"Paul." I swallowed thickly.

He remained where he stood, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable before he relaxed his pose and beckoned to me. "Come on up, old boy. I've got a phone call to make, then I'll join you in the library."

I glanced at Rachel. "I don't want to delay your plans."

She smiled warmly, though with a hint of unease in her eyes. The chill in Paul's welcome had not escaped her notice. "We're in no hurry — it's only a leisure tour. You must join us if you're able." She looked to Paul for confirmation.

"Yes, you must," he said, though his tone lacked Rachel's graciousness. He nodded at me. "Come along, then."

He turned and re-ascended the stairs, not looking back to see if I followed him. I trailed in his wake and tried to assure myself he'd do nothing drastic with Rachel downstairs.

We reached the library without exchanging another word, and he merely waved at the furnishings, inviting me to make myself at home. He went into his study and shut the door. I remained standing, too nervous to sit, and took in my surroundings as I rehearsed the play in my head.

Little had changed since my last visit: the same Persian carpets covered the floors, the same heavy volumes — meant more for display than for study — lined the walls. The only difference, so far as I could see, was that fewer paintings hung on display. Paul's cash problem remained unsolved, it seemed.

I listened to his muffled voice as he made his call, though I couldn't hear what he said. The exchange was brief, and he soon returned. Still not looking at me, he took a seat in a leather-upholstered reading chair, extracted a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it with a match. He didn't bother offering one to me, as he knew I didn't smoke.

He stubbed out the match, glanced up, and snapped at me when he saw I hadn't moved. "Sit down already, Monroe."

Reluctantly, I sat across from him.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke as his eyes raked over me, picking up the details I knew he would: that I wore one of my old suits, patched at the elbows; that I had not styled my hair; that my tie hung a little askew.

Something relaxed in him, and he crossed one leg over the other and softened his voice.

"I'm glad to see you looking well," he said. "I was rather worried for a time."

I glanced up. "Were you?"

He nodded slowly. "I overstepped that night at the auction. I'd had too much to drink, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I've wanted to apologize, but you didn't answer the door."

"So you broke in and stole from me instead?" There was little point in pretending.

He flicked some ash onto a tray and sniffed. "I feared the worst, you know. You'd had a fright, and that Frenchman had clearly talked you into using your gift for him. I know the toll such things take on your condition. I thought I might find you unconscious. Or worse."

If not for Henri, he might have.

"You found something else instead." It was a risk to press him, but the reason for my visit must be plain.

He looked up at me sharply, his gaze narrowing. "Did I? It was your body, after all."

My collar was too tight, my overcoat too warm, but I dared not loosen them. "It wasn't yours to take."

He shifted slightly and drew on his cigarette. "Why keep it from me? You know I'd have given it due... appreciation."

The sour sting of nausea filled my mouth. "I painted it for Thomas."

"Thomas." He scoffed.

"You were jealous of him," I said, daring another push.

He chuckled. "You've grown bold. Deschamps's tutelage?"

I shook my head and recited my lines with conviction. "There's nothing between us. Our arrangement was purely professional. It is over now."

His eyes went cold; his mouth compressed. "Liar."

I looked away. The next lie would be the real one, though I found it much harder to tell.

"It is over," I repeated quietly, not having to fake the tremor in my voice.

I hugged myself, made myself small, turned my head aside and refused to meet his eyes — all signs Paul should recognize.

He studied me with narrowed eyes. Then, arriving at the thought I'd aimed to plant, he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "He hurt you?"

I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth and shook my head, letting him draw his own conclusions.

A minute ticked by. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Paul's head. Having pieced together a conclusion, he spoke in a lower register. "He did not force himself on you, surely."

Again, I let silence be my answer. A vile deception, but the only way Paul would believe I had returned to him willingly was if he thought I had fled something worse. Henri had suggested it, even — that ugliness would know itself — yet my tears of shame were not pretended.

Paul leaned back in his chair, his grip on its arms the only betrayal of tension. "I'll have him shot," he remarked, and rubbed out his cigarette.

"No, please don't!" I covered my face with my hands to hide my genuine alarm. "Leave it be."

I heard him rise and approach; sensed him standing over me. I remained as I was, though I flinched when he set his hand on my shoulder.

"Alec. Look at me."

I took my hands from my face and complied. His stony expression remained unreadable, and I held my breath. In the man who gazed down at me, I saw very little of the golden, sun-kissed boy who'd stolen my heart with a kiss that idyllic summer of our youth. Instead, I saw a man who thought in ledgers, and who, having banked on my affection, considered me his chattel ever since.

"I forgive you," he said.

