In Love with the Boss

From pennies to pearls, the Rush sisters are swept off their feet by their handsome bosses!

Sisters Patience and Piper Rush might not have had much growing up but they always had each other, through good times and bad. Now, oceans apart, can they find comfort, safety and acceptance in the arms of their drop-dead-gorgeous bosses?

In June 2015 …

Patience finds herself falling for the

man of her dreams in

A Millionaire for Cinderella

And

In September 2015.

Piper’s heart is captured by her brooding

Parisian boss in

Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss Only in Mills & Boon® Cherish™!

Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

Barbara Wallace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon® Cherish™ is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home, as well.

To stay up-to-date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at www.barbarawallace.com.

To Pete—Your patience and support are a gift for which I can never say thank you enough.

And to M.G.—for giving someone that dose of common sense when we most needed it.

Contents

Cover

In Love with the Boss

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THERE SHOULD BE a law against a man looking so good in a tuxedo. Staring at the man asleep in the chair, Piper felt an appreciative shiver. Monsieur Frederic Lafontaine had shed his jacket and untied his tie, yet he still looked like a million dollars, what with the way his shirt pulled taut across his linebacker-sized shoulders. She had to start using his dry cleaner. The guy must have been sprawled here for hours, and yet his clothes didn’t have a single wrinkle. Piper’s uniform wouldn’t last five minutes. In fact—she ran a hand down the front of her black skirt—it hadn’t.

Then again, she didn’t have cheekbones that could cut glass or thick brown hair that begged to be touched, either. Maybe perfection came in bundles.

Taking a deep breath, she touched his shoulder and tried not to think about the broad muscles beneath her fingers. Eight months of working for the man, and she still hadn’t shaken her attraction. “Monsieur? You need to wake up. It’s after seven o’clock.”

When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder again, this time a little more aggressively. The motion did the trick. Slowly, his eyes opened, and he blinked unseeingly. “You fell asleep in the chair,” she told him.

“Oh.” His voice was thick with sleep, making it deeper and rougher than usual. “What—what time is it?”

“Seven fifteen.”

“What?” He bolted to his feet, arms akimbo, his right hand connecting with the cup of coffee Piper set on the end table only seconds before. The cup took flight, sending coffee over everything.

“Dammit!” he hollered as the hot liquid splashed his shirt. He immediately started pulling at the cloth, lifting it from his skin. “How many times have I told you, you must tell me when you put something within reach? You know I can’t see anything put to the side.”

It was hard to say much of anything seeing as how he jumped up before she had a chance to open her mouth. “I’ll get you a towel.”

“Don’t bother.” He’d already yanked the shirt free from his waistband. “Clean up the rest of the spill before it stains the carpet. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to head upstairs.

“Wait,” Piper called.

Moving this time before he could speak, she scooped up the cup from where it had fallen on the carpet, half an inch from the toe of his shoe. “You were going to crush it,” she said, holding the china teacup in front of his face.

If he appreciated her heads-up behavior, he didn’t say so. “Tell Michel when he arrives that I will be ready shortly. And make sure my briefcase is by the front door. On the left,” he added with emphasis.

As if she would leave it somewhere else. Piper bit back the sarcastic response. She learned a long time ago that some fights weren’t meant to be won. Arguing with a man who was wearing hot coffee on his stomach was definitely one of those fights. Instead, she waited until he’d stalked his way upstairs, then treated herself to a glare in his direction. It would serve him right if she moved his bag to the right just to spite him. Because goodness knows the world might end if the briefcase was on the wrong side of the doorway.

Not that she would actually move the thing. Put out or not, she wasn’t so petty that she’d pick on a blind man—or half-blind man as the case may be. Truth was, nitpicky as they were, monsieur’s “rules” served a purpose. When she took this job, it was made very clear his limited field of vision required everything in the house to be just so. Chief on the list was that nothing should be set to the side without his knowledge. His lack of peripheral vision might cause a mishap, he’d explained. Most of the time, the system worked. There were times in fact, such as when he crossed the room with his slow, purposeful strides, that Piper forgot the man had trouble seeing.

After double-checking on the briefcase—which was on the left as always—she headed for the utility closet. “So goes another fun-filled day in Paris,” she said as she marched into the kitchen for her cleaning supplies. Naturally, the coffee had fallen on the handmade Persian carpet. That meant instead of using the nice handy carpet-cleaning machine in the closet, she had to get the stain up with water and a vinegar paste.

This was not how she expected her year abroad to go. Her year here was supposed to signal the start of a new and exciting life. The wonderful moment when she stopped being dumpy Piper Rush and became Piper Rush, chef extraordinaire who dazzled the culinary institute with her skills and enthralled French men with her American wit. In short, the complete opposite of her life in East Boston.

She should have known better.

Didn’t take long for her to realize that Paris was exactly the same as Boston, only in French. Which actually made it worse than Boston. Despite spending hours shoulder to shoulder with a dozen other people, she hadn’t made a single close friend. Everyone was too busy trying to impress Chef Despelteau. In a way, you’d think the fact that she couldn’t impress the man if she tried would help her cause, but no. Yesterday, after she didn’t use enough confit to brown her chicken, he declared her cassoulet flavorless and spent ten minutes lecturing her on the importance of taste, even when making “peasant food.” All her classmates did was snicker. City of Lights, her foot. More like the City of the Unfriendly.

Even Frederic barely paid attention to her, unless there was an errand to run, or she needed to wake him up. He was too busy lecturing at the university or heading off to some fancy social event.

The perpetual loneliness she fought to keep under wraps threatened to wedge free. She had to swallow to keep it from rising up and choking her. God, what she wouldn’t give for someone to talk to. Or to go home.

Out of habit, her hand reached for the cell phone tucked in her apron only to leave it behind. It was still the middle of the night in Boston. Her sister, Patience, would still be asleep. Patience—the only reason she was sticking things out to completion. Her sister was convinced Piper was living the dream, and considering how much Patience had sacrificed so Piper could actually have a dream, she didn’t dare disturb the fantasy. Besides, her sister had issues of her own. She and her boss’s nephew were doing some kind of back-and-forth that had Patience on edge. The last thing she needed right now was a whiny baby sister burning up the data package complaining because her year abroad wasn’t all sunshine and roses.

