And he had the gall to whoop again, to turn to her, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me.’ That’s good. That’s Brit-speak for ‘Get the hell out,’ right?”

“I think it’s lovely you’re learning to speak the language.”

And he laughed again. “That’s great. I love that. I wish I could say things like that. ‘Thank you so much …’ No, that’s great, really, I mean it. It’s, like, Rex Harrison or something.” He swaggered back to her bedside. “All right, I’m going,” he said. “But listen up.” And he pointed a finger so close to her face that only her impeccable manners kept her from tearing it off with her teeth. “I like you. A lot. Which is Yank-speak for ‘I like you. A lot.’ Okay? So don’t hang yourself anymore. Okay? It really, really bothers me. You hear what I’m—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, would you just leave!” she burst out. And she lashed her face away from him. It was the only way she could keep him from seeing her laugh again. Don’t hang yourself anymore. Christ, he was ridiculous. She heard his footsteps fading across the floor.

Then something occurred to her. Reluctantly, she looked back. He had just reached the door.

“Wait.”

He waited. Still with that ludicrous smirk.

“What happened?” she asked him. “At the auction. About The Magi. Peter said … What happened?”

“Don’t worry,” said Richard Storm. “Like I told your father. I got your girl out of it. They were at half a mil with no sign of stopping.”

“Half a … half a million pounds?”

“You got it, kid, and it would have gone on forever, too. So I called your lady off.”

Once more, Sophia’s mind began to cloud, to cloud and roll and throb. “Wait … You mean, my father … the gallery … we didn’t buy the painting?”

“That’s right. But hey, don’t bother to thank me again—I’m already leaving.”

“Yes, but who …?” she managed to say after a moment.

But he had already gone.

3

“The trouble with Americans is that they’re so grotesquely forthright about everything, it’s impossible to tell what they’re really after.”

It was her father, Sir Michael, at the window now, framed by the night-dark panes. Bristling and huge in his black suit. With his red silk handkerchief, red silk tie. Clasping his hands behind his back. Frowning a great frown on his great face.

Sophia, propped up on pillows, leaned over the swing-table pushed up before her. She moved a fork around the chunky white mess on her plate. Still thinking about Richard Storm.