I relaxed a fraction; let him see it as I considered my next move. It was too soon to ask for the painting back, but perhaps I could discover its location.

"What have you done with it?" I asked.

He knew what I meant. "Exactly what I said I would do. It hangs on the wall in my study, where it belongs."

I blanched. "Is that not dangerous?"

He arched a well-groomed eyebrow. "Why should it be? It is only art."

"Tell that to Oscar Wilde," I said, allowing myself a shaky laugh. Paul took it the way I hoped he would: as proof I had accepted his protection.

He resumed his seat and lit another cigarette. "What did that French bastard tell you, anyway?"

This was the most perilous hand. If I showed too much, he would fold; too little and he might not raise the pot.

I grimaced as though I found the mere thought of Henri unpleasant, though it was the man before me I loathed. "He said you'd asked him to authenticate some pieces, but he believed them to be fakes."

"Anything you recognized?"

My heart missed a beat, stumbled, caught its rhythm. The sensation sent an unpleasant tingle through my chest, but I suppressed any sign of it. This was the gamble.

"Yes. He had one of Thomas's."

Paul said nothing. He watched me. My heart beat fast enough to make my hands shake, but I kept them clenched in my lap.

At last, Paul rubbed his fingers across his lips and took a breath. "I have several, actually. They would solve my little problem nicely... if I could only sell them."

Dry-mouthed, I could have fainted with relief. He wouldn't reveal the full extent of his activities, nor betray his partners in crime, but one piece was all I needed.

"I... I could help you," I offered, threading desperation through my tone.

The first hint of suspicion lit his eyes. "Why? You've always been a prude for authenticity."

I lowered my gaze and played my last hand. "If you will give me my painting back, I'll help you sell Thomas's work."

Suspicion became interest — a transaction, Paul understood.

"How?"

I dared to raise my eyes to his. "Who better to authenticate art than the artists themselves?" I asked. "I will give a séance — for Rachel's birthday, perhaps. Invite the most credulous dealers you know, and I will convince them the pieces are genuine — and priceless."

Paul regarded me with calculation, weighing risk against gain, and at last he lifted his chin.

"All right. On one condition."

"Anything."

"You will paint yourself again. For me."

I lost my breath a moment. Of all the things he might have asked, this was the least expected, and yet what I should have foreseen.

I nodded.

"Say it."

I bit the inside of my lip hard enough to taste blood. "I will paint myself... for your eyes alone."

"Good. Then we have reached an accord. Now, let's not keep dear Rachel waiting. She's ever so eager for a stroll."

He rose. I had little choice but to follow him. We returned downstairs to find Rachel entertaining herself with a book. She expressed concern for my health and delight at Paul's announcement that I would join them on their tour of Fairmount Park.

"We'll take Paul's car," she declared. "It's so roomy and breezy with the top down, and it will spare you walking."

A glance at Paul confirmed our reconciliation was too fragile, too new, to bear my refusal.

He led us to the garage, and I reminded myself that I had fashioned the collar myself this time, and handed him the leash.

As we climbed into his flashy Rolls-Royce, I allowed myself one tiny satisfaction. The Phantom had been a gift from his father: the perfect example of all the money he had, yet couldn't touch.

***

Some hours later, exhausted and less than half pleased with my success, I parted ways with Paul and Rachel in Rittenhouse Square.

"I had a wonderful time," Rachel declared.

That made one of us.

"The blossoms are lovely this year," she continued. "I so envy your skills, Alec. Perhaps you might immortalize spring for me."

"Alec knows how to paint beauty," said Paul, reminding me of the bargain I'd made.

I wished I could warn Rachel somehow. A future with Paul would hardly be pleasant.

"I shall do my best to deliver," I said.

Rachel kissed my cheek in fond farewell — a move Paul didn't miss, though he knew better than to be jealous of it. Paul solicited my promise to call again in a day or so, and at last, I made my escape.

***

My relief proved short-lived.

When I arrived at Spruce Street, I saw immediately that something was amiss. Henri's door stood open, and Marguerite guarded the stoop with a kerchief pressed to her mouth and her eyes red with tears.

I ran up to her. "Marguerite! Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I am well." She embraced and released me quickly. "Ah, I have been waiting for you, Monsieur!"

"What's happened? Is it Arthur?"

I pulled away from her. She shook her head.

Alarm shot through me. "Henri?"

Her face crumpled with fresh tears. "He has been arrested for theft, Monsieur," she cried. "And they have taken all the art!"

My strength deserted me. I sat heavily on the step.

I recalled the phone call Paul had made when I had first arrived. My physical presence proved I was not with Henri — either to interfere or to defend him. And he had kept me away all day.

I was not the only one who had been playing games.