She carried her supplies into the salon, pausing when she reached the front window. A few blocks away, the Eiffel Tower loomed tall, reminding her she really had no right complaining. She might be lonely, but she was a lonely person living in luxury. Instead of monsieur’s mansion, she could be living in some ratty apartment battling roaches for breakfast. Or worse, living on the streets. Been there, done both. She didn’t feel like doing either again.

If only she had someone to share Paris with, then things wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t going to happen, though. If she hadn’t found a kindred spirit yet, she wasn’t going to. She was simply going to have to suck things up, the way she always did.

Speaking of sucking, she had a carpet to clean. Staring at the stain darkening the beige carpet, she sighed. This better not be a sign of how the rest of her day was going to go.

* * *

Frederic winced as he peeled the wet shirt from his body. Not because the liquid stung his skin, although it did, but because he was appalled at his behavior. Yelling at his housekeeper that way. Like a child throwing a tantrum. Didn’t he swear he would never be that way? Become one of those angry invalids who took their bad moods out on others? Yet the first time he spills a drink, he lashes out. Embarrassment was no excuse.

What did he expect, falling asleep in the salon like that? It was the last glass of Bordeaux. Knowing the way alcohol went to his head and made him overly pensive, he never should have indulged. Last night found him sitting for hours, watching the tower’s twinkling lights, his mind a sea of morose thoughts.

The dampness from his shirt found its way to his palms. Resisting the urge to hurl the garment across the room, he draped it on top of the duvet for Piper to find later. He stripped off the rest of his tuxedo as well, making sure he returned the suit and his shoes to their assigned places in the closet. Oh, but for those days when undressing meant toeing off your shoes wherever you stood and tossing your clothes in a heap.

Obviously, last night’s moroseness hadn’t subsided. Why else would he be bemoaning a past that he couldn’t get back? After all, he’d come to terms with his failing eyesight long before it started to steal his peripheral vision. From the moment the doctors first told him his retina was degenerating, in fact. He knew full well that one day the tunnel through which he viewed the world would close completely, leaving him blind. He’d accepted his fate and framed his life in anticipation. And when the time came, he would shoulder the burden alone, the way a person should. He wouldn’t drag others down with him. A promise that, until this morning, he’d done a very good job of keeping.

He owed his housekeeper a very large apology.

When the employment agency first recommended the American culinary student, he thought the idea ridiculous. A temporary resident? She’d be too distracted by studies and sightseeing. But as it turned out, Piper was nothing short of exemplary. Today aside, she did her job quietly and unobtrusively. In fact, the two of them could go days without crossing paths. Precisely the kind of help Frederic preferred.

Today’s mistake with the coffee was as much his fault as hers. She no doubt set down the cup to wake him, not expecting him to stand up so quickly.

He would definitely apologize.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time right now. Leaning in close, he read the time on his nightstand clock. With luck, he could shower and make his first class in plenty of time. Whether or not his morning began poorly didn’t matter to his superiors at the university. They expected him to deliver his lectures on time, regardless. This evening, then. Before the symphony. He would find Piper and explain that he overreacted. Then they would both forget this morning ever happened.

* * *

Staining the carpet turned out to be the high point of the day.

First, cleaning the rug took longer than planned. In addition to the major stain, there were a dozen or so tiny spots that needed blotting. It took her forever to find them all, so by the time Piper finished, she was running late. Chef Despelteau was less than thrilled to see her slip through the door five minutes into his lecture.

Now this.

“Uninspired,” Chef Despelteau pronounced. “Your spices, they do not dance, they plod. I expect my students to produce magic in the kitchen, not...” He dropped his fork back onto the plate with an expression that was usually reserved for walking around landfills. Shaking his head, he moved on, his silence letting everyone know Piper wasn’t worth more of his time.

“...so pathetic. Why is she even here?”

The whispered comment drifted from the stovetop across the aisle. Apparently whoever said it didn’t care if anyone heard him. Why should he, when the whole class was thinking the same thing?

Keeping her shoulders square, Piper stared straight ahead and pretended she didn’t hear a thing. That was the number one rule. Never let them think they were getting to you. Never lose control. Never let them see you cry. Crying only gave the bullies power. Let them whisper behind her back all they wanted; she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing so much as a twitch.

She succeeded, too. All through Chef Despelteau’s final remarks, through the Métro ride home, and even into the house. She managed to last until she saw the living room carpet and the faint brown ring reminding her she’d failed that task, too. Letting out the coarsest obscenity she knew, she broke down.

Screw cooking school. Tossing her bag in the chair, she stomped into the kitchen. Screw monsieur, too. Him and his impossible-to-clean carpeting. Screw Paris with its beautiful buildings and sidewalk cafés and shops she couldn’t afford. She hated them all.

Carbs. She needed carbs. Yanking open the refrigerator door, she grabbed a wedge of cheddar cheese and an onion. Creamy, gooey macaroni and cheese, that’s what this pity party needed. How’s that for peasant food, Chef Despelteau?

Now if she would only stop crying. Sniffing back a fresh batch of tears, she grabbed the cheese grater and took to demolishing the cheddar to a shredded pulp.

“There you—”

“What now?” she snarled. What else could she add to her list of mistakes today?

Frederic blinked in shock. Great. Yelling at her boss. That’s what she could add. Because, of course.

Horrified, she turned back to the cheese. “I mean, about this mor—morn...” The tears were back. She scrunched her face trying to stop them.

A paper towel floated in front of her face.

“Is everything all right?”

Why’d he have to sound nice, too? It made things worse. “Fine.” Taking the paper towel, she wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.

“You don’t look fine.”

“The cheese is making my eyes water.”

“I see. It must be quite pungent.”

Piper ignored the comment, choosing to wipe her nose again instead. “Did you need something, monsieur?”

A tentative smile worked its way across his features. Afraid to set her off again, probably. “I wanted to apologize for losing my temper this morning. The coffee, it was not your fault.”

No, it wasn’t, she wanted to say. She didn’t. Since he apologized, the least she could do was be gracious in return. “I should have known better than to put a cup where you couldn’t see it.”

“And I should know better than to behave like a brat,” he countered, one-upping her. “It’s rude to blame others for my shortcomings.”

Piper wasn’t sure she’d call partial blindness a shortcoming, but she accepted the apology anyway. If she didn’t, the two of them might spend all night exchanging regrets. “Thank you,” she said with a sniff. The man would never know that his “I’m sorry” had just beat out the coffee stain as the day’s bright spot.

“Do you need another paper towel? I would offer you something nicer, but I’m not a handkerchief person. A napkin perhaps?”

