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didn’t comment. As they walked together, Jude’s mind wandered back to his prized lighter, a sentimental item he’d rescued from his grandfather’s effects after the old man’s passing. Jude wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—forgetting about the beloved object or his own steady smoking habit.
    How could I not remember an item associated with Pop, a man who was everything to me? And how could I forget a two-pack-a-day vice?
    Even weirder, the memory did not bring on a craving for a cigarette. But he was suddenly anxious to know the fate of Pop’s lighter. Where could it be?
    Jude did his best to put the question temporarily out of his mind as he and Lily made themselves at home at the glass table in the sunroom. He’d search later. The thing had to be lying around somewhere.
    “You’re awfully quiet,” Lily remarked. “Are you sure everything is fine?”
    “Perfectly.” He propped his arms on the table, leaning forward. “I should ask you that question. Was everything all right in your room? I could have sworn you were in pain.”
    She swatted his arm lightly. “Oh! You know very well what was wrong with me, and I lay the blame solely at your sizable feet. A gentleman wouldn’t have brought it up.”
    “Honey, I’m no gentleman. There’s no fun in it.”
    “And I’m not your honey.”
    He didn’t miss the edge behind her teasing. “Sorry. It’s a leftover Southern habit. No disrespect intended.”
    “None taken.” She paused. “Where in the South are you from, if you don’t mind my asking? I can hear a hint of . . . Cajun?”
    “Not bad, though I’m not Cajun. I grew up in New Orleans, though living in New York has taken care of most of my accent. I haven’t lived there in over twenty years, but it’s true what they say—you can take the boy out of the South . . .”
    “But not the South out of the boy. How did you wind up in New York?”
    “I left home at seventeen, eventually made my way here for my work.” There. The incessant pressure, the vague anxiety that accompanied a hole where part of his life should be. “I guess I believed New York was where a starving artist belonged. I took odd jobs to keep myself in paints and canvas, keep a roof over my head. Some of those jobs weren’t exactly legal. It’s a miracle I didn’t land in prison.”
    And he almost had, hadn’t he? How had he avoided such a dismal fate? Dev wasn’t the one who’d saved him; he was positive.
    “But you didn’t, and now you’re a huge success. I suppose one could say crime pays.”
    Jude frowned. “I never hurt anyone, and I certainly didn’t get rich fencing hubcaps.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, contrite. “I didn’t mean to imply you did. I was kidding.”
    “Forget it.” Puzzled, he tried to catch the subtle undercurrents. He could swear he detected the slightest thread of anger in her tone, and he couldn’t fathom why. Unless she held his humble beginnings against him. A woman like Lily could not possibly understand what it took to survive on the streets.
    “How did you get your break?” Nothing but warmth now.
    “I met a man by the name of Devon Sinclair—”
    “ The Devon Sinclair? Of Très Geneva gallery?”
    “The same,” he said, impressed. “You keep up with society news. Good. One of us has to, because I hate the limelight. Dev rags me unmercifully about going out of my way to avoid the press while he and his wife, Geneva—the gallery’s namesake—lap the publicity up like cream.”
    “Don’t you need to put in an appearance once in a while? Making sure you attend some functions is part of my job, after all.”
    “Let me confess something—I loathed going to society events before, but I occasionally took one for the team. Since the accident, however, the idea positively terrifies me. I have to get over my fear somehow because I owe Devon. He launched my career, and sells my paintings for unreal sums.”
    “We’ll get you out of the house, then,” she said