I don't know what I was expecting. I guess maybe people more like Becky. But Paulina and Michel were a little older and more reserved than I'd been guessing. They looked to be in their forties, or maybe even fifties. Paulina was a tall Russian woman with streaks of red, blond, and gray hair, all of it piled atop her head, and there was a streak of flour across her forehead. "Karina. Are you Karina? Come in, come in! I'm just baking us some things for tea. Excuse my mess!" She gestured for me to follow her up the stairs.

At the top of the staircase was a short, dark-haired man, almost exactly my height, with round wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He took my hand and kissed it. "Welcome. I am Michel, but my friends call me Misha."

"Nice to meet you," I said. I looked past him to the parlor behind, though, and added, "Oh." Every inch of the walls was covered with art, some of it sculpture, some paintings in frames, some that looked painted or attached directly to the wall. There was a fireplace and a large mantelpiece, and the furniture was placed among sculptures and shelves covered with books and knickknacks and things, a glorious riot of color and clutter.

Amid the chaos sat two red velvet chairs with claw feet and a love seat that faced the fireplace with a coffee table in the center. Or, a tea table, I supposed. Pots and cups and china as mismatched and eclectic as the decor waited on a tray.

"You two sit down," Paulina said. "The scones are about to come out of the oven."

She went through a doorway into the kitchen, and I followed Misha to the chairs. Something smelled sweet and delicious. I took a seat and Misha poured tea into my cup. On the table were a few slices of finger sandwiches and what looked like chocolate cookies. Now that I was sitting down in front of it, I could see the large painting above the mantel was a portrait of the two of them, only it looked like they had swapped clothes before posing. Interesting. The likeness of the painting to their faces was striking.

"So what brings you to London? Becky said something about a summer job?" Misha asked me.

"Yes, I'm helping out with this pre-Raphaelite exhibit at the Tate Britain," I said. "I get to give my first tour tomorrow."

"And you are an expert on the pre-Raphs?" His accent was French and yet he clearly didn't struggle with English at all.

"I wrote my dissertation on them." I added a lump of sugar to my cup and stirred. "And I happened to meet one of the curators from the museum, and one thing led to another."

"Lucky girl," he said, and it sounded like lucky gull.

Paulina emerged with scones still hot from the oven on a tray. For a few minutes then we were all too occupied with breaking open the delicious baked goods, slathering them with butter, and eating them to have decent conversation. It was one of the most fantastic things I had ever tasted. Better than the ones at the Buckingham Palace Hotel.

Paulina smiled indulgently when we all finally slowed down and sat back. "Some folks call our place the House of Indulgence," she said.

"And they're not wrong!" Michel chimed in, licking crumbs from one of his fingers. "Now, where were we? Becky was telling us you're looking for a place to live."

"Yes. Just for the summer," I began. "I'm supposed to go back to school to finish up my doctorate."

"And you're poor as a church mouse?" Paulina guessed, or maybe Becks had told her.

"Pretty much. The thing at the Tate is sort of off the books. I'm getting paid under the table."

"Oh, now that is intriguing," Paulina said, leaning closer to me. "The art world has its mysteries, though, doesn't it?"

Does it ever, I thought, wondering if they were familiar with J. B. Lester as well as Lord Lightning. But I couldn't tell them of the connection if they were. As far as I knew, Becky and I were the only people who knew that the glass sculpture artist and the rock star were the same person. "You two seem very...arty."

"We dabble," Paulina said with a shrug. "All of our friends are artists of some kind."

"I can't help but admire the painting. Did a friend do it?"

"Oh, yes. Fantastic, isn't it? Our showpiece." Paulina gestured toward the mantelpiece. "Truth be told, we're trying to turn the space downstairs into a gallery. But the money's a trickle and there's a lot of work still to do..." She trailed off, looking into her teacup. Then she and Michel shared a look.

Michel spoke next. "As we told Becky, we do have a room upstairs, currently storage, and one of our goals is to get it cleaned out. We'd be very happy to offer you the room in exchange for your help cleaning it and working on the gallery downstairs."

It took a moment for what he said to sink in. "Wait, you mean work instead of paying rent?"

"Yes." He smiled a knowing smile.

"That's a great idea! But, well, maybe I should see this room so I know what I'm getting myself into?"

"Fair enough," Paulina said. "We may as well go upstairs and have a look, then."

