“It’s my privilege,” Zoe said sincerely.

Max’s face was nearly immobile but his eyes flashed his approval.

“But come now!” Max said with a nod to his bodyguard. “I have little time left and there is much to accomplish.” The bodyguard turned the wheelchair and pushed it across the dark-wood-paneled drawing room toward a wall of bookshelves. Zoe followed, then stood a respectful distance behind them, absolutely still on the hand-knotted Persian carpet as the guard slid aside a hinged section of bookshelves to reveal a hidden door. The bodyguard knelt on one knee before a wheelchair-height security keypad and paused as if to reassure himself that he remembered the proper sequence.

Soft tones filled the room as the guard punched in the security alarm combination. Zoe’s palms were damp with the tension. She spread her fingers and, as casually as she could, made as if she were smoothing out the wrinkles in her long gray pleated skirt. She looked about her and listened, the music in her head changing as she gazed first at one painting and then another.

She tried to fix in her mind what she had seen so far. Notes were not allowed at this stage. Max was keenly aware of the effect his art had on people and he had expressed his desire that she experience the art first without the prosaic intrusion of work. It was not the first time a client had tried to influence her appraisals this way and, as usual, she had prepared herself for this contingency. With the guard occupied with the keypad and Max facing away from her, she slipped one hand inside her blazer to make sure the minicassette recorder was still running. It was not the first time someone had tried to dazzle away her objectivity. It was, however, the first time someone had succeeded.

Zoe had loved art all her life with a passion that had driven her to make it her profession. But despite the satisfaction of spending her life surrounded by the world’s most beautiful objects and historical antiquities, she had always dreamed of discovering buried treasure: unearthing a hitherto-unknown trove of priceless art that would be nearly impossible to value.

Instead, it had discovered her.

Less than forty-eight hours ago, Willi Max had phoned her, apologizing when she told him that it was still the middle of the night in Los Angeles, something he seemed well aware of.

“I am dying,” he had said without any trace of emotion. “Faster than most people. I have little time remaining and I needed to call you before I changed my mind or…” He left the obvious unstated.

Zoe had never heard of the man and had nearly hung up on him, half convinced it was a prank call. But his precise English, the imperious German accent, and his obvious sincerity kept her listening despite the sleep that clouded her thoughts.

“I wish personally to make the arrangements for the care of my legacy,” Max had said. Legacy. Not collection. Zoe remembered his words now, finally starting to grasp their true meaning.