Page 133 of The Cellist

“You did.”

“Why on earth would he want to avoidher?”

“Because he’s currently living with that one over there.”

“Sarah?”

Gabriel nodded. “She’s another one of my restoration projects. So is the former fashion model.”

“And I thought my life was complicated.” Isabel regarded him carefully. “I have to say, you look rather good for someone who’s lucky to be alive.”

“You should have seen me a few months ago.”

“How bad is the scar?”

“I have two, actually.”

“Do they still hurt?”

Gabriel smiled. “Only when I laugh.”

He was the first to leave the party. Not surprisingly, no one seemed to notice he had gone. Isabel departed soon after, but the others lingered until nearly midnight, when the last of the Bollinger Special Cuvée finally ran dry. On her way out the door, Olivia Watson blew Sarah a decorous kiss with those perfect crimson lips of hers. Through a frozen smile, Sarah whispered, “Bitch.”

She supervised the caterers while they packed away the empty bottles and dirty glasses. Then, after arming the gallery’s security system, she went into Mason’s Yard. Christopher was leaning against the hood of the Bentley, an unlit Marlboro between his lips.

His Dunhill lighter flared. “How was the party?”

“Why don’t you ask Olivia?”

“She told me to ask you.”

Frowning, Sarah slid into the passenger seat. “You know,” she said as they sped westward along Piccadilly, “none of this would have happened if I hadn’t found that Artemisia.”

“Except for Viktor,” Christopher pointed out.

“Yes,” agreed Sarah. “Poor Viktor.”

She lit one of Christopher’s cigarettes and accompanied Billie Holiday as the Bentley flowed along the Brompton Road into Kensington. As they drew to a stop in Queen’s Gate Terrace, she noticed a light burning in the lower level of the maisonette.

“You must have forgotten—”

“I didn’t.” Christopher reached inside his suit jacket and drew his Walther PPK. “I won’t be but a moment.”

The door was ajar, the kitchen deserted. On the granite counter, propped against an empty bottle of Corsican rosé, was an envelope. Christopher’s name was written in stylish longhand on the front. Inside was a high-quality bordered correspondence card.

“What does it say?” asked Sarah from the open doorway.

“He’s wondering whether you and I ought to get married.”

“Truth be told, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“In that case...”

“Yes?”

Christopher returned the note card to the envelope. “Perhaps we should.”