She had been shy but so in love with him. Every hour, every moment had been filled with what she felt. Her paintings had shown it too, they glowed with the luster of her love. She remembered his eyes, as he sat in the studio, watching her, a pile of his own work on his knees, making notes, frowning now and then as he read, then smiling in his irresistible way when he looked up. “Alors, Madame Picasso, ready to stop for lunch?”

“In a minute, I’m almost through.”

“May I have a look?” He would make as though to peek around the easel, waiting for her to jump up and protest, as she always did, until she saw the teasing in his eyes.

“Stop that! You know you can’t see it till I’m through.”

“Why not? Are you painting a shocking nude?” Laughter lighting those dazzling blue eyes.

“Perhaps I am, monsieur. Would that upset you very much?”

“Absolutely. You’re much too young to paint shocking nudes.”

“Am I?” Her big green eyes would open wide, sometimes taken in by the seeming seriousness of his words. He had replaced her father in so many ways. Marc had become the voice of authority, the strength on which she relied. She had been so overwhelmed when her father had died. It had been a godsend when suddenly Marc-Edouard Duras had appeared. She had lived with a series of aunts and uncles after her father’s death, none of whom had welcomed Deanna’s presence in their midst. And then finally, at the age of eighteen, after a year of vagabonding among her mother’s relatives, she had gone off on her own, working in a boutique in the daytime, going to art school at night. It was the art classes that kept her spirit alive. She lived only for that. She had been seventeen when her father died. He had died instantly, crashing in the plane he loved to fly. No plans had ever been made for her future; her father was convinced he was not only invincible but immortal. Deanna’s mother had died when she was twelve, and for years there had been no one in her life except Papa.