Hugging myself against the chill in the house, I head down the ifteen or so stairs to a dimly lit, dungeon-like room, and gasp. Chris is standing at a wall, working on a dragon mural like the one in his oice, and all around him, more paintings of dragons sit on easels. As my gaze eagerly travels over the paintings, I can see the progression of the young artist who became the master he is today. These are the works in which he’s placed a piece of himself; pieces he doesn’t want to share, or he’d have auctioned them of years ago for charity. But he’s shared them with me.

Chris sets his brush on a stand by the wall he’s painting and turns to face me. I walk to him and wrap my arms around his waist. “You have no idea what it means to me, to get to see this part of you.”

“You have no idea how much it means to me, to have you here.” He tilts his head toward the mural. “I came here alone last year and started this. It’s how I got through the day. But it didn’t work. This place, and the history it comes with, still brought me to my knees.”

“But you didn’t need Isabel,” I point out.

“No. I didn’t need Isabel. I will never need her again. Do you know how I know that? I know because I lay in bed and watched you sleep last night, and I felt at peace like I never have before. I decided then thatyou are what’s going to bring me to my knees, Sara. You’re what’s going to change what this day means to me.”

“What does that mean?” I ask softly. “I don’t understand.”

He goes down on one knee. “Marry me, baby. Be my wife, and spend the rest of your life painting dragons with me. I know a jeweler in San Francisco. We’ll have an amazing ring custom-made, and—”

I pull him up and kiss him. “I don’t care about a ring. I just want you. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, wrapping me in his arms and kissing me. And I inally dare to believe that nothing can ever tear us apart.

Epilogue

Somewhere in Italy . . .

Racing through the dark street, I search desperately for a phone.

I have to let someone know that I’m Ella Ferguson, not the person my passport says I am. I can’t call Sara without putting her in danger, which means I have to call “him.” I don’t want to call him but I have no other choice.

My gaze catches on a store window with the lights on, and I rush toward it. Bursting through the door of the small wine shop, my chest heaving, I search the rows of bottles for some form of life. An elderly man appears from the back and I rush toward him. “Phone. Please. Can I use a phone? It’s an emer-gency.”

He says something in Italian I don’t understand, and desperation rises in me. “Telephone?” I say, and hold my hand to my ear, and his eyes go wide.

Relief washes over me as he motions me to the back room, where I’ll be out of sight from the window. He hands me a phone and I punch in the operator code. “Yes. Hello. I need to make a collect call. It’s international.”

“No! No!” the man exclaims, evidently knowing at least one word in English. I try to move out of his reach but he grabs my arm and snatches the one chance I have of calling for help away from me.

“Wait,” I plea. “It’s collect—free. It’s no cost to you.”

He shakes his head. “No international call.”

The bells to the shop jangle and my heart jackhammers. I glance around wildly and search for an escape. Spotting a back door, I dash for it, push it open, and burst into a dark alley between buildings, cold air smacking me in the face. I take of running, far more afraid of what will happen if they catch me than I am of what might await me in the darkness.

Then the door behind me creaks open and slams against the wall.

I run faster. I have to get away.

Something hard like a brick slams into my back and I gasp, stumbling and lying forward. As the ground rises up to meet me I try to catch myself with my hands, but another thud hits my back, and I slam into the concrete. My head smacks the pavement, and spots ill my vision. No! I ight the fog overcom-ing me . . . but it’s too powerful.

Everything goes dark.