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Mason?”
    She swiveled gracefully to face him. Why are you interrupting my conversation with Ambassador Moreau? But no, she couldn’t say that, nor could she allow her irritation to show. “Yes?”
    “I have a message from Mr. Samuel Faa. He requests your presence at once.”
    “He’s going to have to wait.” She smiled, teeth clenched. She had been angling for that check from the ambassador for fifteen minutes, and she was not about to give up now.
    The waiter offered her a slip of paper, folded in two and torn from a cheap tablet. “If you had any objections, Mr. Faa said to give you this.”
    She opened it. Roughly sketched on the paper was an empty cradle.
    Damn Samuel. He knew how to get her attention.
    A child was in danger.
    She folded the paper and turned back to the ambassador. “I am so sorry. This requires my immediate attention.”
    The ambassador bowed and once again kissed the back of Isabelle’s hand. “I am desolated. Apparently, we are not allowed a whole conversation tonight.”
    “No.” She kissed his cheek. “Another time.” Catching her gown in her fingertips, she moved toward the door without appearing to hurry, smiling and nodding at the guests, but never slowing.
    She jumped when Samuel stepped out from behind a potted plant dressed in his heavy coat . . . with an amber wool scarf wrapped around his head and tied like a turban. Over the turban, he wore a dark knit cap.
    She didn’t laugh. Not quite. “That’s quite a fashion statement.”
    “I’m a fashion maven.” He stuffed gloves on her hands.
    Samuel had never gotten over his impression that she was still a pampered little girl in need of help.
    “The scarf is quite attractive on you.” She fought back a smirk. “The color complements your eyes.”
    “It stopped the blood from leaking out of my ears, too.”
    She looked. Saw the crimson stains. Realized he had a bruise forming on his jaw.
    He’d been fighting again. He’d been trying to get himself killed again.
    She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out to him, touching him, healing him. He was Chosen; unless he desperately needed help, he would heal quickly on his own. In repressive tones, she asked, “What did you do now?”
    “I got the information we need.” He held out an ankle-length mink coat for her to slip into.
    “That’s not mine.”
    “Close enough.” He shook the coat. “Come on; we haven’t got time to waste, and it’s windy and frigid out there. Like someone else I know.”
    “I’m not frigid”—she slid into the heavy fur—“for the right man.”
    “I know.” Samuel held out a knit cap. “Because I am the right man.”
    She wasn’t getting into that argument with him again. “I am not wearing that hat. It’ll ruin my hair.”
    “Put it in your pocket. We’ll see what you say when you step outside. Now—let’s go.” Taking her arm, he hurried her toward the rear of the château.
    As they walked, she rearranged her fingers in the gloves. “Where are we going?”
    “About a mile north as the crow flies, about five miles by road. The Others commandeered the De Luca château.”
    She led him through the darkened, vacant living rooms on their way out. “It’s empty.”
    “They’ve grabbed a boy. He’s hurt.”
    She expected the news, but her heart sank.
    As they reached the back door, Samuel opened it and rushed through.
    He was right. When she stepped outside, the icy air took her breath away. But she didn’t put on the knit cap.
    He led her to an idling four-wheel drive. He opened the door for her, and glanced down as she climbed inside. “Shit. I forgot about your stupid shoes. I should have grabbed you some boots.”
    “From the same shop where you got the fur?” she asked tartly, and tucked her strappy sandals under the seat.
    He shoved the trailing hem of her gown inside. “Yes.” He slammed the door and hurried around the car, climbed in, and had the car in motion before she’d even buckled her seat