I nod. “As a Frenchman, I know the work well. He painted it in Paris during the German occupation. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of when the German soldiers first encountered the painting.”

Her green eyes spark as she shakes her head.

Ah, a chance to tip the scales a bit. I can’t resist.

I take a step toward her, keeping my voice low. “In 1940, the Germans occupying Paris decided to make an inventory of all bank vaults in the city, and Picasso was summoned to the Banque Nationale du Commerce et de l'Industrie where he had two vaults next to Henri Matisse’s.”

She nods as recollection dawns. “Yes, of course. He saved countless works from being destroyed during the occupation. Renoirs, Cézannes…”

I nod. Good girl.

“Picasso showed the soldiers the contents of his vault, and after he deceived them and said with confidence that the paintings housed within were worth next to nothing”—her lips curl into a smile at hearing the delicious lie—“the investigators decided to visit Picasso’s apartment, where they came across a photographic reproduction of Guernica. Legend says the soldiers inquired about the painting, asking Picasso, ‘Did you do this?’ to which he replied, ‘No, you did this.’”

Her eyes widen in understanding.

“Your story gave me chills,” she admits, looking down at her arms where the hair is standing on end.

I’ve had nearly the same reaction, though purely because of her.

“I’ll purchase the piece.”

Her lips part in shock.

“I…” She trails off and shakes her head, looking away. “You shouldn’t have let me go on like I did before. You clearly know what you’re doing when it comes to art.”

“I’m a novice, I assure you.”

Humility is not something I’m very familiar with. It feels foreign on my tongue.

“Consider the work sold,” I insist, more stern now than a moment ago. I don’t enjoy repeating myself. “Now show me another.”

Her gaze whips up to find mine.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, sounding nearly breathless.

“Why on earth would I be kidding?” My patience is suddenly growing thin. “Do you know who I am?”

At this, she laughs, a great wild sound that has my heart galloping in my chest.

With flushed cheeks, she advances on me until we’re nearly chest to chest. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Do you remember me? Surely you do.”

The question takes me aback. I frown, considering her, my gaze cutting swiftly down her figure as my brain works tirelessly to place her. Surely I would remember seeing this woman before with her dark hair and prominent cheekbones, her clean, smooth skin and full lips. There is something on the periphery of my mind, some nagging feeling that I’m missing something right in front of me.

“I admit you do feel familiar.”

“Feel,” she repeats, tilting her head curiously. “What an intimate word.”

I’m tempted to reach up and take hold of her slender neck, to tip her chin back so the light catches on her face, highlighting every detail until some memory shakes loose inside my mind. Annoyance bleeds into anger.