That made her smile, picturing him retrieving a napkin from the linen closet. “Thanks, but I’m okay now.” There remained a slight pressure behind her eyes trying to push out tears, but she could keep that under control. A quick splash of water and she’d be fine.

“Are—” She took one last swipe at her nose. “Are you in for the evening?” As if she didn’t already know the answer. Frederic was seldom “in.” His evenings were one big social engagement. How one person could squeeze so much activity into a week, she didn’t know.

Just as she expected, Frederic shook his head. “I have tickets for the symphony. I came home to change my shirt is all.”

Meaning he would be home late, as usual. “I’ll make sure to leave the foyer light on before I turn in.”

“Thank you.” He turned to leave only to pause. “Why don’t you take the evening off as well? Some time with friends might make you feel better.”

Sure it would, if she had friends to go out with. “I...” Thankfully, the beep of an incoming message on her cell phone saved her from having to make up some embarrassing lie.

“Sounds like your friends have the same idea,” Frederic said.

She reached into her pocket, smiling when she read the message on her screen. “It’s my sister,” she told him. Why she felt she needed to tell him that, she didn’t know.

“You have a sister.”

A question as much as a statement. Surely he knew. Then again, he might not. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had.

“She works as a housekeeper back in Boston.”

“Ah, so cleaning is a family business.”

“More like a family situation we both fell into.” From his expression, she could tell he didn’t get the joke. No surprise. It wasn’t very clear, or funny. “She wants to video chat.”

“Sounds like you’ve got something to look forward to.”

“Yeah.” Piper smiled. Talking to Patience would definitely make her feel better.

“I’m glad.” And for the first time she could remember, he gave her a warm, genuine smile. “I’ll leave you alone so you can talk. Good night.”

“Good night.” To her horror, she almost said “Don’t go” instead. Her loneliness was out of control if a smile could make her slip up like that.

Piper waited until she heard the front door shut before going to get her computer. Her apartment sat at the back of the house. Technically, it was more like a suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and sitting room—but they were still nicer than anything she could afford on her own. They also came with kitchen privileges and monsieur’s kitchen was a dream come true even for an uninspired cook like her.

It was into the kitchen that Piper carried her laptop. Patience specifically said video chat, which meant she was planning on a nice long conversation. By putting the laptop on the counter, Piper could cook while they talked. It would be almost like home.

Almost.

A few keystrokes later, Patience Rush’s face appeared on screen. Took the older woman about two seconds to frown. “Your eyes are all red and puffy,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

Wow, was that the question of the night or what? Maybe she should have looked in a mirror to see how awful she actually looked. “I was chopping onions,” Piper replied. At least it was more believable than blaming the cheese.

Too bad her sister didn’t let the lie slide as easily as her boss had. “Onions, huh? You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Patience arched a brow. Her form of mother guilt. It worked every time.

“Okay,” Piper admitted, “maybe I was thinking about home a little bit too.”

“Oh, sweetie, I miss you, too. But hey, a couple more months and you’ll be back in Boston bragging to everyone you know how you’re a fancy French chef. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

“I do,” Piper replied, the familiar knot starting to twist in her stomach. She got the heavy unsettled feeling every time Patience started gushing about her great Paris adventure.

“So what is it that has you video chatting me in the middle of your day?” she asked, changing the topic. Her sister seemed especially bubbly today. A big difference from the last few phone calls. Her image on the screen glowed and not from computer glare either.

“What? A girl can’t miss her baby sister?”

“A girl can definitely miss her baby sister.” Same way the baby sister could miss her. Piper blinked back some fresh tears. “But usually you text. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Never too much for you.”

“Awww.” Sweet as the sentiment was, Piper wasn’t buying. Not with the way her sister’s eyes were sparkling. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“I knew you wanted something.” Although what kind of favor could Piper do from halfway around the world? Send someone a souvenir? “What do you need?”

“I need you to pay a visit to someone there in Paris.”

“Who?”

Piper listened as her sister explained. The favor was for Piper to visit the sister of a dead artist named Nigel Rougeau.

“Hey, isn’t your boss’s cat named Nigel?” she interrupted. Patience was always telling stories about the big Maine coon cat.

“The cat’s a namesake,” Patience replied. “Nigel was Ana’s lover in the seventies.” Ana being the little old lady Patience worked for.

Her sister went on to explain a very tragic story involving Ana and the painter. “There’s a small chance that one of the paintings Ana posed for still exists,” she said.

“And you want me to talk with Nigel’s sister and find out for you.”

“If anyone knows if one of Nigel’s paintings survived, it would be someone in his family.”

True enough. Especially if Nigel and his sister were as close as she and Patience were.

“I think she’d find talking to you a lot less intimidating than a private detective.”

“I am definitely unintimidating,” Piper replied. More often than not, she was the one intimidated.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Of course.” A couple hours of her time was nothing. In fact, it would break up the monotony. “I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she’ll meet with me. Maybe you’ll luck out and there’ll be a big old painting of Ana hanging in her house.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Patience said with a laugh. “Stuart and I will be glad for any information you can find out.”

“Stuart, huh?” That was a new development. Until recently, Patience’s descriptions of Stuart Duchenko leaned more toward the suspicious jerk variety. Putting down her knife, she leaned close to the screen. “How are things going with the two of you? Is he still cool with, you know, the club?”

“Seems to be,” Patience replied.

“See? I told you he’d understand. It’s not like you went to work in that place because you liked dancing naked on tables.” It was the same reasoning Piper used on herself whenever the teasing at school got to be too much to bear. Of course, she never told Patience about what the kids used to say. Her sister was embarrassed enough.

Case in point, the wince crossing Patience’s face right now. “Of course I didn’t, and you were right. Stuart says he understands.”

“Wait—what do you mean ‘says he understands’? Don’t you believe him?” There was a note of reluctance in the comment Piper didn’t like.

“No, I believe him. Stuart’s been great.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Patience shook her head.

Nothing came with a very dreamy sigh. No way was Piper letting the reaction go by unnoticed. “Patience? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Um...”

Son of a gun, her sister was red as a tomato. There was only one thing that would make her blush that deeply. “Oh my God! Is something going on between you and your boss?”

“He’s not my boss,” Patience said quickly. “He’s my boss’s nephew.”

She was splitting hairs and they both knew it, which was why Piper asked, “What exactly is the difference?”

“About the same as between you dating your boss and you dating his next-door neighbor.”

