All of this, from the information he had uncovered about Sophie’s past, the link to a French Resistance fighter called La Chanteuse, Gabriel’s progress on each piece of art, and a warning that they might never be able to determine who may have owned Lia’s collection, had been communicated to Lia in polite, professional emails and phone calls. She’d been gracious and pleasant, and yet every time Gabriel spoke to her, the hollow, awful feeling that had started that afternoon in the Millbrook attics had become a little more hollow and a little more awful.

You only meet the love of your life once, Lia’s grandmother had once told her. And if you’re fool enough not to recognize that sort of love and treasure it for what it will become, then you never deserved it in the first place.

Gabriel feared he’d let his greatest discovery slip through his fingers.

The night the exhibit opened in a Paris gallery in the Marais district, everything had been implemented exactly as Gabriel Seymour had instructed. Pale walls with polished floors that lent a minimalist, professional atmosphere. Subdued lighting except where the masterpieces hung. Comprehensive cards mounted beside each painting detailing the artist and the work itself as determined by Gabriel and his committee of experts. And all of it tended by a small army of people providing additional expertise or security or both.

An electrified hum of conversation swirled around each frame as scholars and artists and collectors and journalists clumped and drifted like flotsam through the space. The entire collection that had been in Estelle Allard’s apartment was here. The Munch had a place of honour, as did the three Degas dancers. The rest of the paintings, including those that had been hanging in the living space and dining room of that Paris apartment, hung in tasteful arrangements.

But Gabriel wasn’t at the exhibit to see the art. He’d come to see Lia.

He walked farther into the gallery, ignoring the stunning display of art on the walls. He stopped abruptly when he saw her, standing in front of a turbulent Turner seascape. She was wearing a dress the color of a crimson rose at dusk, her hair a curtain of rich chestnut shot through with gold. Her skin was sun-kissed, her extraordinary eyes almost a moss green in the low light. She had a small beaded clutch tucked under one arm and an empty champagne glass in her hand, her fingers toying absently with the ever-present pendant at her throat, as though deep in thought.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and joined her in front of the seascape.

“I’m sorry,” he said without preamble.

Lia turned slowly and looked up at him, her expression utterly inscrutable. “Good evening. It’s nice to see you, too, Gabriel. I need to tell you that this exhibit is incredible. The gallery staff have been accommodating and extraordinary.”