounding.

I hear the library doors open, but I keep my nose in the file that I’m pretending to study, not prepared to give him the time of day. Or, perhaps, reveal my guilt for snooping. Then I hear the door gently close as I continue walking slowly up and down, my finger resting on some text and gliding from side to side as I read. I can see the words, but I’m not taking them in.

The only sound in the library is Winston’s snoring and my light footsteps.

Until he speaks.

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to my guests like that,’ he says curtly.

I halt with my aimless wandering, my lips pucker, and my eyes close. Even if I wanted to fire off all sorts of thoughts on that one – which I don’t because I promised myself I wouldn’t let him get under my skin – I shouldn’t because he’s my boss. And like it or not, I can’t be flashing my claws at his so-called guests.

‘I’m sorry.’ I release the words like they’re acid on my tongue yet surprise myself that I actually sound genuine. Which begs the question whether I actually am being genuine. I don’t know. I’m working on autopilot, and in a moment of pure lucidity, I realise why. I’m in self-preservation mode. This worries me. What am I protecting myself from? Him? Being fired? ‘It won’t happen again.’ I brave peeking up a little, finding he now has a T-shirt on with some old worn sweatpants. And bare feet. I tense and throw my eyes to his face. Mistake. He has his glasses on, and for the first time I wonder how bad his eyesight is. His hair is all mussed up. Or sexed up from someone’s fingers grabbing at it. I wince at my silent observation. The spikes of jealousy that stab at me repeatedly are baffling . . . and, again, worrying.

I’m so busy weighing up all of these conflicting feelings, I almost miss the look of confusion on his stunning face. But I just catch it before he replaces it with indifference. ‘Good.’ He sniffs, wandering towards the couch. ‘So, when I have female company, you won’t insult them in future?’

‘No. Like I said, I’m sorry.’ I shut the file, proud of myself for not biting, and, again, catch a frown before he reins it in. I know he’s wondering why I haven’t questioned him on the whole skivvy business, or on his ploy to have me at work by eight, and I don’t plan to. Questioning him will show him I’m bothered. I’m not.

‘Good,’ he says again. I can see his mind racing for his next words. This is getting easier the longer I’m faced with his perplexity, even if he’s desperately trying to conceal it.

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