He rose from his chair, his eyes narrowed to a gunfighter squint. He felt good. He felt strong. He felt prepared for his meeting with Sophia. His meditation had been a success, and he dwelt now within the truth he had been seeking:

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

8

Oh, but then she was so beautiful. The moment he saw her again in the scrumptious flesh, he felt all his resolutions weakening. This was the very next afternoon. He’d been hanging around outside the Endering Gallery for more than an hour. Pretending to study the shirts in a recessed storefront across the street. He didn’t know what store it was; he didn’t care which shirts. He was just trying and trying to figure out the best way to approach her.

The logistical problems seemed insurmountable. Should he be direct with her? Casual? Sneaky? With her glance that turned men to sand and her heart packed away under pressure, it sure sounded like she had an impressive arsenal against unwanted intrusions. He didn’t want to make a mistake.

It was already four o’clock. The winter daylight was already failing. The weather was chill and gray, and Storm was cold, his hands clenched in the pockets of his trench coat, holding it closed. And still, he couldn’t make his move.

Then he saw her—her reflection first, in the darkened storefront. Then he turned and saw her in the life, charging through the gallery doors into the deepening indigo of the afternoon. A thrillingly competent stride she had. Swift, unaffected, self-possessed. Marching without hesitation under the bright banners and bay windows of New Bond Street. Despite the cloudy sky, despite the moist wind, she wore only a light cardigan over a blouse unbuttoned at the throat. Her legs were sleek in nylon below the knee and covered with a pleated skirt above that Storm found girlish and adorable. He watched her, thinking, Oh, oh, oh. He had forgotten, until that moment, just how crazy he was about her.

He waited until she’d passed, then broke from his cover and followed. Moving quickly to keep up. Dodging between pairs of sharp-suited shoppers. Squeezing past elephantine American tourists. Struggling all the while to belt his flapping trench coat against the steady breeze. He had never tailed anyone before. It turned out to be kind of a strain on the nerves. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his own image racing over jewelery store windows and he suddenly wondered: What the hell was he doing? What if she saw him, recognized him? What the hell would he say?

Fortunately, the whole thing didn’t last that long. The green and gold flag of Sotheby’s was just ahead. Sophia was already under it. And then, without breaking step, she had straight-armed the door and disappeared inside.