“No.” She bit her lower lip and looked worried. He had to remind himself that it was all an act to make him think she wasn’t after the same thing he was. “I’m not sure if there’s someone we should call or if I should just get us a taxi.”

“What hotel are you staying at?”

She glanced at a small notecard. “The Hotel Ocelot. Wait, that can’t be right. Ocelot? Is that even a German word?”

“It is my favorite hotel in Munich,” Mrs. P said with a little curl of her lips. “I used to go there with one of my most inventive lovers. You’ve heard of strudel, yes? Well, he used to take a generous piece—”

“Yes, well, I think we can do without that image right now,” Sophea said hastily before flashing him an apologetic smile. “I’m sure Mr. Dakar has important places to go and people to see.”

“As it happens,” he said with a show of genial concern, “I’m staying at the Hotel Ocelot as well. Why don’t you share my taxi?”

“Well… we wouldn’t want to impose—” Sophea started to say, but the old lady, with a little grunt, got to her feet and gave him a nod as she held out her hand for him.

“I’ll grow roots if I sit here any longer, gel. Rowan, did you say your name was? What do you do?”

“I’m a sociologist,” he said, somewhat taken aback as he held out his arm for the woman. She clutched it tightly, walking with a slow but dignified gait toward the waiting taxis. “I work with tribes in Brazil.”

“No, no, what do you do?” she asked again, putting emphasis on the last word.

He had no difficulty understanding what she meant, but he had absolutely no intention of telling her about his other job, or the reason he was standing there at that moment in time, helping her into a cab. He eased her inside, aware that she was watching him closely. He gave her a bland smile. “I help indigenous peoples come to terms with modern society while retaining their traditions and lifestyles. Is this all the luggage you have?”

“Yes, just those two. Mrs. P travels light,” Sophea said, grabbing one of the two wheeled suitcases and hauling it around to the back of the cab, where the driver was waiting.

“And your luggage?”

“Got everything I need right here,” she said, patting the messenger bag slung over her chest.

He set his rucksack into the trunk and waited until Sophea slid in next to the old woman before taking the jump seat. “I, too, believe in traveling light. Is this your first time in Munich?”

They maintained polite chat during the time it took to drive into the city and to the dingy white building that sat on a corner with cars lining the streets on each side. The hotel’s entrance was at the intersection, and Rowan couldn’t help glancing up at a sign that hung drunkenly, little Tibetan peace flags fluttering dismally in the misty rain of the early afternoon.

It looked more like a questionable hostel than a desirable place for a romantic rendezvous, but perhaps it was nicer inside.

He escorted the ladies inside, helping Sophea with the luggage.

“Go ahead,” Sophea told him when they reached a battered reservation desk that bore a half-dead fern, an old-style registration book, and a small orange cat sleeping on a pillow. Behind the cat, a young man wearing an eye patch with a skull and crossbones embroidered on it glanced up from a book.

“Ladies first.”

She flashed him a smile that seemed to brighten the room by several degrees, then gave the waiting male desk clerk Mrs. P’s name.

“Papadopolous, did you say?” The young man, who had bright orange hair and matching eyebrows, got to his feet and swung the book around to face him. He flipped up the eye patch, and consulted the page. “Ah, yes, you have the Oriental Suite. Passports?”

The ladies handed over their passports and Sophea signed them in.

“I don’t know you,” Mrs. P suddenly said, her gaze on the young man. “Where is Karl Amsterdam?”

“Karl Amsterdam?” The clerk’s face scrunched up. “The man who started the hotel? He died back in the 1920s.”

“Ah.” Mrs. P looked sad for a moment. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye. Who are you?”

“Hansel Franz. Karl Amsterdam was my great-great-grandfather.”

“And are you going to pump us up?” Sophea asked with a little giggle.

Hansel, Mrs. P, and Rowan all stared at her.

Her giggle faded. “You know, ‘Ve are going to pump you up!’ Hans and Franz!”

Silence filled the room for the count of five.

“Oh, sure, I’m the only one who watches Saturday Night Live,” she grumbled, her cheeks pinkening ever so slightly.

For some reason, that blush charmed Rowan as nothing else could. A woman who could feel embarrassment over something so trivial could not be all bad, could she?

“Your room is one flight up. I will take your luggage as soon as I am finished with him,” Hansel said, handing Sophea the key. He flipped his eye patch down and considered Rowan. “Do you have a reservation, too?”

Rowan was very much aware of the near presence of Sophea as she gathered up Mrs. P and one of the suitcases before herding the former to a tiny old-fashioned elevator with twin wrought metal doors. “Er… yes. Of course. Rowan Dakar.”

Hansel flipped his eye patch up before consulting the register again. “I don’t see you listed here.”

Sophea and Mrs. P entered the little elevator. Rowan raised his voice slightly over the sound of the doors that Sophea swung shut, making sure she heard him. “I made the reservation some time ago. Look again.”

“I don’t need to look again,” Hansel said, pointing to the book. On the right side of one page was a listing of names and dates of the travelers’ stays. “You aren’t there.”

The elevator’s gears ground as it lurched its way upward. Rowan waited until Sophea and Mrs. P’s feet disappeared from sight before turning back to the clerk. He slid a twenty euro note across. “My mistake. What will it cost me to get a room here? Preferably one near my… friends.”

Hansel looked at the twenty euros and replaced his eye patch, an inscrutable look in the visible eye as the twenty euros slowly disappeared off the edge of the desk. “My mistake. You are listed. There are only two rooms per floor, and the other on the second floor is taken.”