‘It seems Gustavo Aires Cabral would like to meet the sculptor of his wife in person. He’s invited you to dinner at their beautiful house tomorrow evening. I believe he also wishes to pay you,’ Levy had added. ‘He will call you to make the arrangements in due course.’

‘Thank you.’

Laurent had decided initially that he would of course refuse the dinner offer, and arrange to meet the man at his club in Rio to receive payment for the sculpture. Izabela’s husband was hardly a person with whom he wished to become acquainted.

But then yesterday afternoon he’d seen her . . .

Now, after endless debates with himself, he’d decided – whether the husband was there or not – that he’d allow himself an evening when he would have the pleasure of gazing at her beautiful face once more. So when Monsieur Aires Cabral had called him, he accepted the invitation to attend the dinner.

As the taxi drove through the streets of Ipanema and out of the hecticness of the city into the suburbs, Laurent wondered now what on earth had possessed him. Surely, spending hours in her presence was suicide for his heart? It would only reignite his passion further. However, he thought, as the car turned into the long drive of an elegant colonial-style house, he was here now and would simply have to make the best of it.

Laurent climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver and stood staring up in wonder at the facade of the building, which was certainly one of the most impressive he’d seen in Rio so far. He mounted the wide marble steps to the gracious front door and rang the bell.

It was opened by a maid, and he was ushered into a drawing room, already occupied by two middle-aged couples. In the corner of the room, draped with a tablecloth to hide it from view, was what he recognised from the shape as his sculpture.

‘Ah, you have arrived!’ said a thin man with features that reminded him of a rodent as he entered the room behind him. ‘The sculptor himself!’ He smiled and held out his pale hand. ‘Gustavo Aires Cabral. And you must be Senhor Laurent Brouilly.’

‘Yes. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, senhor,’ he replied, noticing that the man’s handshake was rather weak and that he stood at least four inches below Laurent in height. Surely, he thought, as Gustavo guided him over to introduce him to the other occupants of the room, this scrawny, unattractive man could not be Izabela’s new husband?

‘Champagne, senhor?’ asked a maid, offering him a glass from a tray.

‘Merci,’ he said as he shook hands with Gustavo’s parents, and was then introduced to Izabela’s mother and father.

Antonio Bonifacio, a tall, attractive man, with flecks of grey appearing in his black hair, shook his hand heartily, and Carla gave him a warm smile. She was a beautiful woman and Laurent could see where Izabela had inherited her dark, sultry looks from. Neither of them could speak French, so Gustavo translated for them both.