“Pul—leeze.” Like that was a good example. “The only neighbor I’ve met is an eleven-year-old boy, and my boss doesn’t even...”

“Doesn’t even what?”

Notice I’m here. That’s what Piper was going to say, anyway. Only he had noticed tonight. Absently, she ran a knuckle down her cheek as she remembered his kind gesture.

“Piper?”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking off the memory. “I lost track of what I was about to say. And you still haven’t answered my question. Are you dating Stuart Duchenko?”

There was a definite darkening to her sister’s blush. “For now, yes.”

A different kind of heaviness took up space in Piper’s stomach. The same uncomfortable feeling she used to get as a kid when waiting to be picked for dodgeball. She was always left for last.

Ignoring the sensation, she pushed her lips into a smile. “No way! That’s great! I’m so happy for you.” She was, childish reaction aside. She had no reason to feel anything but happy, really. It was just her pity party making its reappearance.

“Don’t go making a big deal,” her sister was saying. “The two of us are having fun together, that’s all. It’s nothing serious.”

The sparkle in Patience’s eyes said otherwise, but Piper kept the thought to herself. Patience would admit the truth soon enough.

The two of them talked and joked while Piper worked and for a little while, her loneliness receded.

“Why aren’t you making some fancy French dish?” Patience asked as she was putting the casserole in the oven.

“Because I felt like macaroni and cheese. Would you feel better if I called it macaroni au fromage?”

“A little.” From her chair on the other side of the world, her sister frowned again. “Are you sure you’re all right? You mentioned your boss earlier. Is he still treating you okay?”

Once again, a paper towel and a smile flashed before Piper’s eyes. “He’s treating me fine.”

“That sounded weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you said ‘fine’ with a long sigh.”

Piper rolled her eyes. As if her sigh could be any longer or dreamier-sounding than the ones her sister made. “How should I say it? He treats me fine. We hardly see each other.” Today’s encounters notwithstanding. “Not everyone socializes with their boss, you know. I meant Ana,” she added quickly before Patience got the wrong idea.

“So long as he isn’t giving you a hard time.”

“I swear, he isn’t.”

They talked a little longer, mostly about silly stuff. Patience told a few stories about Nigel the cat and about how things were going with Stuart. Piper lied about how well school was going. By the time they said goodbye, she’d cooked and eaten her casserole. She would have said that the night was exactly what she needed, except that as soon as she turned off the computer, her melancholy returned stronger than ever.

“It’s Hollywood’s fault,” she said to the Eiffel Tower a little while later. “All those movies making Paris look so wonderful. Leading a woman to hope life might be more magical under French skies.”

There was a smudge on the glass. Breathing some fog on the pane, she wiped at it with her sleeve. Patience would be horrified by her casualness. Her sister took cleaning very seriously.

Maybe if she tried a little harder. Gave more effort in class, learned to appreciate her surroundings more. Maybe then she could work up the enthusiasm she was supposed to feel for this adventure. Right now, she only felt tired. The carbohydrates were kicking in. Merging with her sad mood and killing what was left of her cleaning ambitions.

Discarding her plans to dig out the cleaning supplies, she sank into a nearby chair. The same one she found Frederic sleeping in this morning, she realized. Outside, the tower twinkled mockingly. Leaning her head back, she watched the lights dance. They were beautiful, weren’t they?

“Easy chair to fall asleep in, no?”

The voice close to her ear was deep and rough. Piper jumped to her feet. Grabbing the first thing she could find, she whirled around ready to attack.

Frederic raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t...” Considering she was wielding a pillow as a weapon, she gave up the argument. “I wasn’t expecting you home so early, is all.” It was early, right? Please say it was early.

“My date wasn’t feeling well, so we left the concert at intermission.” His eyes narrowed, as if zooming in on her. Too late, Piper realized she still wore her chef’s jacket instead of her uniform. “You were working hard?”

“No. I mean, I planned to but I...”

“I am joking.”

“Oh.” Thank goodness the lights were dim and he couldn’t see how red her cheeks were.

“If I recall, I suggested you take the night off to relax. I’m glad you did.” He crossed to the window. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood looking out at the tower.

One of the things Piper had noticed while working for Frederic was the way he concentrated so intently on whatever he was doing. Walking. Looking out the window. Some of the focus she attributed to his bad eyes, but lousy vision didn’t explain the power behind his movements. He moved with such deliberation. As though nothing could deter him from the action at hand. The guy could give Chef Despelteau a run for his money when it came to laser glares, that’s for sure. She could only imagine what it was like to be one of his students.

Or one of his dates, for that matter.

All of a sudden she realized those slate-colored eyes were looking at her. He’d said something, and she missed it. Again, she thanked the dim lighting for protecting her from bigger embarrassment. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were enjoying your year in Paris so far.”

You mean her crying jag earlier didn’t give him a clue? “It’s a beautiful city.”

“That it is. Have you done much sightseeing?”

“A little.” When she first arrived and was still in her starry-eyed phase. After a couple weeks, however, solo sightseeing lost its luster. “Between class and work, I haven’t had much time.”

“That is too bad. You should make sure you see as much as possible. You never know when you’ll have another chance.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” For some reason, Piper felt as though he was talking about more than sightseeing. Or maybe fatigue was making her read too deeply between the lines. For all she knew, this was his normal way of making conversation. He approached everything else with intensity; why wouldn’t he approach talking the same way?

Regardless of the reason, the exchange left a hum in the air that made her antsy. Piper couldn’t help thinking how crisp and elegant he looked in his summer suit. Meanwhile, she was growing more aware of her wrinkled jacket by the second. Not to mention the smell of onion and cheddar cheese clinging to her fingers.

Suddenly, she needed some space. Setting down her pillow, she announced, “I’m going to finish cleaning the kitchen.” The kitchen was spotless, but she needed some kind of excuse. Then, whether because of the thickened atmosphere or something else, she added, “I’m really sorry, too, about my meltdown earlier.”

“Already forgotten, Piper. I hope whatever caused your distress is gone by tomorrow.”

“I hope so, too.” Not very likely, but a girl could hope. She went to say good-night, but Frederic had already turned his back to the room, his attention once again on the scene outside his window.

Must have been a trick of the shadows. Standing there with his hands behind his back, he suddenly looked alone and far away. Maybe I’m not the only lonely person in Paris. The thought was in her head before Piper could stop it.

