“You’d better look on the bright side.” A male voice, nearby. “They weren’t so lovely, were they? A little clownish. Harlequin shoes, one might say. Not a great loss.”

“Not a great loss! Do you have any idea how much these…” And, straightening, Genevieve found she was talking to Paolo Zachari.

“They’re André Perugia’s, aren’t they?” he said, looking amused. “So you’ve certainly overpaid.” And then he removed his overcoat and sat down at her table without even asking permission to join her.

At first she couldn’t speak. His arrogance had swept all her words away and left her gaping at him. He was wearing what she supposed must be his work clothes—some tweedy brown trousers, good quality but faded and baggy, and a loose-fitting cotton shirt, open at the neck. But with all that swagger, you’d have thought he’d never lower himself to any actual work. His black eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts, his true intentions.

A pigeon-chested waiter with melancholy mustaches brought over an almond croissant and a café espresse and set them down in front of him. Zachari’s regular, daily breakfast, it seemed—the order so unchanging that it no longer had to be spoken.

“Did you win yesterday, Anton?” Zachari asked.

The waiter shook his head. “It’s a sad business, Monsieur Zachari. Fabienne’s going to kill me when she finds out how much I lost. I was so certain, you know? I really thought I knew what I was doing.”

Zachari gripped the waiter’s sloping shoulder. “Nothing is ever certain, my friend.” And as he spoke, he was looking over at Genevieve again, narrowing his eyes.

This was the moment when Genevieve spotted the freckle at Zachari’s throat, just above the shirt collar, nestled into that little hollow where the skin is at its softest. Somehow that small freckle changed everything. It was friendly. It hinted at another side to the man—a vulnerability. Genevieve, fixing her gaze on it, began to relax.

“I’m throwing a costume party,” she told Zachari. “The theme will be Cubism. It will be a party to dwarf even Violet de Frémont’s. A legend of a party. Everyone will be there, and everyone will be looking at me.” She took a breath. “And I will be wearing a pair of your shoes, Mr Zachari. What do you think?”

Zachari’s mouth stretched into a smile. He took a cigarette from a packet in his jacket pocket and tapped it on the box. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Emboldened, Genevieve reached for his box and took a cigarette for herself too.

“So shoes are important to you, then, Mrs. Shelby King?” He held a lighter to her cigarette, and then to his own.

“Absolutely.”

He leaned back in his chair and raked a hand through his tufty black hair.

“Why?” He blew out smoke and quietly scrutinized her.