She led the way, I followed, and Michel brought up the rear. He pointed out the door to his own studio, and then we went up another set of stairs. Paulina's studio was toward the front. She let me look in for a moment and I saw various canvases in various states of half-finished. From there we went toward the back of the building. She pushed open the wooden door at the end of the hall, and it swung open into the room.

The space for the door to open was the only fully clear space on the floor. Everywhere else there were towering piles of books, including on what looked to be a small, low bed, the table beside it, and the dresser against the wall. A lot of books. But not so many that I couldn't imagine what the room would be like when they were neatly arranged on shelves. The window on the back wall was set high up, above the shelves and almost to the ceiling.

"Ideally," Paulina said, "we'd get some shelves and things set up downstairs in the lounge area, and a lot of these could move down there. But we haven't got that far yet."

"I think I can handle it." The late-afternoon light came through the small window that faced the back alley. It would be a charming, cozy room once the books were tamed.

"Excellent! Paul, let's break out some champagne to celebrate," Michel said. "Welcome to the ArtiWorks!"

Paulina chuckled. "You'll soon learn that Misha will use any excuse to open a bottle of champagne. Thankfully we can buy it in half bottles now."

"ArtiWorks?" I asked as we went back downstairs. "I thought this was the House of Indulgence?"

Michel chuckled. "The name of the new gallery, that is, if we can ever get it finished and opened," he explained, as he popped open a small bottle and poured for us. The bubbles tickled my nose.

"So are you also a Lord Lightning follower?" Paulina asked, while we were sipping.

"Not exactly," I said, not sure how much to say.

"Becky told us you are trying to find him," she continued. "But that's all she said."

"Yes. I..." I trailed off, not sure what to say.

"You don't have to tell us anything," Michel said quickly. "We are nosy people. I can tell you that we sometimes hear about his whereabouts. So there is that."

I couldn't help but ask. "Have you heard anything lately?"

They both shook their heads. Paulina poured me some fresh tea. "We've heard he's in England," she said with some disappointment in her voice. "Usually we know more, but not this time."

It was a tenuous lead, but at least it was a lead. I felt a flare of hope. They seemed like such nice people. I looked up at the painting. They were both smiling in the portrait and they looked much younger, but sometimes portrait painters made their subjects look better in paint. "How long ago was the portrait done?"

"Oh, years ago," Paulina said. "Although it was based on a photo even older, taken when we were still working at the university. Where is that one, Misha?"

"Oh, here." He got up from his chair and went to a shelf that was crowded with photos in frames. He pulled one out and brought it to show me. "The painter of course didn't put in all the students, just us."

My breath caught and my throat felt like it was closing. The photo showed a group of people, Paulina and Michel in the center, looking young in their swapped clothes, but there were a few others in the shot. One of them was a tall man who had moved his head at the moment the picture was taken, so his face was blurred. One couldn't be sure of his features, but his posture, his frame, the set of his shoulders...

It looked like James. It had to be him.

The two of them seemed to be holding their breaths, too. I tried to think of what to say.

Paulina took the frame gently from my hands.

"We miss him, too," was all she said, before she put it back among the crowd of others, obscuring it again.

"When will you move in?" Michel asked.

My head was still spinning from the sudden revelation that these two were something more than fans, that they knew what he looked like without a mask, that they knew him. At least they had known him years ago. It seemed that he was hiding from them, too. "Well, I guess I should try to get the bed and dresser cleared off before I attempt to," I said, trying to bring my mind back to the task at hand.

"No time like the present," Paulina chirped, looking hopeful.

"I'll help, if you like," Michel offered.

"No, no, I'll get started. There isn't room in there for more than one person anyway," I said. "I'll go get my stuff from the hotel a bit later."

"I need to go out in a bit anyway," Paulina said. "I'll come with you to help move your things."

"I don't have that much stuff." I couldn't help but grin, though. "Just one suitcase and a computer bag. But I wouldn't mind company."

"That's settled then. I'll come up and see how your progress is going in a few hours," she said. "Misha, the dishes are yours."

"Yes, dear," he said with a sigh. "She's a fantastic cook, you know, but this is the price she exacts. When she cooks, I clean."

He went into the kitchen, and I went upstairs, while Paulina settled by the fireplace with a book, sipping what was left of the tea. If I hadn't been sure before, now I was quite convinced that I was in for an interesting summer.

Three.

Too Cool to Fool

It was a good thing I wasn't supposed to give that tour until the evening. Jet lag kept me up all night, though at least I put it to good use reading the catalog, and then I slept through the morning. When I woke up in the early afternoon, at first I couldn't remember where I was, and the tiny bed surrounded by books seemed like something out of a dream. Then I remembered Paulina and Michel and our late-evening run to the hotel to get my things. The clerk seemed very skeptical of me checking out at eleven o'clock at night, as if the two of them were some kind of disreputable characters who might be kidnapping me.

Maybe they were, artists kidnapping me off to art fairyland.

After I woke up, Paulina made me breakfast and helped me iron my blazer so I would look presentable. I had bought the jacket to wear to job interviews, and once the wrinkles were out of it, I looked sharp and smart, I thought.

Martindale thought so, too. "Ah, you look perfect," he said as he ushered me into his office. "Thank you for being willing to do this after hours."

"Oh, of course, whatever you need," I said.

"Many of the donors have no difficulty passing through the crowds, but there are some who prefer not to appear in such public venues. Tonight's guest is in that category. We should meet his party shortly. But before they arrive, let's look at that package again."

He sat behind his desk and took out James's photographs, still in the same envelope they had been mailed in. He passed the small item to me.

It didn't have a postmark on it, but instead of stamps it had a label that had clearly been generated at the post office for the correct postage amount. The label had various numbers and letters on it. "Do you know what these mean? Could they be used to track the package?"

He peered across the desk where I was holding up the envelope. "I don't rightly know."

"Do you think we could look it up on the Internet?"

"I don't know. Could we?" He turned toward the computer stand to one side of his desk, where a monitor and keyboard sat idle. "I admit I don't know how to do much with this other than answer my e-mail."

"Can I give it a try?"

"Please. Let's switch chairs." He got up and ceded his chair to me with a little bow.

The computer was on and the screen lit up as I jiggled the mouse. It wasn't difficult to open a Web browser and I started to search. The Royal Mail website talked about the switch from postage to metered labels, which meant whoever mailed the package had gone to a mail counter to post it. That was a start. But I couldn't find a directory that explained what the label codes were, only a tantalizing bit about how the codes were unique to each mailing branch.

"Well," I told Martindale, "this would tell us where it was mailed from, if we could find out what the actual codes were. That doesn't seem to be on the website."

"Perhaps the police?" he suggested. "This seems the sort of thing they would be keenly interested in."

"I'm betting if I keep digging I'll find it," I said.

"Well, best to continue it later. It's nearly time for our appointment."

I turned off the monitor and handed him back the photos, but he demurred. "Why don't you hang on to them for a while?"

I slipped the envelope into my purse.

We took the short walk from the office building to the museum. The weather was lovely, cooling a little as the afternoon turned to evening, and there was a breeze from the direction of the river.

As we approached the back entrance, the driver got out of a limousine sitting at the curb, and I thought instantly of Stefan.

A moment later the driver had opened the passenger door, and a man in a sleek-looking suit with artfully tossed black hair stepped out. He was runway-model gorgeous, with the flat, disdainful look in his eye you see on the covers of magazines. Two women, one blonde and one brunette, with the same look about them followed.

I did a double take when Martindale led me right to them. I had been expecting rich art donors to be older, more like Martindale himself.

Instead, the man reminded me of James, and the two statuesque women of Lucinda, with their cool beauty. I had only met her once, at that kinky party, but she had made an impression, poised and sexy, like so many of the people there. Self-possessed and confident, yet exuding a sort of erotic vibe-or maybe at this point for me that kind of self-possession was an erotic vibe. That was James all over, completely in control, knowing that he turned heads and left people drooling in his wake. That cool exterior hid a passionate, wicked core. I remembered the exacting efficiency with which he tied me up with ropes as well as the way he had trembled against me, barely able to stop himself from fucking me before I was ready...

Martindale brought me back to reality. "Mr. Damon George, this is Karina Casper. She'll be showing you around the exhibit."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Casper." The man took my hand briefly.

Martindale seemed to be waiting for him to introduce his companions, but he said nothing about them and they hung back, silent. Martindale cleared his throat. "Yes, well, let's go in."

A security guard met us at the doors to allow us inside. Martindale then led us through the back-entrance access hallways I had not been in before and into the galleries. The two women were wearing heels that seemed impossibly high, and we walked somewhat slowly, the sounds of their heels and our shoes loud in the empty museum.

"Pardon the dust from the construction," he said, as we went past one of the areas where the major renovations were taking place.

"Why should I mind it?" Damon George said. "I'm paying for a lot of it, aren't I?"