Frederic Lafontaine, lonely. Sure. Now she knew she was tired.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING, Piper called Marie Rougeau-Montpelier and introduced herself. To her surprise, the elderly woman said she would be thrilled to meet with her, especially once Piper mentioned her brother’s artwork. She invited Piper to visit after lunch. The appointment meant skipping a day of class, but Piper didn’t really mind. A day off, in fact, might do her some good. Help her get her head back into the game.

Marie’s address, which turned out to be a luxury tower near La Défense, the business district just outside the city, was easier to find than she expected. Not wanting to ring the woman’s bell before she was expected, Piper found herself wandering around La Grande Arche, the city’s twentieth-century version of the Arc de Triomphe. It was the perfect summer’s day. Not too hot, not too cold. Being lunchtime, the square was filled with people. Business executives sat on nearby steps soaking up the sun while tourists and others lounged on the grass in the nearby park. Piper strolled the perimeter and watched as they laughed and chatted with each other. Was this what Frederic meant when he told her to see as much of the city as possible?

Thinking of her boss made her insides sag. He was nowhere to be found when she woke up this morning. That didn’t surprise her, he was nowhere to be found most of the time, but Piper sort of hoped that after last night, the routine might have changed. She still couldn’t shake the image of him staring out his salon window. Looking so solitary and distant. So alone.

There’s a word for what you’re doing, you know. Projecting or connecting, something like that. Whatever the word, she needed to stop. Just because she was in another sad mood didn’t mean her boss was too.

Her feet hurt, protesting having to wear sandals after months of wearing sturdy shoes. She looked around for a café where she could give them a break. There was one on the corner with a maroon-and-white awning that wasn’t overly crowded. Helping herself to one of the empty rattan chairs that lined the sidewalk, she had just pulled out her cell phone when she heard a familiar-sounding voice ordering an espresso.

No way. She looked to her left. Even with aviator sunglasses covering his face, she recognized Frederic’s profile instantly.

He was alone. At least the chair across from him was empty, and judging from the way his long legs were stretched out to claim the table’s real estate, he wasn’t expecting a guest to arrive anytime soon. Piper’s eyes traveled their length, from his wingtips to the muscular thighs that disappeared beneath the tablecloth. In contrast to last night, today he looked the picture of ease.

Must be nice to feel so confident instead of having to fake it all the time. And to be that good-looking. Patience was always saying that being beautiful wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Piper wouldn’t know. She was never someone people thought of as beautiful. When the guys in high school made fun of Patience’s job, they did so with a glaze of lust in their eyes. No one’s eyes ever glazed for Piper.

Just then, as though sensing her stare, Frederic turned in her direction. Piper started to shrink back into the shadows, then caught herself and waved instead. He didn’t wave back.

She was about to take offense when she realized she wasn’t in his field of vision. Smoothing her skirt, she walked toward his table.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” she greeted with a smile.

* * *

The sound of an American accent jarred Frederic from his thoughts. He knew of only one person who spoke French with an accent like that. Blinking out of his fog, he found a whirl of yellow and red in his line of sight. Lifting his eyes, he saw a familiar brunette head. “Piper? Where did you come from?”

“Two tables over. I waved, but you weren’t paying attention.”

She was being polite. They both knew he didn’t wave because she wasn’t sitting in his field of view.

“Lost in thought,” he replied, continuing the pretense.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” Piper’s question brought him back.

“Not at all. I’m killing time after an appointment is all.” Yet another pointless meeting with his ophthalmologist. He went every few months simply to hear that his eyes were still diseased.

“And you?”

“Killing time before an appointment, actually.”

Sitting back in his chair, Frederic found himself wishing he’d been paying attention when she approached. Whenever he saw Piper at the apartment, she wore either her chef’s jacket or that awful maid uniform that was the antithesis of every French maid fantasy ever written. This sundress, however... The bright colors definitely suited her better. Plus, there was an expanse of flesh around her shoulders he didn’t normally get to enjoy.

“Are you meeting a classmate?” he asked. A date would certainly explain the dress. Why he was suddenly intrigued by her social life, Frederic wasn’t sure, except that the memory of her crying by the kitchen counter refused to leave him. He found it odd, an attractive American—and she was attractive as that expanse of skin attested—spending her evenings in Paris alone.

“I’m supposed to meet with someone at the Rose d’Arms,” she said. “It’s a retirement home a block or so from here.”

“Looking for a surrogate grandmother?”

“Hardly,” she said with a laugh. A very pleasant-sounding laugh, too. Like bells. “I’m doing a favor for my sister.”

“At a retirement home?”

“It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with the details. I really just stopped by to say hello. I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were...”

“Please. Stay. We can kill time together.”

“Are you sure?”

There was hesitancy in her voice. Frederic couldn’t blame her. Eight months of hardly talking, and now here they were on their third conversation in two days. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure,” he told her. “There is no reason for the two of us to sit at separate tables when we are both by ourselves. Besides, you have me intrigued.”

The café had arranged the tables as so many cafés in the city did, with the seats side by side so that patrons could enjoy the view. As Piper slipped into the seat beside his, Frederic was struck by an aroma of vanilla and spices that made his mouth water. “Did you bake today?” he asked.

“No. I skipped class. Why?”

“No reason.” Who knew a person could smell delicious? “Tell me this long story of yours.”

Piper took a deep breath. “Apparently, Ana, my sister’s boss, lived with an artist here in Paris in the seventies and posed for a bunch of paintings. Her great-nephew, Stuart, is hoping to surprise her with one as a gift, so Patience asked me if I would talk to the artist’s sister to see if any of his paintings survived.”

“Doesn’t your sister realize there are easier ways to track down an artist’s work? If he is well-known...”

“This is where it gets complicated.”

She paused while the waitress brought his espresso and she placed her order.

“Complicated how?”

“The artist died in an accident a long time ago. According to Ana, he would have been huge—like Picasso huge—but then Theodore Duchenko went and bought up...”

“Wait...” Frederic needed to go back a step. “Did you say Theodore Duchenko?”

Piper nodded. “That’s right. Patience works for his sister, Ana Duchenko.”

Unbelievable. Duchenko Silver was world renowned. Frederic knew curators who gushed over adding a piece of the famed Russian silver to their collections. As for the late Theodore Duchenko, the man had been considered one of the most ruthless tycoons of the twentieth century. “You’re saying that you’re trying to track down a portrait of Ana Duchenko.”

“Not just a portrait. A nude,” Piper replied. “Nigel painted a bunch, and they were supposedly pretty racy, which is why...”

