When Kim woke up she was sitting in a bathtub of warm water, leaning with her back against the sloping rim, her hands tied under the suds.

The blond stranger was on a stool beside her, washing her with a sea sponge as naturally as though he'd bathed her many times before.

Kim's stomach heaved, and she vomited bile into the tub. The stranger stood her up in one powerful swoop, saying “Alley Oops,” and she noticed again how strong he was. This time she heard a hint of an accent but couldn't place it. Maybe Russian. Or Czech. Or German. Then he pulled the bathtub plug and turned on the shower.

Kim swayed under the spray, and he held her up, supported her body as she cried out and hit at him, trying to kick but losing her footing. She started to go down, and he caught her again, laughing, saying, “You're a little something special, aren't you?”

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.”

“You don't know me,” she said, the words pouring sideways out of her mouth.

“Everyone knows you, honey. Kimberly McDaniels. What a beautiful name, too.” He moved her hair to one side and knotted a second swimsuit tie behind her neck, tied a bow, apologized if he'd pulled at her hair.

Kim wanted to make a remark, but she forgot what she was going to say. She couldn't move. She couldn't scream. She could barely keep her eyes open. She looked into the pale gray eyes that caressed her.

He said, “Stunning. You look so beautiful for your close-up.”

She tried to say, “Screw you,” but the words blended together and came out as a long, tired sigh. “Scoooooooo.”

Inside a private library on the other side of the world, a man named Horst sat back in his leather-upholstered armchair and watched the large HD screen beside the fireplace.

“I like the blue hands,” he said to his friend Jan, who was swirling his drink in a chunky glass. Horst turned up the volume with the remote.

“It's a nice touch,” Jan agreed. “With the swimsuit, and the skin, she is as American as apple pie. Are you quite sure you saved the video?”

“Of course I did. Look now,” said Horst. “Watch now how he quiets his animal.”

Kim was lying on her stomach. She was perfectly hog-tied, her hands behind her back and tethered to her legs, which were bent up at the knees. Along with the red swimsuit, she was wearing shiny black patent leather shoes with five-inch heels and slick red soles. They were top designer shoes, Christian Louboutin, the very best, and Horst thought they looked more like toys than shoes.

Kim was pleading with the man his audience knew as “Henri.” She was sobbing softly. “Please, please untie me. I'll play my role. It will be even better for you, and I'll never tell anyone.”

Horst laughed, said, “That is the truth. She will never tell anyone.”

Jan put down his glass, then said with edgy impatience, “Horst, please roll back the video.”

On screen, Kim said again between sobs, “I'll never tell anyone.”

“That's good, Kim. Our secret, eh?”

Henri's face was transformed by the plastic mask and his digitally altered voice, but his performance was strong and his audience was avid. Both men leaned forward in their chairs, watched as Henri stroked Kim, rubbed her back, and murmured to her until she stopped whimpering.

And then, as she seemed to go to sleep, he straddled her body, wrapping his hand in the young woman's long, damp, yellow hair.

He lifted her head from the flat of the bed, pulling hard enough that Kim's back arched, and the force of the pull made her cry out. Possibly she saw that he'd picked up a serrated knife with his right hand.

“Kim,” he said. “You'll wake up soon. And if you ever remember this, it will seem like a bad dream.”

The beautiful young woman was surprisingly quiet as Henri made the first deep cut across the back of her neck. Then, as the pain caught up with her – hauled her violently out of her stupor – her eyelids flew open and a curdled scream erupted from her painted mouth. She wrenched her body as Henri sawed and cross-sawed through her muscles, and then the scream cut out, leaving an echo as Henri completely severed Kim's head from her body in three long strokes.

Arterial blood spurted against the yellow walls, emptied onto the satin bedsheets, ran down the arm and loins of the naked man kneeling over the dead girl.

Henri's smile was quite visible through the plastic mask as he held Kim's head by her hair so that it swung gently as it faced the camera. A look of pure despair was still fixed on her beautiful face.

The killer's digitized voice was eerie and mechanical, but Horst found it extremely satisfying.

“I hope everybody's happy,” Henri said.

The camera held on Kim's face for another long moment and then, although the audience wanted more, the screen went black.