Page 34 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

“Anna Rolfe just sent you a text message. Shall I read it to you?”

“Why not?”

“Your reservation is at eight fifteen.”

“Where?”

“She doesn’t say. But it must be close to the Bristol, because she’s picking you up at eight.”

“I never mentioned that I was staying at the Bristol.”

“It looks to me as though your room is on the third floor.”

“The fourth,” said Gabriel. “But who’s counting?”

Thefirst time Gabriel saw Anna Rolfe, she was standing on a stage in Brussels, delivering an electrifying performance of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. He left the concert hall that night never imagining they might one day meet. But several years later—after the murder of Anna’s father, the immensely wealthy Swiss banker Augustus Rolfe—they were formally introduced. On that occasion, Anna had offered her hand in greeting. Now, as Gabriel joined her in the back of a courtesy Mercedes-Maybach limousine, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his cheek.

“Consider yourself my hostage,” she said as the car drew away from the hotel. “This time escape is impossible.”

“Where are you planning to take me?”

“Back to my suite at the Crillon, of course.”

“I was promised dinner.”

“A clever ruse on my part.” Anna was casually attired in jeans, a cashmere sweater, and a car-length leather coat. Even so, there was no mistaking her for anyone other than the world’s most famous violinist. “Did my publicist send you the new CD?”

“It arrived the day before yesterday.”

“And?”

“A triumph.”

“The reviewer from theTimessaid it displayed a newfound maturity.” Anna frowned. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“It’s a polite way of saying you’re getting older.”

“You wouldn’t know it from the cover photograph. It’s amazing what they can do with the click of a mouse these days. I look younger than Nicola Benedetti.”

“You can be sure she idolized you when she was a child.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’sidol. I just want to be thirty-three again.”

“Whatever for?” Gabriel gazed out his window at the graceful Haussmann buildings lining the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. “Where are we having dinner?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate them.”

“Yes,” said Anna distantly. “I remember.”