“Duchenko wanted them destroyed,” he finished for her. “This is astounding. The Duchenko name, it is...well, let us say that if a portrait still exists, the significance in terms of pop culture alone would be immeasurable.”

“I don’t think Stuart cares if the painting has any kind of value—he just wants to give his aunt back a piece of her history. The way my sister tells it, Ana truly loved the man.”

The waitress returned with her café au lait. “It’s all very tragic, really,” Piper said, taking a sip.

Tragic but exciting. Frederic found his curiosity piqued in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not since his university days. “There is nothing like the thrill of discovering a new artist,” he told her. “The euphoria, it hits you like a...” The sexual metaphor was too crude to share with a woman. He settled for saying “There are few pleasures like it. I envy you.”

“The whole thing is probably a long shot.”

“Perhaps,” he said, reaching for his drink. It quite probably was, in fact. “But long shot or not, the chase is always exciting.”

“Want to come with me?”

Frederic set his cup down with a clink so he could focus his gaze on her. “Pardon?”

“You just said you envied my going on the hunt. Besides, I don’t know anything about art. What if there’s a giant painting of Ana hanging on this woman’s wall? How will I know if it’s worth Stuart’s money?”

And she thought he was the best person to evaluate? “You just said the painting wasn’t about value.”

“It isn’t.” There was silence as she shifted in her chair. When she spoke again, Frederic heard a change in her voice. It became lower, with less spark. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion.”

“No, I’d love to join you.” Unsettled by the sadness he thought he heard in her voice, he spoke without thinking.

The smile worked its way back into her voice. “Awesome! I’ll finish my coffee and we’ll go.”

A visit to a retirement home, Frederic said to himself as he sipped his espresso. To meet with an old woman. No harm in that.

Why, then, did he feel as if he was getting involved in something more?

* * *

There wasn’t, of course, an undiscovered painting hanging in Marie’s apartment. Only a very tall, pinched-looking woman wearing a velvet tracksuit. She greeted the two of them with a wide smile. “A professor. How exciting,” she gushed, squeezing his hand. “Please come in.”

“I knew you’d be a hit,” Piper murmured as she stepped inside.

Frederic grinned in response. His insides were feeling the thrill of the hunt.

While he still wasn’t entirely sure why Piper had asked him to come along, he’d decided to embrace the opportunity. Who knew when another chance would cross his path? Or, for that matter, come with such an attractive package. Piper was far enough into the room that he could finally see her figure. She had curves a sculpture would love. Soft and supple. The kind meant to be traced by a person’s hands.

That’s it. He was getting rid of the maid’s uniform.

“What period do you study, Professor?” Marie was asking. The older woman was already limping across the sitting room en route to the bookcase.

“Medieval. Pre-Romanesque mostly.”

“Nigel would have called you stuck in the past, but then he prided himself on being antiestablishment. We all did back then. Please, have a seat.”

She gestured to a sofa barely large enough to deserve the label. Feeling overly large, he perched on the edge of the seat and wondered how a woman Marie’s height could ever sit comfortably. The cushion dipped and Piper sat beside him. Vanilla and spice teased his nostrils again. It was like walking into the most pleasant bakery on earth every time the woman sat down.

“He had such promise, my brother. My mother used to brag he knew how to paint before he could walk. An exaggeration, I’m sure. Come to think of it, though, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t drawing or painting or something.”

Reaching up, she pulled out what looked like a large plastic binder and opened it up. “This is him here,” she said. “Five years old and he’d already won his first competition.”

She set the album on Frederic’s lap. The old photo was too small and blurry for him to focus much on, but he leaned forward and pretended all the same. Piper leaned in as well, her left knee knocking against his as she shifted angles. Frederic sucked in his breath at the awareness shooting up his thigh. Even with two layers of material, he felt every bump and bone pressed against him.

“Impressive,” he murmured. Although he wasn’t sure if he meant Nigel’s childhood art or Piper’s knee.

“He could have done so much,” Marie said. “We all told him to stop riding that motorbike, but he was stubborn.” A crack worked its way into the end of her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a fist to her lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about Nigel at all.”

“We’re sorry if we’re bringing up bad memories,” Piper remarked.

“That’s all right. They aren’t all bad. In some ways, I think Nigel wanted to die young. He once told me that art only reached the masses once you were gone.”

“I could name a few living painters who might disagree,” Frederic replied.

Her resulting smile was watery, but strong. “I never said his theory made sense. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway, because his work never reached anyone.”

Because Theodore Duchenko ordered it destroyed.

“That is why we’re here,” Piper said. “My sister works for Ana Duchenko.”

Every ounce of humor disappeared from Marie’s face. “That family destroyed my brother,” she said, stiffening. “I was only a child, but I remember how my parents cursed Theodore Duchenko and the rest of them.”

To her credit, Piper didn’t stiffen in return. He always thought how a person reacted when challenged said a lot about them. His housekeeper, it appeared, knew how to stand tall. “From what I hear, Theodore Duchenko deserved cursing,” she said. “What he did was awful.”

“It was an outrage. Ruining my brother’s life, decimating his art all because he was afraid his family would be embarrassed.” The rest of her rant disappeared in a soft mutter.

“For what it’s worth, Ana never spoke to her brother again because of what he did.”

Marie stopped muttering. “She didn’t?”

“No. My sister says Ana blames her brother for Nigel’s death as much as you do. She never married, either.”

“Because of Nigel?”

“She loved your brother very much.”

This was the part of the story that made Frederic uncomfortable. Love stealing a young heiress’s future. The idea of a life stolen out from under you struck a little too close to home.

Marie was back at the bookcase, a long purple silhouette whose head was cut off in darkness. “I only met her once,” she was saying. “Nigel brought her to Sunday dinner and told us all she was his muse. My parents were not happy. I remember my father whispering that Ana ‘looked expensive.’” Frederic could picture the scene. Nigel, their starving artist son, walking in with his wealthy seventeen-year-old lover.

“I know that Theodore tried to destroy all of Nigel’s paintings.” Piper’s knee brushed Frederic’s again as she shifted in her seat. His entire leg felt the contact this time. “We’re hoping, though, he might have missed one or two.”

“If one existed, don’t you think my family would have kept it?”

“Perhaps there was a sale he made before Theodore arrived in France,” Frederic suggested. “Or a gift he gave to a friend.”

