He would ignore it. They would go away eventually, whoever they were. He looked down at the book on the table—the full-color illustration of the Red Admiral butterfly—and back at the shoe in his hand. There was something not quite right about his design, but what was it? He set the shoe down and bent to peer at it from the side. Why could he not concentrate properly this morning? His focus, usually crystal clear, was fuzzy. Damn Genevieve! It was she who’d done this to him. Genevieve with her demands and her secrets. Genevieve with her wild eyes and her rage and those most surprising moments of softest vulnerability.

He should phone her. Straightaway. Nip this thing in the bud. Tell her that he would not be dictated to by any woman. Tell her he liked his affairs to be casual and amusing, and this was neither. Tell her he’d never be making her that second pair of shoes. Yes, he’d get on the phone and tell her, and it would all be over between them.

Trouble was she’d gotten to him. Wriggled inside his head, inside his rib cage. That was why he hadn’t slept with any other woman since that first evening with her (not that he would tell her that. She had quite enough of a hold on him already). He wished he could feel less for her. Life was becoming messy and complicated. That was why he had to end it. Go back to his old ways.

The shoes were ready, of course. They were safe in his locked cupboard, waiting for her. Probably the most amazing pair he’d ever made. Shame they would never see the light of day.

Setting down his brush, he started up the stairs. But as he reached the telephone, the banging came again. Someone was practically ripping the knocker off. Angered, he started for the door but then paused, his hand outstretched. What if it was Genevieve? What if she’d come to make more demands?

No, it wouldn’t be her. He was being silly. It was surely Olga, having forgotten her key. It had to be. Nobody else would dare to knock so insolently and insistently.

“Paolo. And about time too.” Violet de Frémont shoved right past him into the shop, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Violet! What a surprise. I—”

She whipped around, scowling. “It shouldn’t be a surprise. I’m right there in the book.” She pointed a sharp talon at the open diary.

Zachari leaned over and peered at the day’s page. “Actually, you’re not.”

The countess swiped the book. “Well, I certainly should be. I spoke to Olga last week. My, but it’s hot.” She took a couple of pins out of her hair and ran her hands through it, freeing its curls, and then undid the top two buttons of her white blouse. “Where is Olga, anyway?”