In the corner, a narrow door stood ajar, more paintings visible beyond. Intrigued, Lia stepped through, turning in a slow circle, the cool, bright light from the large northwest windows illuminating a riot of color. Because in this room, there were dozens of paintings, some hung on the walls, others resting on the floor and propped against the wall. The distinctive scent of oil paint and turpentine laced the air in here, evidence of creation, not merely restoration. Two easels had been set up in the center of the space, a canvas on each. Lia approached the first, unable to tear her eyes away.

It was a painting of a ballerina, the dancer caught as she soared into the air, her ivory skirts swirling about her legs, her arms outstretched in graceful lines. Against a background of dark shadows, the brilliance was startling, as if the dancer were leaping right off the stage, up toward the viewer. Yet it was her expression, caught in strokes of color and light, that made Lia catch her breath. The ballerina was gazing beyond the viewer as she danced, and the joy that the artist had captured in her features was riveting. As if this woman lived and breathed her art and each movement was a celebration of that love.

“What are you doing in here?” Gabriel’s voice came from behind her.

“The door was open. You told me to look around.”

“I meant my studio. Not…this.”

“You painted all of these, didn’t you?” Lia asked.

“Yes.” His answer was curt.

“You’re an artist,” she said, her eyes still on the ballet dancer.

“No. I’m an art appraiser and restorer,” he replied. “Who paints to amuse himself.”

She frowned. “These were not done by a man who seeks merely to amuse himself.”

“While I appreciate your kind words, you are hardly an expert in the matter, Miss Engineer.” He sounded almost defensive.

“No, I suppose I’m not.” She stepped closer to the easel. “This woman you’ve painted—you know her well. She’s a friend. Maybe a lover?”

“A friend,” he replied with clear surprise.

“Ah.”

“She was my neighbour when I was in art school. She and her husband are both dancers for the Royal Ballet. It’s how they met.” He paused. “How did you know she was a friend?”

“This is a painting of her personality, not just her image.”

Gabriel moved to stand beside her but didn’t speak.

“What it’s called? This painting?”

“Um.”

“Tell me it has a name.”

“It does.” He stopped. “It’s called First Love.”

“Ah.” Lia smiled. “Yes. I can see it. Has she seen this painting? Your friend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, like I said, these paintings are merely a hobby.”

“I disagree.” Lia stepped away from him to approach the second canvas on the easel behind.