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She smiled at the butler. “May I see the Comte now?” The name “Christian” whispered in her mind, but she had no right to call him by his given name. Twenty-two years apart had made them strangers again.

“Oh, of course, of course. He waits for you in the library.”

Tricia’s breath eased out in relief. She and Christian had never spent time together in the library, so she would not be haunted by memories. Maybe that was why he’d chosen to meet with her in that room.

After following Monsieur Benoit to the library door, she passed through with a smile when he opened it for her. She breathed slowly, evenly, stared at the rows of old leather-bound books. Calm and professional, she repeated in her head. The click of the door closing made her heart trip; then she heard a rustle of clothing.

“Madame Cole. Tricia.”

The sound of her name spoken in the deep, achingly familiar voice from her memories drew her gaze inexorably to the man on the far side of the room.

She froze. Shock pounded in her chest, echoed in her temples, beat a drum of startled panic through her body. The briefcase dropped from her nerveless fingers to the floor.

Framed by the elegant marble fireplace, Christian stared back at her wearing his familiar linen suit, his hair neatly trimmed, his eyes green as emeralds, his skin supple, bronzed, smooth.

He hadn’t aged at all.

Lines formed between his eyebrows. He moved towards her. “Are you all right, Madame?”

Tricia’s hand pressed over the frantic beat of her heart. “You’re so. . young,” she breathed in a strangled voice.

Understanding flashed across his face, followed by pain. “No one has told you. I’m sorry. My father passed away ten years ago.”

Tricia blinked, his words skating around her brain, making no sense. She grabbed for a chair back. He hurried over to support her elbow, help her into the chair. Then he pulled another seat up and sat facing her.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Although Christian had sent her away, knowing he was living out his life in the same world as she had given her some kind of comfort. Too late, she realized that deep inside she had still dreamed he might want her back.

But now. . “Dead?” she whispered, daring to look this doppelganger in the face. He was the spitting image of his father. His eyes were the exact same shade of green; his hair the same light brown with sun-kissed streaks. Could a son resemble his father to such an extent? Even identical twins had some differences, didn’t they?

“I’m so sorry, Tricia. Remy must have forgotten to tell you.”

“How old are you?” she whispered. Even as the words passed her lips, she realized it was rude to ask such a direct question. Especially of a comte she’d only just met. But every cell in her body was shocked into confusion. Instinct told her she knew this man. Everything about him was familiar.

“I believe I was born the same year you visited France.”

A shaft of pain caught her breath. So there had been another woman in Christian’s life even as he romanced her. A woman carrying his child. He must have married the other woman, or her son would not have inherited the title.

“How do you know which year I visited?” she asked, hoping he had made a mistake.

The Comte rose and fetched something from a desk under the window. He held out a small wooden frame containing a photograph of her sitting on the edge of the fountain in the secret garden, smiling at the camera. An exquisite butterfly hair clip decorated with diamonds and rubies glinted against her dark hair. She’d almost forgotten the romantic afternoon when Christian had taken her along the maze of tiny paths overhung with roses and given her the gift. She’d treasured that precious butterfly for the grand total of three days. When he sent her away, she’d thrown it back in his face.

The Comte pointed to the date written in the corner. “My father kept this photograph on his desk.”

Why would he keep a photo of her? Christian had been the one to end their relationship, claiming she was too young for him. Even though he had only been in his early twenties. Although at times he’d seemed much older than his years, just as the young man before her did. Christian’s son could only be twenty-one, yet his assured manner belonged to a man twice his age.

The Comte rose and filled a tumbler with amber liquid from a decanter. He returned and held out the glass. “You’ve had a shock. Cognac will steady your nerves.”

Tricia barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Christian gave me cognac when I was stung by a bee once and. .” Her words choked off with emotion as the memory rose from the deep recesses of her mind. After a long moment staring at his lean fingers holding the cut crystal, she accepted the glass. The smooth liquid burned a path down her throat.

“A predilection for Cognac is in the Lefevre genes,” he said wryly.

By the time she’d downed the contents of the glass, a warm fuzzy sense of unreality filled her head. “You look so much like your father. I’m finding it difficult to. .” She rubbed her temples. “Maybe if you tell me your name it’ll help.”

He rose, placed her glass on a silver tray, then stared out the window for a few seconds, his shoulders tense. “It’s Christian, I’m afraid. . after my father.”

Tricia’s sense of unease flared again as this young Christian, who could have stepped out of her dreams, turned to look at her. For long moments, his emerald gaze perused her face, her body, as if he wanted to memorize her. “Still so beautiful,” he said softly.

Her breath escaped on a tiny gasp. “What?”

He curved an elegant hand towards the photo. “Compared to your picture, Madame, you’ve aged well, like a fine wine.”

Her heart tripped, flickers of awareness racing through her in response to his appreciative gaze. She stared at her hands gripped tightly in her lap. Being attracted to this man was wrong. He was little more than a teenager; the son of the man she’d loved.

He picked up her briefcase and placed it beside her chair, then sat before her again, suddenly all business. “If you’re recovered from your shock, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you came all this way to see me.”

“I came to see your father.”

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I might be able to help you.”

He must have inherited his father’s possessions. Perhaps he would recognize the objet d’art about which she wanted information.

A sense of purpose infused Tricia as she unfastened her briefcase. She took out the photograph of the strange transparent pyramid that had been bequeathed to the Institute. “We can’t find anyone who knows what this is.” She handed the photo to Christian. “The base of the object is twenty-four inches square and the thing’s very heavy. There appear to be flames inside it, but it must be a clever special effect. I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me what it is because I saw something similar here years ago.”

“When?” The young Comte’s gaze snapped up from the image and pinned her in place. His eyes flickered like green fire. For the first time in years, Tricia’s cheeks grew hot. This young man hadn’t even been born on the day she’d crept into the chateau uninvited, hoping to beg Christian to take her back. She had found no sign of the man she loved, but the memory of the mysterious pyramid full of green fire that she’d found in his bedroom was seared into her mind.

“Years ago.” She pushed away her sense of embarrassment and tapped a finger on the photograph. “The pyramid the Institute has contains blue fire rather than green, apart from that, it’s the same as the object I saw here. The transparent material is definitely not glass, it’s crystalline.”

The Comte’s gaze had fallen to the image again. Now his eyes rose to interrogate her with an authority that looked strange for one so young. “Has anyone touched it?”