This was a painting of a couple dancing what was unmistakably a tango. The background was done in deep purples and blues, the illusion of a single spotlight illuminating the two figures. One of the woman’s hands rested on her partner’s shoulder, her other clasped in his. Her back was to the viewer, her gold dress and blond hair a brilliant contrast to his dark suit and his hand where he held her at the small of her back. The dancers’ faces were hidden, their heads bent toward each other intimately. Their silhouettes were slightly smudged on the edges, as if their movement could not quite be contained.

Lia felt her throat close. She couldn’t look away, the image stirring an intense longing in her that caught her unaware.

“Lia? Are you all right?”

She shook her head, trying to clear the emotion that was clogging her throat. “You’re an idiot,” she managed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This painting. It’s…” She fought for the right word. Beautiful wasn’t adequate. Stunning wasn’t even sufficient.

“A hobby,” Gabriel intoned.

Lia ignored him. “When I look at this, I want to be this woman. I want to hear the music, feel the heat of another body pressed against mine. I want to live in this moment when no one else in the world exists except the man who is holding me as though I were the only woman on earth. I would like to dance, just like this.”

Gabriel didn’t answer. Lia turned to find him staring at her, his eyes searching hers, a peculiar expression on his face.

“What’s this one called?” she managed.

Gabriel ducked his head, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s it called?” Lia pressed.

“Après.”

“Who are they? The couple in this painting?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was in Gijón for work,” Gabriel said. “I was walking back to my hotel, and it was late, after the bars and theaters and restaurants were closed. They were under a streetlight, on a walkway above the sea. No music, no audience. Just dancing after everyone else had gone.” He paused. “Dancing for no one but themselves. I suppose it left an…impression.”

Lia swallowed, emotion still making her throat tight. “What do you do with your paintings?” she blurted. “Do you sell them?”

“No.” He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “When I run out of space here, I move them to Millbrook. If the walls of the manor were good enough for my forefathers’ art, they are good enough for mine.”

“But you’ve never exhibited your work?”

He looked back at the canvas. “I’ve considered it. My grandfather and father hound me all the time.”

“But?”

“But it would only be a distraction from my real job. There is no need. Such a thing would be frivolous and a waste of time and money.”