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Pleasure flooded through her at his comment, the potency of it far greater than even that conferred by the delectable palet aux noisettes.

* * *

“Where are we staying?” Francesca asked him several minutes later as Jacob zoomed down a darkened, nearly deserted rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Unlike their trip from the airport to the restaurant, when he’d sat next to her in the limo, her hand fast in his, Ian now sat across from her, his manner distant as he stared broodingly out the window.

“At the Hotel George V. But we’re not going there yet.”

“Then where—”

The car slowed. He nodded significantly out the window. Her eyes widened as she recognized the shape and ornate architecture of the Second Empire building that overtook the entire city block.

“The Musée de Saint-Germain?” she asked, joking. She was familiar with the museum of Greek and Italian antiquities from her undergraduate days of study in Paris. The museum was housed in one of the few remaining privately held palaces left in the city.

“Yes.”

The laughter died on her lips. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” he said calmly.

“Ian, it’s past midnight in Paris. The museum is closed.” Jacob halted the limo. A moment later, the driver rapped once on the back door before he opened it. Ian got out and took her hand as she alighted on the tree-lined, dimly lit street. He smiled when she stared dubiously up at him.

“Don’t worry. We won’t stay long. I’m as eager to get back to the hotel as you are. More so,” he added under his breath. He guided her onto the sidewalk and to a door couched within a deep stone arch. Much to her surprise, an elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair immediately answered when Ian knocked on the thick wooden door.

“Mr. Noble,” he greeted with what appeared to be a mixture of pleasure and respect. They entered, and the man closed the door behind them before tapping his fingers over a keypad. Francesca heard a lock click loudly. A green light began to blink on what appeared to be an elaborate security system.

“Alain. I can’t thank you enough for this special favor,” Ian greeted warmly when the other man turned. The two men shook hands within a dimly lit, white marble entryway as Francesca glanced around, confused but curious. This was not an entrance on the public tour.

“Nonsense. It is nothing,” the man said in a hushed tone, as if this were some kind of clandestine nighttime mission.

“How is your family? Monsieur Garrond is well, I trust?” Ian asked.

“Very well, although we are both like displaced cats at the present moment as we have major renovations done on our apartment. We’re getting too old to have our routines disrupted, I’m afraid. How is Lord Stratham fairing?”

“Grandmother says he’s a bear following his knee surgery, but his stubbornness is an asset in this case. He’s recovering well.”

Alain chuckled. “Please give both of them my regards the next time you see them.”

“I shall, but you will likely see them before I do. Grandmother plans to attend the opening of the Polygnotus exhibit next week.”

“We are fortunate,” Alain said, beaming, and Francesca couldn’t help but feel he meant it entirely. His gaze landed on Francesca with polite interest. She clearly sensed his intelligence and curiosity.

“Francesca Arno, I’d like you to meet Alain Laurent. He’s the director of the St. Germain.”

“Ms. Arno, welcome,” he said, taking her hand. “Mr. Noble tells me you are quite a talented artist.”

Warmth rushed through her at the knowledge Ian had complimented her behind her back. “Thank you. My work is nothing to what you come into contact with every day in your work here. I loved coming to the St. Germain when I was an undergraduate studying in Paris.”

“It’s a place of inspiration as well as art and history, no?” he said, smiling. “I hope the piece that Ian shows you tonight will provide its own special inspiration. We are quite proud to have her here at the St. Germain,” he said mysteriously. “I will leave you to your own devices then. I have everything arranged for you. Please be assured that you won’t be disturbed. I have shut off surveillance of the Fontainebleau salon for your short visit to afford you some privacy. I’m working in the east wing, if you should need me,” Monsieur Laurent said.

“We won’t. And I want to thank you again for this consideration. I know it was an unusual request,” Ian said.

“I have complete faith that you wouldn’t make it without excellent reason,” Monsieur Laurent said smoothly.

“I will call you when we are finished with the viewing. It won’t be long,” Ian assured.

Monsieur Laurent gave a slight bow that seemed completely natural and graceful and walked away.

“Ian, what are we doing?” Francesca whispered heatedly as he started to lead her down a dim, arched passage in the opposite direction from which Monsieur Laurent had departed.

He didn’t immediately reply. It was difficult to keep up with his long-legged stride in her stiletto heels. They quickly started to penetrate the passages into the bowels of the huge, venerable building, eventually entering museum areas that she recognized. It was a salon-style museum versus a gallery. The St. Germain’s interior as a palace residence had been preserved. Walking through the rooms gave the impression of going back in time to a posh, elegant, lived-in seventeenth-century palace showcasing priceless furnishings and incredible pieces of Grecian and Roman art.