BUT AS IRIS MOVED from room to magnificent room, she did see him again. And again! Well, maybe that was to be expected. They were floating down the same river, after all—following the same prescribed path around the ground floor of the Villa Borghese, taking in the masterpieces one by one. That head bobbed in and out, moving above the little clusters of other visitors, and Iris now saw the body it was connected to, tall and lean and long armed. The beautiful tailoring of his blue suit made the most of his rangy shoulders. When he stopped to contemplate a painting or a statue or an ancient Roman bowl, or the gorgeous decoration of the ceiling, he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and tilted his head thoughtfully.

Once, Iris passed him straight on, when she left a room just as he was entering. She had just an instant to see his face, which was plain and no-nonsense, a prominent brow over a pair of wide-set eyes, maybe thirty years old. So near as Iris could tell, he didn’t notice her, but then she took care not to catch herself looking at him, either. Were they playing a game, or not?

Oh, of course they weren’t. It was all in her head. A silly, lightning infatuation. For a stranger! Iris stared at a David holding out the severed head of Goliath. The last room on the ground floor, and it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon.

A woman stood next to Iris’s right shoulder, a man to her left. The woman stepped away, and for a minute or two, Iris and the man contemplated the painting in silence.

“We seem to be interested by the same pieces,” the man said.

Iris startled and looked to her side.

The man with the golden hair.

He stared straight ahead. He had a long, sharp nose and a firm jaw.

“Do we?” Iris said.

“Pluto and Proserpina,” he said, tactfully avoiding the word Rape. “Truth Revealed by Time. David and Goliath.”

“Isn’t everyone interested by those? They’re the masterpieces.”

He nodded to the painting in front of them. “You’d think the artist would model David after his own face, if he were going to model himself at all, but actually that’s Caravaggio on the Goliath.”

“Yes, I know.”

The man turned his head and looked at her sheepishly. Beneath those heavy brows his eyes were very blue, almost ultramarine. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to condescend. I was just trying to make conversation.” He smiled. “We’ve met, you know.”

“Have we?”

“Don’t remember?” He stuck out one enormous, bony hand. “Sasha Digby. I work with your brother, at the embassy.”

“Oh! Of course.” She shook the hand.