But it wasn’t the Madonna at all. It was the painting Liam had done of her.

A sob rose in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and scrambled back. He’d been brutal in his depiction of her body. He’d shown every sag, every wrinkle, every bulge that should have been flat. The flesh of one thigh lapped the edge of the chair where she was seated; her breasts hung heavy.

And yet she was glorious. Her skin was luminous with a glow that seemed to come from deep inside, her curves strong and fluid, her face majestically beautiful. She was both herself and Everywoman, wise in her age.

This was Liam Jenner’s final love letter to her. An uncompromising statement of feelings that were clear-sighted and fearless. This was her soul exposed by the brilliant man she hadn’t been courageous enough to claim as her own. And now it might be too late.

She grabbed her keys, flew down the stairs, and ran outside to her car. One of the children had drawn an elaborate rabbit in the dust on the trunk. Then she realized that the drawing was too sophisticated. More of Molly and her mischief.

Too late, too late, too late … The tires hissed as she sped from the campground toward his glass house. While she’d been putting up barriers against a dead husband she hadn’t loved in years, he’d gone after what he wanted.

Too late, too late, too late … The car jolted over the ruts at the top of the lane, then steadied as the house came into view. It looked empty and deserted.

She jumped out, rushed to the door, and leaned on the bell. There was no answer. She banged it with her fists, then raced to the back. He’s going to Mexico …

The glass-enclosed studio rose above her, a tree house for a genius. She could see no signs of life inside, none in the rest of the house either.

Behind her the lake sparkled in the sunlight, and the sky floated blue and cloudless above, the perfect day mocking her. She spotted a door off to the side and rushed toward it, not expecting it to be open, but the heavy knob turned in her hand.

Everything was quiet inside. She moved through the back of the house into the kitchen, then made her way to the living room. From there she mounted the catwalk.

The arch at the end beckoned her toward his sacred space. She had no right to enter, but she did.

He was standing with his back to the door packing tubes of acrylics into a carrying case. Like the other time she’d been here, he was dressed in black—tailored slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. Dressed for traveling.

“Do you want something?” he growled without looking up.

“Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly.