Frankie Suchet had left her name and address. The book had been real, of course. But that wasn’t the strangest part of it in some ways. When Lucy had told her, three days later, the girl had taken a gigantic breath and said, “Well, that’s it then.” And she had turned around and made for the door.

“Don’t you want to take the book with you?” Lucy had called after her.

The woman had turned in the doorway. “You keep it. I have what I need from it.”

And she’d walked out.

That was the last Lucy had seen of her for five months. And then one day, she walked in through the shop door, accompanied by the most drop-dead gorgeous man Lucy had ever seen. At least Lucy thought it was Frankie Suchet. She had to look twice. Gone was the spiky hair, the air of cynicism. . . .

“It’s you! I’ve been looking for you.” Lucy’s eyes slid to the guy. She tore her eyes away and back to Frankie. “You look . . . different.”

The girl ran her hands through her hair self-consciously. “Where are my manners? Lucy Rossano, this is Henri Foucault.” She pronounced it in the French manner. “Ahn-ree Foo-coh.”

Lucy nodded to the guy and felt herself blushing like every other woman probably did when confronted with that man. “A pleasure, Monsieur Foucault. Am I to credit you for the change I see in Ms. Suchet?” Lucy glanced to Frankie. The soft expression was the real change.

“I like to think so,” the hunk murmured.

Frankie’s blush joined Lucy’s. “Never mind that. I’ve come about the book.”

“That’s why I’ve been trying to find you. No one had heard of you at the address you gave.”

“I’ve been . . . away. Do . . . you . . . have . . . the . . . book?” Frankie spoke each syllable slowly.

Lucy realized she was staring at the couple. She ran her hands through the thick mass of her hair. “Yes. Yes, of course. But someone has made an offer on it. A . . . a million dollars.”