Marie shook her head. “I have no idea. The only paintings left of Nigel’s that we have are a couple small landscapes he did for my mother while he was in art school.”

“It’s all right,” Piper replied. “We figured it was a long shot.”

Perhaps, thought Frederic, but she had clearly hoped. Her disappointment was palpable.

Whenever one of his students felt let down, he made a point of reminding them life was full of disappointments.

Right now with Piper, all he wanted was to squeeze her hand. Reassure rather than remind. It was definitely not like him.

Marie was still talking. “To be honest, even if a portrait of Ana did survive, I’m not sure my parents would have kept it. They didn’t want anything to do with the Duchenkos.”

“No,” Piper said. “I don’t suppose they would.”

“My brother did have a friend who might know. He owned an art gallery in the Marais. A very successful one, I believe. His name was Gaspard.”

Frederic looked up. “You don’t mean Gaspard Theroux?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“You know him?” Piper asked.

“Galerie Gaspard Theroux is one of the most respected galleries in Paris.”

“Gaspard and Nigel were very close. If he is still alive, he might know whether any of Nigel’s early Ana studies sold.”

* * *

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Frederic said as they were walking across the square a short while later. “If Gaspard represented Nigel’s work, he must have been very talented. The gallery is known for discovering the best rising talent in Europe. I’ve bought a couple pieces from Gaspard’s son, Bernard. He doesn’t have quite the same eye as his father, but he does well.”

Piper didn’t care how good an eye the guy had. All she cared about was that her search hadn’t reached a dead end. It took her by surprise just how disappointed she was when Marie first said the paintings were gone. The repeated stories of Ana and Nigel’s love affair had gotten to her.

She turned so she could get a better view of the man walking beside her. Inviting Frederic to join her was a total impulse. He sounded so animated when he was talking about Nigel’s work being a significant discovery. Plus, she liked the idea of his company in case Marie wasn’t as friendly as she had sounded on the phone. There wasn’t a woman of any age who wouldn’t like seeing a man who looked like Frederic on her doorstep.

Now as it turned out, he turned out to be an invaluable resource. “I don’t suppose you know if Gaspard Theroux is still alive, do you?”

“He is, but he has had health problems the past few years. His mind...” Frederic gestured with his hands as to say he didn’t know.

That’s what Piper was afraid of. She combed her fingers through her hair with a sigh. At least she had a place to start. “Maybe his son knows something. What did you say his name was?”

“Bernard.”

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow.” Maybe his father kept records from those days.

“Good luck. Bernard is not the easiest person to reach. He tends to ignore people who aren’t serious collectors. Even his gallery is open by appointment only.”

Great. How was she going to get an appointment? Make a pest of herself until he called back?

Or... An idea struck her. “He returns your phone calls, doesn’t he?”

“Of course. We’ve done business for years. Are you asking me to call Bernard for you?”

“Would you? It might make him more willing to talk with me. Then, if the painting gets discovered, you can take partial credit.”

Frederic laughed.

“What?” Piper had heard him laugh before, but never with such a teasing tone. In spite of his sunglasses, the smile lit up his face. She liked how he threw his head back, too, as if tossing the laugh toward the sky. “You don’t want credit?”

“On the contrary, recognition is always welcome.”

“Then what’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

Something amused him. Was it her? If so, why didn’t she feel a knot in her stomach, the way she usually did when people laughed at her? Instead, she had a warm squishy feeling running all through her.

“Will you call Bernard?”

“Yes, I will. As soon as I get back to the university.”

“Thank you! You’re awesome.” She was so glad she asked him along today. Finally a good day in Paris. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.

It didn’t dawn on her what she had done until she felt the corner of his belt buckle against her rib cage. With heat shooting to her toes, she released her grip, and prayed her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.

“Um...thank you,” she stammered.

“My pleasure,” he replied. Piper thought she saw a hint of a smile as he spoke, but double-checking meant looking into his face. Considering her skin was on fire, staring at the cell phone he was now dialing seemed a safer bet. “As enjoyable as this afternoon has been,” she heard him say, “I have a faculty meeting I need to attend. Should I have Michel drop you off at the house?”

Meaning sit with him in the backseat of his car? “That’s all right, I’ll take the Métro.” Another safe bet. “I want to stop at the farmers’ market, anyway.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what Bernard says.”

Piper watched as he headed to the same café where their afternoon started, moving with his usual careful, deliberate grace. Clearly, her hug affected only one of them. But then, did she really expect otherwise?

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN SHE RETURNED from class the following day, Frederic was waiting in the main salon. “We’ve got a meeting with Bernard in half an hour,” he said. “The car is on the way.”

“We?” she repeated, making sure she heard correctly. This was the first they’d spoken since she rushed off last night, and considering her overreaction to his hug, there was a good chance she misheard. “You’re coming?”

“I have to. I’m invested in the search now. Plus, Bernard has a painting he thinks I might be interested in.”

“Oh.” So she hadn’t heard wrong. Her stomach gave a tiny bounce at the discovery. “I’ll go get ready.”

She rushed through the kitchen, unbuttoning her jacket as she went. Frederic worked fast. Sure, he said he would call yesterday, but she fully expected to be dropped in priority when he got to his meeting. He did say he was invested, she reminded herself. Still, the idea that her errand stayed atop his to-do list left her strangely flattered.

Yesterday’s yellow dress was on the back of her chair. Her one good summer outfit. She’d foolishly assumed she’d be shopping in Paris.

Better than jeans and a T-shirt, she reminded herself while slipping the dress over her head. The skirt was wrinkled from yesterday, but serviceable. Only Frederic would know she was wearing the same outfit. Assuming he even paid attention to what she wore. Grabbing her sandals, she hurried back to the salon.

“That was fast,” Frederic remarked when he saw her. He, she noticed, looked as crisp and perfect as ever in his linen blazer.

“You said to hurry.”

“I’m not used to people understanding what that means. You forget, I spend my day with university students. They have a different view of time.”

He opened the front door and gestured for her to step outside. “Shall we?”

Like many of Paris’s art galleries, the Galerie Gaspard Theroux was in the Marais, the historic district, near the Place des Vosges. Piper stepped into the sunshine with a silent sigh of relief.

“I have to admit,” Piper said as she stepped out of the cab, “I like this section of the city much better.” The business district was beautiful but modern. But here... This was the Paris she dreamed about. “The statues in the middle of the street and the cobblestones...it’s all so...”

“Romantic?”

