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a knocker. She rapped twice, pulled back her shoulders and cocked her hip to offer her best introductory silhouette.
    Painful seconds ticked by but the door remained closed. Her smile faded and she pressed her ear against the door. Voices rumbled in the background. The words, unintelligible, were heated.
    She recognized Laurent’s voice, but he wasn’t alone. She tamped down her rising sense of foreboding and listened close. Heated, yes, but both male. Claire didn’t bother with the lion and pounded on the door with a closed fist. The thuds echoed through the empty hall.
    Claire put her ear to the door again. Silence. She waited, back arched, an elegant ankle extended nonchalantly in front of her.
    The door swung open. Laurent stood before her, a frown marring his aristocratic face. He could be standing in this same doorway in any century, dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, strong nose and brown eyes.
    “Well, darling, aren’t you going to invite a girl in?” Claire let her gloved hand skim across her chest.
    His frown melted. He stared, his mouth hung open.
    “Laurent? Qui est-ce? ” a voice shouted from the background.
    “ Zut alors , Claire!” Laurent swept her into his arms and inside the door in one motion. His hands cupped each shoulder; his gaze drank her in from her feet to her hat. “What in the world are you doing here?”
    Claire smiled. This was the reception she’d hoped for.
    “What the hell is it, Laurent?” a gravelly English voice demanded from the next room.
    Over Laurent’s shoulder, Claire watched a man stomp through the arched doorway. In his late thirties, perhaps, muscled where Laurent was slender. His hair was dirty blond and cut short, strong cheekbones softened by stubble. Razor-sharp, blue grey eyes narrowed as he strode toward them. His lips compressed into a scowl, arms folded in front of his chest. “A woman. Of course. Bloody hell.”
    Laurent turned to him, smiling as though he had been awarded a hard-earned prize. “Claire Harris Stone, this is Grey. Thomas Harding Grey. Please, forgive his rudeness, ma chérie . He is English.”
    Claire ran her fingers over Laurent’s lips. “It’s Claire Harris now, Laurent darling. There is no Stone involved.” She turned then to smile at Grey, her expression sweet as she sized him up. “Grey? How very appropriate,” Claire purred, staring at his rough grey trousers and worn sweater, pulled snug across his chest.
    Grey’s frown deepened as he stared at her.
    Laurent broke in. “Claire, ma chérie , you must join us in the salon.”
    Ornate bureaus and tables, curved chairs and chaise lounges were grouped for conversation around an immense stone fireplace. Stacked groups of photographs leaned against a corner wall. The room was lit from the outside through oversized windows that looked out over a quiet courtyard, invisible from the street.
    Laurent poured a glass of Bordeaux from a half-empty bottle then slid into a high-backed chair next to her. Grey stationed himself by the windows, just out of range of conversation.
    “How did you get here?” Laurent asked Claire.
    “Yankee Clipper. It was breathtaking.” Claire opened her eyes wide and took a sip, shifting her sable on her shoulders. “The plane took off right out of the East River, Laurent.”
    “But . . . the Germans. Surely someone told you . . .” Laurent said.
    “Well, first of all, we left New York before things got so interesting.” She adjusted the hem of her skirt, covering a bare knee while managing to show more skin.
    Grey glowered at the curve of her knee and the glimpse of cream thigh. “You must not count travel restrictions among your interests.”
    “Second of all . . . ” She spoke as if she didn’t hear. “We landed in Lisbon, well, let’s see, three days ago. I didn’t really talk to anyone there, just boarded the train for Paris. You know I don’t speak French or Portuguese. How could I know what others were doing?”
    Laurent leaned in to stroke