She stood at an arched window whose shutters were open to the starry sky, and sounds drifted up from the street—laughter and music, a warm breeze rustling through the broad leaves of the sycamore trees. He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, bending toward her neck to inhale deeply.

“I love the way your hair smells,” he said.

“Like darkroom chemicals?”

“Like flowers.” He carefully lifted her hair to bare her neck and nuzzled her there. “I like the way you taste, too.”

“Is that so?” She turned in his arms and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. This was a pivotal moment for her; she could feel herself poised on the fine edge of . . . something. She’d held all other men at arm’s length, but Finn . . . She liked the way he tasted, too, of rosé wine and lemon ice, his mouth and tongue gently enticing her to yield. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this,” she said.

“Yeah? That’s cool, Camille. Because I think about it all the time.” He took her hand and led her to the bedroom, another airy space, dimly lit and sparsely furnished with a big, low bed made up with fresh linens.

“I like your place,” she said.

“I spent the whole morning getting it ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For this.” He took off his shirt with one arm over his head. During the work at Sauveterre, she’d studied his chest and abs from afar. Now she put her hands on him, running her fingers over the contours, delighting in the soft, involuntary sound he made when she touched him.

He carefully unbuttoned her blouse, kissing each place he exposed. Then he slipped off her bra and skirt. Finally, he laid her back on the bed, and the fresh linens cushioned them with a lavender-scented sigh. Bracing himself on either side of her, he slowly, shockingly, removed her panties with his teeth.

Don’t stop, she thought. Don’t ever stop. She forgot everything except the sensations coursing over her as he caressed her, his touch less practiced than she would have expected it to be. The surprise and delight of this pleasure took her breath away. There were moments when she sensed genuine emotion from him—when he looked into her eyes and shuddered as he whispered her name, the syllables breaking with tenderness.

The night flowed on, following a course of its own, and Camille gave herself up to it, too replete with wine and lovemaking to think of anything at all. She didn’t even feel herself drifting off to sleep.

He awakened her with kisses in places that hadn’t been kissed in . . . maybe ever. Her pulse felt strong and heavy, her body softly aching with a desire she didn’t bother to resist. Later, she thought, and then she stopped thinking at all. Afterward, they lay quietly against a bank of pillows, watching the sky turn pink with the dawn.

“That was . . .” She had trouble forming a coherent sentence. “Last night was . . .”

“I thought so, too.”

“Not sure how I feel about you doing my thinking for me.”

“Then we’ll have to do a lot more of this so you can figure it out.”

“Mmm.” She felt so different with him. “I suppose we could do that.”

“I’ll find out all your deep, dark secrets.”

She felt a small part of herself recoiling. “You don’t want to go there.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Can’t we just . . . enjoy this?”

“We did, all night long.” He made a sexy, wordless sound as he stretched again.

“You know what I mean. Last night was amazing. Let’s not spoil it by . . .”

“By what? Falling in love?”

“Who said anything about falling in love?”

“I did. Surprised the crap out of myself, too.”

“You’re funny.”

“You think?” He played with a lock of her hair, twisting it lazily around his finger. “What happened to you?” he asked. “Why hasn’t some guy swept you off your feet?”

I think some guy is doing that now, she thought. She reminded herself that this was so very new. There was a big part of his life that was shrouded in mystery. Finn was haunted by a betrayal of the heart—she knew that. What she didn’t know was . . . everything else.

She pulled back, still not trusting him. Not trusting herself. No one had ever made her feel this way.

Not even Jace.

The stark admission slipped past her wall of defenses. Her feelings for Jace, honed and perfected by time and remembrance and probably a big dose of self-delusion, had never felt this deep, this real. Her feelings for Finn were messy and intense and gloriously real.

Was it because she was older now? Because she knew her own heart better? Or because she was desperate?

She grabbed her phone from the pocket of his pants.

“Don’t even think of getting out of this bed,” he said with a luxurious stretch.

“I have to go,” she said, looking at her phone. “My father has news.”

“The DNA results are back.” Camille’s father patted the envelope in his pocket. They had met in the village for coffee. The café by the river bridge seemed to be a favorite of the locals.

“Wow. That was fast. Are you . . . did you open it?”

He nodded. “In fact, I received the results yesterday. I would have told you, but you were off with your new boyfriend.”

A flush heated her cheeks. She still felt strange, almost light-headed from being with Finn. “So are you going to tell me now?” she asked.

“Didier Palomar was not my natural father.”

“Seriously? I mean, I knew . . . I thought . . . based on physical traits alone, it seemed unlikely you were related to Palomar. But now we know.”

“Yes. Now we know. But there is still much we don’t know. Does this mean I’m a fraud? That Didier was tricked into believing I was his heir? What does it mean for Lisette? Was she unfaithful? A victim of rape?” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “I want to feel relieved, but instead, it simply gives rise to more questions.”

“I know, