“It turns out there were six additional paintings that we didn’t know about.”

“Really?” Anna raised a hand to her mouth, feigning astonishment. “And where were they hiding?”

“In a bank vault in Lugano. The Rolfe family lawyer told you about them after the scandal over your father’s wartime conduct had died down. You instructed the lawyer to smuggle the paintings out of Switzerland and deliver them to your villa in Portugal.”

“How naughty of me. Are they still there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In that case,” said Anna, “I’m obligated to report them to the Swiss government immediately. Otherwise, I will face stiff fines. You see, Canton Zurich taxes the wealth of its residents annually. Each year I must submit a detailed list of my possessions, including an inventory of the paintings I own. And each year the government pockets a not insignificant portion of my net worth.”

“What is it these days, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s possible it starts with the letter B.”

“And the number before the B?”

She delivered her answer with raised eyebrows. “Could be a two.”

“I never realized there was that much.”

“I am the only surviving heir to the Rolfe banking fortune. I’ve also earned a considerable sum of money throughout my long recording and concert career. But the last thing I would ever do is conceal my wealth to avoid paying taxes. That’s the sort of thing my father did.”

“It turns out that you’re more alike than you realized.”

Anna frowned. “If you keep talking like that, my love, you will never get me into bed. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. When, exactly, did my father acquire these mysterious paintings?”

“In the fifties, mainly in France. They don’t appear in the Lost Art Database or any other registry of looted artwork. But given your father’s deplorable wartime conduct, most reputable dealers and collectors would steer clear of them. Which is why you’re going to place them with a certain Edmond Ricard in the Geneva Freeport.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because Monsieur Ricard was recently in possession of a Picasso that was stolen from a man named Bernard Lévy during the German occupation of France. With your help, I’m going to find it and return it to Lévy’s rightful heirs.”

Anna nodded contemplatively. “If there’s anything else I should know about this little scheme of yours, now would be a fine time to tell me.”

“Two people linked to the painting have been murdered.”

“Only two?”

“For all I know, there might be others.”

“He’s not going to kill me, is he?”

“Ricard? I can’t imagine.”

“Because the last time you and I got involved in looted art—”

The bell sounded before Anna could finish her thought. Rising, she went into the entrance hall and admitted a pair of room service waiters. They arranged the food on the table without commentary and hurriedly withdrew.

Anna sat down and laid a napkin across her lap. “Perhaps I’ve been going about this the wrong way.”

“Going about what?” asked Gabriel as he removed the cork from the second bottle of white burgundy.

“Convincing you to leave that gorgeous wife of yours and marry me.”

“Anna, please.”

“Will you at least hear my proposal?”

“No.”

“I’m prepared to be generous.”

“I’m sure you are. But I’m not interested in your money. I’m desperately in love with Chiara.”

“What about the reckless affair she’s having with this Giacomo fellow?”

“Gennaro,” said Gabriel. “And it isn’t real.”

“Of course it isn’t. After all, why would she be involved with a coffee boy when she’s married to you?” Anna lowered her eyes toward her plate. “In case you were wondering, the answer is yes. I’ll help you find that Picasso.”

“What’s your schedule like?”

“I’m in Oslo next week and Prague the week after.”

“And then?”

“I’ll have to check with my assistant.”

“Please do,” said Gabriel. “And then get rid of her.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to give you a new one.”

“What’s she like?”

“Pure trouble.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” said Anna. “All I need now are the paintings.”

“I’ll take care of those, too.”

“How?”

Gabriel, with a movement of his hand, indicated that he was going to paint them himself.

“A Modigliani, a Van Gogh, a Renoir, a Cézanne, and a Monet?”