.

monsieur.” I flashed him a smile as he opened the heavy black door and ushered me in. “Merci.”

      With quick steps, I headed down the entrance hall and into the bar area.

      Exclusive auctions held around France were filled with collectors and dealers from all around the world who were backed up by old money, families with recognizable names, or lots of available cash. It was a sacred circle, and you had to pass some invisible test to be accepted by them. It’d taken me an aeon to be invited in, and I was still looked at as the new girl, but they weren’t threatened by someone who often bid on items that were perplexingly valueless in their eyes and were only sold at some auctions as part of a deceased estate.

      But sentimental or not, I had a varied range of customers who, like me, held antiques with rich histories in high esteem. It could be something as small as a tin of buttons rescued from a Dior 1940s’ collection. The men would frown over their spectacles at me and mutter, “Buttons…?” their confusion apparent. But I’d have a customer who collected vintage buttons, and I knew they’d adore such a bounty. Who wouldn’t? Some amazing seamstresses had probably thumbed those little plastic discs – what had the buttons overheard? Talk about hemlines, waistlines, the progression of fashion…

      Auctions were jovial affairs. Champagne flowed freely because punters paid more when they were relaxed after a few glasses of bubbles, though no auction houses admitted that’s why they supplied copious bottles of Moët & Chandon – it was the way it had always been done, a tradition that had always made the numbered paddles raise that little bit easier.

      The antique trade was still a bit of a men’s club despite halfhearted protests that it wasn’t. But it suited me just fine to be one of the token women. My presence was largely ignored. They didn’t see me as a threat, and I could go by unnoticed and savor the lots alone.

      Today, while they clinked glasses, and told tall tales about their latest conquests in the world of antiques, I casually flounced out of view and into the auction room, ready to take my seat at the front.

      I spotted Gustave, the security guard.

      “Bonjour,” I said, holding my handbag to the side while we air kissed each cheek.

      “Bonjour, Anouk,” Gustave replied, his brown face crinkling into a smile. He was a robust man, about late fifties, with a big heart. He’d been working here as long as I could remember, and often saved me a seat if I was running late.

      Laughter rang out from the bar area. “They’re in fine form today,” Gustave said, raising an eyebrow.

      “Half sozzled already?”

      “Oui.” Gustave tutted. “Monsieur left the front door unlocked last week! Can you imagine? Had the gall to blame me.”

      I inhaled sharply. “He left it unlocked?” Anyone could have walked in and scurried away with something valuable. Monsieur Cloutier in his old age was getting business mixed with pleasure, a mistake I vowed not to replicate. Hence the rule: no champagne when working. I had to keep a clear head and focus.

      Life was all about appreciating the steamy pah of escaped air as you broke into a twice-cooked soufflé deflating its cheesy goodness, and pairing it with a wine and languishing over lunch with friends. But not during work time.

      “Not fair on you, Gustave. Let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again.”

      Gustave rocked on his heels, and smiled. “He won’t. I’m barreling him out when my shift finishes each day, and locking it myself, but I’m not here all the time. There’s a lull between security staff; the place is empty for an hour, so I’ve asked him to rectify that. Just in case.”

      “You heard about the robberies, then?”

      His eyes clouded. Gustave loved the auction house like it was his own, so he followed industry news. Monsieur Cloutier was lucky to have such a loyal employee, especially as age crept up on him, and made him forgetful. Age or champagne, that is.

      “Terrible.” He nodded. “And we don’t need to make it any easier by being lax with security.”

      “Oui.” I felt a shiver, as if I was being watched. I turned, surprised to see the American standing behind me. He’d been out the front of my shop, at Andre’s estate, and now here. I didn’t like it – it meant he was on my trail and that usually implied he was after my contacts. I hadn’t heard him approach on the noisy wooden floors. Had he eavesdropped on our conversation? I’d hate for anyone to know about the door being accidentally left unlocked, especially a stranger. He must’ve had ties with someone to be here, though, and that meant trouble.

      “It’s you,” he said, appraising me coolly.

      “Excusez-moi?” I said in faux surprise as if I didn’t recognize him. His azure blue eyes twinkled, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and took a step closer. In response, I folded my arms and stuck out my chin. Who did he think he was?

      “It’s you. The girl who everyone talks about. You’re famous, you know.”

      “Me?” I stumbled slightly on my heels, put on the spot by such a thing. I wondered if the ‘everyone’ he was referring to were talking about the Joshua disaster. It’d taken months for the speculation to die down, but it cropped up now and again. I remained poised, adopting a haughty expression as if his presence bored me. “I hardly think so.”

      He grinned, Cheshire cat like. “Humble, too, I see.”

      “Is that all, Monsieur…?”

      “Black.”

      His smile slid into a smirk, showing his even, white teeth. He had a strong jawline, and was classically handsome in that all-star American way. He ran a hand through the neat blond of his hair.

      “Well if that’s all, Monsieur Black, I’ll be taking my seat…” I said over my shoulder, as I walked across the shiny wooden floor to the front row seat I favored. It gave me the perfect view of the antiques on offer, as well as good visibility to the auctioneer. The American followed me and stood just in front of the stage.

      I surveyed him as I sat. His clothes fit like they were tailor-made, his shoes shone like they’d never been worn before – even his nails were manicured. Rich playboy with too much time on his hands. A rich American playboy at that, which meant goodbye antiques. He’d probably ship them to somewhere where there was too much humidity for their moderate French wood, letting them buckle and bow, and another masterpiece would be scarred for its lifetime.

      “Mind if I join you?” he said, indicating the empty chair beside me.

      I clenched my jaw. “It’s a free country.” I didn’t like anyone to see how I bid, or what I was interested in. It was better to remain incognito if possible, but sitting right next to me he’d be able to ascertain what I wanted.

      “Great.” He let my jibe sail past, as if he hadn’t heard, and sat. There was something about him I didn’t trust. He’d obviously been following my tracks too closely for comfort. And I didn’t buy the innocent act: oh it’s you. Please.

      “I’ve got my heart set on something magnificent,” he said. I gathered the swell of my skirt, and tucked it, facing away from him.

      “Wonderful,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. Better he know I was disinterested by his presence.

      “The cello,” he said. “Have you seen it? It’s magnificent.” I turned back to him, my heart sinking. He gave me such a penetrating stare it took all my might not to react. Surely Andre wouldn’t have asked him to secure it for the scroll too? Instinctively I knew this stranger was trying to unsettle me. I toyed with telling him to back off, but maybe playing it down would be better with a man like him. They thrived on competition, and it would only encourage him if I acted irritated. He didn’t say the Mollier cello though. I quickly scanned the lots in front, recognizing a German cello… Fingers crossed he meant that one.

      I changed