Storm pulled up a moment. Another new experience: he’d never been in an auction house before. The façade of the place looked pretty daunting. A commissaire dressed like a U.S. Marine patrolled before rose marble entry columns. An obstacle course of reception desks was visible through the glass doors. Past that, there was a formidable pair of sphinxes preening on baize mats, guarding the grand staircase in the front hall. All in all, it seemed very formal and forbidding. Storm wished he’d worn a suit and tie instead of his black jeans and pearl-buttoned hoedown shirt.

But he went in. Tried to look comfortable, confident. Tiptoed clumsily over the Persian rugs spread out before the stairs. Passed between the sphinxes, started up the steps. Now, where had Sophia gotten to?

He reached the landing. He moved off into the viewing galleries. Now he was in a labyrinth of off-white partitions all hung with paintings. Fine paintings, it looked like, though he only caught glimpses of them. Waxy flesh. Golden halos. Feathery wings. Eyes turned heavenward in supplication. He could feel the ecclesiastical chill of old art as he moved down one brief corridor after another, rounded one corner after another.

He scanned the people, searching for the girl. There sure was a lot of money in the place, he could tell that right away. Husky, aggressive Americans with metallic eyes. Dark continentals, with big lips and big lapels. Silver-haired Englishmen in pinstripes that seemed to run down through the core of the earth. They all milled quietly around the maze, gliding slowly before the paintings, studying them with a faintly predatory air. Salespeople danced attendance on some of them—crisp young gentlemen or cardiganed sylphs—but no Sophia.

Storm stepped out into a central aisle and came to a stop with a rosy-toned crucifixion on the wall above him. He cursed silently, looking this way and that. He seemed to have lost her.

And then, there she was. All alone in the farthest corner. Motionless before a single painting there. Perfectly placed …

Storm moved up behind her, his hands dangling gawkily at his sides. She’d worn her hair up, and now he saw the downy nape of her neck. And saw that the track lights meant for the paintings brought out a streak of auburn in her black twist. And now he was right up close to her and caught the scent of her and it was like—he didn’t know what—like a garden. Heartbreaking. Forbidden. He wanted to turn before she saw him and get the hell out of there.

But now, as his eyes traveled over her, he noticed something else. The painting she was looking at, the lone painting on the off-white wall. His focus shifted, and he saw it clearly.

“Wow!” he whispered aloud.

Sophia whipped around, looked up at him. Let out a quick breath, surprised.

But Storm kept staring over her shoulder at the picture.