His drily spoken answer made her blush. “I know, typical American, right?”

“Yes, but also no. This is my favorite part of the city, too. As impressive as skyscrapers are, you cannot top classic French design. Did you know this square is one of the first examples of urban planning? Henri IV was ahead of his time.” He swept his arm wide in an animated arc. “It was also one of the few times all the building fronts were designed the same way. See the arcades lining the perimeter?”

He went on, talking about the different sections of the building, architectural and historical details Piper wished she could appreciate. She was far more entertained by the expression on his face. His enthusiasm was obvious, despite the sunglasses masking his eyes. The way he spoke was reverent. So much lighter than his usual tone, which was so serious it bordered on short, she could have listened to him go on forever. Good thing Chef Despelteau didn’t have such a voice. She’d be so distracted by the way the words dripped off his tongue she’d never get any recipe right.

“For an art history expert, you sure know a lot about architecture,” she teased.

There was no mistaking the pink spots peering out beneath the rims of his aviators. “In my opinion, architecture is its own form of art,” he told her. “The gargoyles of Notre Dame, for example. Or Louis the thirteenth’s statue in the park. I appreciate the effort that goes into creating beauty. When I think of this section of the city, especially, and the disasters and wars it has survived, I cannot help but be impressed.

“Come,” he said, taking her elbow, “Bernard’s gallery is on the western side.” Taking her by the elbow, he led her toward the shaded walkway on the far end of the plaza.

Art galleries and antiques stores lined the sidewalk beneath the arch. As they walked, Piper tried to appreciate the various pieces in the windows, but she was too distracted by the lingering sensation on her elbow. Twice she needed to check, even though Frederic released her seconds after touching her.

“Bernard’s gallery is number thirty-three,” Frederic said. “He often keeps the door locked. We might have to ring the bell.”

“A locked store and visits by appointment. You’re right, he is selective about his customers.”

“He can afford to be.”

“Must be nice. Hopefully I make the cut.”

“You will,” Frederic said with a smile. “You are with me.”

Piper spotted the gallery before he did. A quick tug showed the door to be unlocked. As Frederic opened it wide, a bell tinkled overhead.

“Bonjour!” Bernard Theroux appeared from the back of the gallery. He was a tall, slender man with a wispy gray mustache and thinning gray hair that he wore combed back. The moment he saw Frederic, his porcelain features broke into a grin and he began speaking in rapid French, far too fast for Piper to keep up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, switching to perfect English. “I was lecturing someone about being a stranger.”

“And I was explaining how busy work has been.”

“I can vouch for that,” Piper remarked. “He’s hardly ever home.” The comment made her sound like a disgruntled wife. “I mean, he works a lot.” That didn’t sound much better.

Thankfully, the gallery owner was more interested in dragging Frederic toward one of the paintings. “Like I told you on the phone, you are going to love this piece. He’s a new artist out of Prague—I discovered him on my last trip. Wait until you see what he does with shadow.”

“I’m sure it’s spectacular,” Frederic said. “But before I look at anything, Piper had some questions she wanted to ask. About a friend of your father’s.”

Although his sigh said he’d rather talk about the painter from Prague, Bernard turned to Piper. “Of course. Although like I told Frederic, my father had a lot of painter friends over the years. If it was before I was born, I doubt I can help you.”

“He wasn’t only a friend—he was possibly a client,” Piper replied. “His sister thinks your father sold one or two of his paintings.”

She reached into her purse for her cell phone. Patience had emailed her a snapshot that featured one of the paintings. “I’m hoping that a record of the sale still exists. The artist’s name was Nigel Rougeau. The painting would have looked like this one.”

She held out her phone so he could see the image. Instantly, Bernard’s eyes became saucers.

“Dear God, I don’t believe it. This is the painting you’re looking for? This nude?”

“Yes?” Although she suddenly wasn’t sure she should say so. The gleam in Bernard’s eyes made her nervous. “Why?”

“I grew up looking at that woman.”

“You—you did?”

“Yes, she hung in our dining room.”

No way. Piper couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d been prepared to strike out, and here the man was saying he’d seen the painting. “Does your father still have the painting?”

Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I sold most of the collection when we closed down his house. To pay his expenses. The nude was sold with the others.”

She should have known the search wouldn’t end easily. Still, there was hope. “You wouldn’t know the name of the man who bought it, would you?” she asked.

“I keep records for every painting,” Bernard replied with a sniff.

“Could we get the name?” Frederic asked. Piper started. She had assumed he was studying the painting, and so his deep voice caught her off guard.

“Yes, but it will take me a few minutes to pull up the record on the computer.”

“Thank you,” Piper said, speaking as much to Frederic as to Bernard. “I truly appreciate the help.”

“I’ll be back with the information as soon as I can. In the meantime, you now have plenty of time to study the Biskup. It’s called Zoufalstvi.” His smile was smug as he gestured toward the painting. “I know you’re going to be as impressed with his style as I am.”

Piper walked up to the painting. It was contemporary art, a mash-up of black, white and red, which she assumed had some kind of meaning. She understood the price well enough. She paid less for the entire year of culinary school.

“What do you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

Frederic stood where she left him, taking in the painting from a distance. “Interesting,” was all he said.

“Your friend isn’t really expecting you to buy it today, is he?”

“Oh, he is. Bernard never jokes when it comes to artwork. If he says the painting is a good investment, then I’m sure it is.”

“And you would what? Just write a check if you liked it?”

“If I liked it.”

She shook her head. The idea of writing a check for an amount that took her months upon months to save—and that was with pinching every single penny—boggled her mind. Here Frederic talked about dropping that amount like he was buying a new shirt. “Do you like it?” she had to ask.

“Do you?” he asked back.

“Honest opinion?” He nodded. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It all looks like a bunch of colors to me.”

She squinted, trying to make sense of the image. In a way, it was similar to the other paintings in Frederic’s house. They too were modern, but warmer and with brighter colors. This painting was definitely not warm. It did conjure up emotion, a weirdly familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she wouldn’t call the sensation pleasant. Nor would she want to feel it every day.

“It’s a very sad-looking painting,” she said.

“I should hope so.” Footsteps sounded on the wood floor, and suddenly Frederic was at her elbow. “Zoufalstvi is Czech for desperation.”

No wonder it left her feeling empty. “I don’t see why anyone would want to buy such a depressing picture. But then, I’m not much of an artist.”

“Really? I thought chefs considered cooking an art form.”

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