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“Hello,” he said quietly when they met.

“Hi. This is quite a surprise,” Francesca managed, her heart seemingly crowding out everything else in her rib cage, squeezing her lungs. She realized distantly that probably dozens of stares were on them, but she only could focus on the warmth—the wary hope—in Ian’s.

“Did I have it hung to your satisfaction?” he asked, and she knew he meant the painting.

“Yes. It’s perfect.”

Her heart did its usual jump when he smiled. He held up his hands. Recognizing the familiar gesture, she unbuttoned her coat and turned. When he slid her coat off her arms she spun toward him, chin high, spine straight—yes, even in the boho dress. His gaze ran over her fleetingly and she saw he recognized the dress. His smile reached all the way to his eyes. He took two glasses of champagne from a waiter who was passing and murmured a request before handing the man her coat.

A moment later, he handed her a flute and stepped closer. Francesca had the impression that the other party participants tried to focus their attention back on their own conversations, giving them a little privacy. Ian touched his flute to hers.

“To you, Francesca. May you have everything you deserve in life, because there is no one so deserving.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a reluctant sip, unsure as to how she should be feeling in these bewildering circumstances.

“Will you spend this evening with me, both now”—he glanced around the crowded lobby—“and later? There are some things I’d like to tell you in private. I hope you’ll listen.”

Her throat tightened when she guessed at what some of those “things” might be. She suddenly doubted she could endure the next few hours, wondering what he’d say. A tiny part of her said she should refuse, the part that wanted to keep her heart safe. But then she looked into his eyes, and her decision was made.

“Yes. I’ll listen.”

He smiled, took her hand and escorted her into the crowd.

* * *

It was past midnight by the time Ian opened the door to his suite for her and she walked into the subtly lit, elegant room.

“I thought maybe I’d never be in this bedroom again,” she said breathlessly, glancing around, cherishing little details of Ian’s private sanctuary as she never had before. They’d been together all night, Ian never leaving her side, Francesca highly aware of him as he introduced her to movers and shakers from the art world, or as he showed her the last four of her paintings that had been recovered, or as they conversed with friends and family. All the while, she wondered what he was thinking . . . what he would say to her when they were alone in private.

She’d been courted by three renowned galleries for future collections and was asked to do a showing at the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. She’d looked to Ian for that, since he was the owner of her current paintings, and he’d told her point-blank it was up to her to decide. Four collectors had made bids on her paintings, although Ian had refused to sell, point-blank. To top it all off, one of the offers had been made in the company of her father, whose incredulity at the price mentioned had made him turn pale. In general, Ian’s effect on both of her parents had been quite marked. They’d been so tongue-tied and eager to please in his presence that she was quite sure Ian must have thought her a liar about all she’d told him about them. Francesca was a little annoyed by this unexpected servile bent in their character, but mostly just relieved they behaved quite pleasantly all evening.

Ian shut the door of his bedroom suite and leaned against it. She faced him.

“Thank you, Ian,” she said breathlessly. “I felt like the belle of the ball tonight.”

“I’m just glad that you came.”

“I doubt I would have if Davie and the others hadn’t tricked me. I didn’t think you would want to see me after London . . . after it all. You were so angry.”

“I was, yes. I haven’t been for a while, though.”

“No?” she asked in a hushed tone.

He shook his head, never breaking her stare. His mouth tightened. “No. But I also couldn’t quite figure out just what the hell I was. It didn’t take me long to know, but then I had to find a way to tell you in a situation where you couldn’t run away from me too easily. I apologize for the subterfuge tonight.” His mouth twisted into a bitter expression. “I’m sorry, in general.”

She started in surprise at his harsh declaration. “For which part?”

“For all of it. From the first thing I said to you that was unappreciative and callous to the last selfish thing I’ve done. I’m sorry, Francesca.”

She swallowed thickly, unable to meet his stare for some reason. Even though she knew exchanges like this were necessary, given everything that had happened between them, it still seemed so secondary compared to what she’d seen in London.

“How is your mother?” she asked quietly.

“Stabilized,” he said, still leaning against the door. He exhaled after a few seconds and took a step toward her. She couldn’t look away as he removed his tuxedo jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, mesmerized by his male beauty. “There isn’t much hope that she’ll improve on this particular medication regimen, but she won’t get worse. That’s something, at least.”

“Yes. It is. I know you don’t want my pity, Ian. I understand that. I didn’t go to London to offer you sympathy.”

“Then why did you?” he said, his quiet voice lending to the subdued, full moment.