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gallery owner said Destiny’s work was fresh and innovative, while being extraordinarily commercial. That, of course, was precisely what the critics would find most offensive—that her paintings would sell like crazy to tourists because they were pretty, not to serious collectors because they were exceptional. Her work wasn’t pretentious, nor was she, but having a formal showing in a well-respected French gallery certainly was.
    She’d held out as long as she could, but from the moment Violetta had discovered her art in a small shop near Destiny’s home in Provence, she’d been relentless. The dark-haired, dark-eyed whirlwind of energy had barraged Destiny with persuasive arguments. All of Destiny’s protests had fallen on deaf ears. Finally she had been forced to give in, if she was ever to have any peace again. And, truthfully, she’d been flattered that Violetta was so passionate about her work.
    Destiny told herself that if she could get through tonight, the worst would be over. She could be back at home before the dreaded reviews even appeared. Violetta wouldn’t be insensitive enough to send the worst ones to her, and few of Destiny’s friends in Provence paid attention to such things.
    What Destiny feared most about this night wasn’t the embarrassment and humiliation of a bad show. Rather, she was terrified that any criticism that did reach her would destroy her pleasure in painting, thatthe critics would undercut the passion she felt every time she put brush to canvas. She should never have agreed to the showing. She could have gone on for years, quietly selling her paintings, living in her studio in the south of France surrounded by the people and things she loved.
    But this…She heaved a sigh. This was asking to be flogged in public.
    Assaulted by another wave of butterflies, she went in search of more champagne and a secluded nook to hide in until she could gather her composure to face the invited guests, who were just now starting to arrive, a glittering assortment of French society and the Left Bank’s art and literary crowd.
    Standing in the shadows, she assumed a cool, bored expression, a haughty look she’d perfected at social events back home in Virginia to cover for her innate shyness. Few people had any idea just how self-conscious and uncertain she was, because she masked it so well. This particular look kept people away, which was something she devoutly hoped to do tonight.
    She spotted the man coming toward her only an instant before he arrived in her secluded corner. He was her own age—close to thirty, most likely—with the athletic build of a polo player and the tanned complexion of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. The tan made his blue eyes the same brilliant shade as the turquoise sea. Sun had streaked gold through his light brown hair. His clothes fit in a way that screamed expert tailoring, rather than off the rack.
    Not a critic, she concluded with relief. More likely, one of the many rich, available men Violetta tried tolure to these events to make the occasions that much more attractive to the women most inclined to come and spend money on the art. Champagne and flirting tended to loosen their purse strings.
    The stranger slid into the shadows beside her and whispered, “Mind if I try to be unobtrusive with you?”
    She found his conspiratorial tone amusing and the glint of mischief in his eye alluring. One on one like this, she could handle almost anyone. It was crowds she found daunting.
    “Who are you hiding from?” she asked, matching his confiding tone.
    “Violetta, of course. She’s dead set on me meeting the woman of the hour. She says I’ll be fascinated. What she really means, of course, is that she hopes I’ll become so infatuated I’ll spend a bloody fortune buying these paintings.”
    “Do you have a bloody fortune?” Destiny inquired, only mildly curious since she had more than her own share of inherited wealth. It was his casual mention of