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  “He’s staying with … friends,” Erica explained.

  Mrs. Kilgore came to stand beside Erica. “Such a lovely dress,” she murmured. “Understated elegance. I see you, and I wish I were young again and petite.”

  Mr. Ernst moved back toward the fireplace and the other men. Erica gave a light laugh and wished she were standing with them instead of her hostess. “But you’re so nice and tall. I’ll bet you were once a model.”

  She was rewarded with a warm blush. “Well, I did do some catalogue work for a lingerie company. But when Brighton and I married, he insisted that I give that up. Not suitable for the wife of a man on his way to the top.”

  “I know Brighton is in the chemical business now,” Erica said. “Was he always?”

  “Oh, no. He was with the government when we met. He was an inspector of some sort. He investigated companies who broke the law.”

  “Like a detective?”

  “Something like that. Then he bought into one of the companies he inspected. Straightened it out and now he owns it.”

  Erica accepted another hors d’oeuvre from the circulating waiter.

  Across the room she could see Conner and Brighton Kilgore talking. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Conner. He stood out like a polished jewel honed to perfection with an icy exterior that never quite concealed the raw fire inside. As she watched, he glanced up, their gazes melding.

  Just like in the song, across a crowded room. And she knew. Nothing had changed. She was as much in love with him now as she had been ten years ago, when he’d let her down. No matter what resentment she still harbored, that fact didn’t change. He hadn’t answered her letter. He hadn’t cared enough to give her a chance to explain. If he’d wanted to come back to her, nothing would have stopped him. The Conner she knew then would have said to hell with any warning she’d been given. She was his woman and nobody would keep them apart.

  Why hadn’t he?

  Because of Bart.

  It always came back to Bart’s death and her responsibility for it. At least in Conner’s mind. She pulled her gaze away, searching for something to focus on. Even if they did discover what happened, it wouldn’t change Conner’s lack of faith in her. It wouldn’t bring back her trust in him.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Conner broke away from the men and headed toward her. Only the waiter’s announcement that dinner was served kept Erica from turning and rushing out the door.

  Mrs. Kilgore intercepted Conner and took his arm possessively. “Come along, Mr. Preston. You’re going to sit beside me and tell me all about that lovely company you have. I intend to commission you to spend lots of my husband’s money on a piece of jewelry I heard about.”

  “I’ll be glad to. Your husband told me he has acquired a new piece of artwork for his gallery, the Virgin Mary,” Conner said with a smile. “I know he must be excited.”

  “Oh, yes. You have no idea. Personally,” she confided, “I don’t see the point in having something you can’t put out for company. But he is positively ecstatic.”

  “I would be also. He’s promised to show it to me.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “He did? I mean, he’s usually so secretive about his collection. But then, fine art is your field, isn’t it? Come, let us sit down.”

  Conner allowed her to direct him to the chair beside her. On the other end of the table, Kilgore was fussing over Erica.

  Conner was beginning to wonder if bringing Erica had been wise. There were always unknown dangers in a search for the truth.

  When that feeling of danger came to him previously, it acted like a catalyst for the senses. Everything was magnified. Colors were even more brilliant. Sounds were intensified. Paths became clearer. Slapping past the danger was second nature.

  Except on the morning Bart was killed. The color and the senses were there, but not as harbingers of danger. Every part of him had been focused on Erica. He hoped that he wasn’t making that mistake again.

  The meal was a surprise. Rich, pungent gumbo, red beans and rice, were washed down by great pitchers of beer.

  “You know,” Mrs. Kilgore explained, “many of the Cajuns were actually Germans. They were more accustomed to eating turnips, cabbage, and potatoes, which were in short supply here. But the baron, the merchant who built our castle, apparently had an African housekeeper who quickly converted the family to the local fares. We thought you might enjoy a typical Louisiana feast.”

  “Of course, if we really wanted to be typical,” Brighton interrupted, “we’d be serving you salt pork, corn bread, rice, and wild turkey.”

  A twitter of laughter rose and fell.

  Conner raised his goblet in a toast. “On behalf of your guests, I thank you for the delicious gumbo.”

  Erica took a spoon of the stew and silently agreed. She was often called on to take part in long-drawn-out official functions where chicken or beef was the main dish. This was turning out to be a pleasant surprise. She was seated between one of Brighton’s neighbors and Karl Ernst. The opportunity was being presented to gather information on a social level and she ought to make use of it.

  Turning a bright smile on the rotund little man, she asked, “Do you really think the committee will learn anything about the missing artwork?”

  “It won’t be easy,” he admitted. “After all, unscrupulous treasure hunters have been searching for nearly fifty years. Some of them may even have had a part in hiding the stolen goods. My guess is that most of it was destroyed in the bombing of Berlin or melted down to pay war debts.”

  “Have any of the artworks been found?” Mr. Boykin asked.

  Mr. Ernst spent no time acknowledging the secretary. All his attention was focused on Erica. “Some, yes. There was an American soldier who was part of the first team in after the surrender. He gathered up everything he could, packed it up, and sent it home. Only when he died and the family found the cache of paintings and religious icons did we learn it still existed.”

  Erica glanced down the table, wondering if Conner could hear, and decided that their hostess was doing a good job of preventing that. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Technically yes. But every invading army has done the same thing throughout history. The treasures probably didn’t legally belong to the churches and museums that housed them in 1940. Hitler’s troops claimed them as the spoils of war for the glory of the German Empire. Your soldier just looked at it as souvenir hunting. Same results.”

  “Like Bart’s marble arm?” Erica asked.

  A flash of surprise appeared on Karl’s face, then disappeared just as quickly. “Bart’s arm?”

  “Yes. In one of those tunnels we were mapping out we ran across a piece of broken marble. Bart thought it was probably a piece of one of the statues behind the altar. Didn’t he show it to you?” she asked.

  Karl shrugged his shoulders. “Me? I’m afraid not. Bart came to me only once about anything out of the ordinary and that was the night before he died. He wanted to know about the police.”

  Down the table Conner turned his attention to Ernst, no longer pretending to listen to his hostess.

  “The police?” Erica repeated. “Why would he ask you about the police?”

  Karl took a bite of the beans and rice, chewing thoughtfully as he answered. “Apparently he was afraid he had been followed. He wondered what the police would do to a foreign student who broke the law.”

  “He didn’t say what kind of law?” Erica asked.

  “No. I told him not to worry. If I ever saw a student who was law-abiding, it was Bart. I got the idea he was asking for his brother.” Karl glanced at Conner. “I understand that your—friend was pretty wild back then.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I sent him to the American embassy. If he or Conner got into trouble, the consulate was his best ally.”

  The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully. But Erica was uncomfortable with what she’d learned. She’d been sure that Bart had told her he’
d shown the piece of broken marble to his adviser, that Karl had even kept it. But it was so long ago, she might be remembering wrong.

  Or was Karl Ernst lying?

  Once the after-dinner coffee and liquors were served, Brighton tapped on his glass for attention. “Conner, are you and Erica ready to see my little collection?”

  “We certainly are.”

  “I promised Ernst a look at her too. If you’ll come along.”

  As Brighton flicked on the wall sconces, Conner and the others followed him up the stairs and down a corridor to a heavy locked door. On the side panel next to the door was an elaborate security system into which Brighton punched a series of numbers. Finally the door opened and Brighton entered, standing aside while his guests filed into the room.

  Erica had been in many home galleries, but this one was unique. There was one long wall devoted to paintings, each with its own light above. The other wall displayed flat sculpture, photographs, lithographs, and other unusual pieces. But the table in the center was the focal point of the collection. Beneath a clear dome, drenched in soft light, was a small, intricately molded gold statue of the Virgin Mary standing on an ornately carved base. She was barely twelve inches tall. Her small face was so beautiful, every detail in the skin so realistically drawn that Erica expected to see her cry.

  “She’s exquisite,” Conner whispered. “I can see why finding this would inspire such dedication to search for the rest of the treasures.”

  “Do we know the artist?” Erica asked.

  Brighton smiled. “You tell me. You’re the art historian.”

  Erica shook her head. “I’m afraid this was never included in any of my classes. Maybe Professor Ernst knows who the artist is.”

  “I don’t,” he replied. “Though I recall a description of such a piece in the list of missing treasures. There were two of them, identical. They came from a small chapel in France.”

  Brighton Kilgore beamed from ear to ear. “Isn’t she extraordinary?”

  “Extraordinary,” Conner agreed. “Would it be possible for me—for Erica to have a photograph of the statue?”

  “Yes,” Erica added. “The committee needs to begin compiling a reference file.”

  Conner gave Erica a grateful smile. “I could have my office run a check on the photograph. I keep an extensive file of artists and pieces. For my work.”

  Brighton pursed his lips as he considered the request. “I suppose so. As long as it isn’t released to the public. You see, I have a state-of-the-art security system, but I’d rather not test it. Joseph? Bring the Polaroid.”

  As Brighton made several snapshots of the statue, Conner and Erica gave lip service to what otherwise would be an enviable collection. By the time they’d covered the room, the pictures were ready and Conner stuck them inside his coat pocket.

  “Now,” Brighton announced. “Let us move to the levee, where we’ll light our annual Christmas bonfire.”

  Conner spoke briefly with Mrs. Kilgore, then disappeared while topcoats and furs were donned. He rejoined the guests on the porch. Conner, Erica, and Brighton were three of the first six guests ferried by limo down the long drive and across River Road. Uniformed servants stood along the steps, holding lanterns to guide them to the top of the levee while the limo went back for the others.

  “In the old days,” Brighton explained, “the house was much closer to the water. But the Mississippi is a lady with a mind of her own. Until the Army Corps of Engineers built this levee back in the thirties, the river changed course every few years.”

  Conner was holding Erica’s hand as they topped the grassy ridge and walked across the road-wide strip of gravel along the top. A blast of cold air swept in from the river, almost pushing her back. Conner pulled her closer, sliding his arms around her waist, enclosing her inside his topcoat next to his body.

  “Thank you, Father West Wind,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve wanted to do this since dinner.”

  “What?”

  “Hold you close. You look good enough to eat, and I had to satisfy myself with gumbo and rice. Pure torture.”

  “No gun tonight?”

  Conner didn’t mention the one strapped to his ankle. “No, if we’re attacked, you’ll have to defend me.”

  In the darkness, Erica allowed herself to lean against him, grateful not only for the warmth, but for the sense of belonging she’d felt ever since they’d arrived. Gradually her tightly drawn nerves began to relax, then tingle in subdued but definite excitement.

  With his arms around her, Conner burrowed beneath her woolen stole and caught her wrist. “You’re cold,” he said.

  “Only on the outside.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Dragon Lady. You know what that does to me.”

  “What?”

  “Makes me think of midnight and chocolate.”

  “Maybe if you speak to Mrs. Kilgore she’ll brew you a cup of hot cocoa when we go back to the house.”

  “She’d better not.”

  Conner’s fingers laced with hers, his middle finger drawing little circles in her palm. Viewing the Kilgores’ Christmas tree earlier, she’d felt an unaccountable sadness for all the Christmases they had missed, she and Conner and the child he never knew he’d lost. Now she needed his touch. She wanted to know that he needed her. If just for this one night, she needed to feel wanted.

  “This is some levee,” she said, trying to distract herself from the sensations of his body and hands on her. “It’s certainly nothing like the ones I saw on television when they were filling sacks with sand to hold back the flood waters.”

  “Ummmmm.”

  “It must be more than fifty feet across. It’s like a dam.”

  “Ummmmm.”

  He slipped his other hand beneath her arm to her abdomen. Erica’s heart, already beating rapidly, began to pound so hard that she was sure the others could hear it. Approaching footsteps announced the arrival of the rest of the guests.

  “As you can see,” Mrs. Kilgore was saying, “we have already constructed our frame. Bring the lanterns, Joseph, so that our guests can see what you’ve done.”

  As the servants moved toward the large, dark shape, there was a gasp of astonishment. The castle had been recreated in the eight-foot-high structure, even down to the turrets on the corners of the edifice.

  “I see you’re surprised,” she went on. “Some of our neighbors build a simple cone shape from logs, driftwood, and sugarcane stalks. But most are more elaborate—boats, animals. In honor of our special guests this year, Brighton had our home recreated.”

  “Oh, my. I can’t imagine that you’d want to burn this,” one of the women observed.

  “And Christmas Eve isn’t until tomorrow,” another voiced.

  Privately Erica decided it was the height of conceit for a man to torch his home. Still, perhaps the symbolism was such that his gesture was one of warmth instead of ego.

  Brighton took a torch and walked toward the castle. “True, but any bonfire tomorrow evening is likely to be drowned out by the rain. So we decided to light our fire tonight in honor of our guests.”

  “Where did the tradition originate?” Erica asked.

  “Every year, on Christmas Eve, the people along the river build fires of welcome for Father Noel, who comes downriver in his pirogue to deliver gifts to the children. Another custom which is said to have originated in Germany.”

  “Joseph, bring the champagne,” Mrs. Kilgore commanded.

  After everyone was served, Brighton Kilgore lifted his glass. “To friends both old and new and to all those things that link the present with the past. Merry Christmas to one and all.”

  As they drank the icy liquid, Brighton lit the torch and touched it to the bottom of the replica of his castle. As they watched it burst into flames, as if on signal other bonfires were struck, lighting a path up and down the river.

  “It’s a beautiful tradition,” Erica murmured. “If I were Father Noel, I’d bring everyone along the river w
onderful gifts.”

  “What would you like Father Noel to bring you?” Conner asked Erica.

  “Me? Don’t be silly. My parents explained the myth to me when I was five years old. After that I pretty much gave up on gift-giving of any kind. I mean going into a store and buying your own Christmas present just isn’t much fun.”

  She might have given up, but Conner didn’t have to be told that she hadn’t given up the dream. Even he and Bart had held on to their belief in Santa as long as possible, “else,” Conner had explained to the brother who was six years younger, “he won’t come to see us anymore.” He’d known Erica was an only child and she’d never shared any of her childhood experiences, except for the well-worn bunny on her bed. Now that he looked back on it, they’d spent all their time in the present.

  The glasses were returned to the tray and Erica gratefully reclaimed her spot of warmth in Conner’s arms. As the fire stretched toward the heavens, Conner remembered Erica’s confession that she’d never had a Christmas tree. At that moment he resolved to give her a tree with all the trimmings, including a visit from Santa. Back at the house he excused himself and found a phone. He didn’t have much time, but if you had money, an hour was long enough.

  On the way back to the hotel later, Erica lay in the curve of Conner’s arm, resting her cheek on his chest.

  “Karl Ernst thinks that most of the treasures were destroyed by the bombing of Germany at the end of the war,” Erica said.

  “Could be.” Conner planted a kiss along Erica’s ear, then chastised himself for letting his pleasure interfere with her attempt at sharing information.

  “Did you know about the American soldier who gathered up all the paintings and religious icons and shipped them home?”

  He moved his lips lower. “I think I read something about it. He kept them in a bank vault, didn’t he?”

  “Until he died and his family discovered his secret.”

  “What else did Karl say?”

  “He said that Bart only came to him once, the night before he died. He was worried about being followed. Professor Ernst said he sent Bart to the American embassy.”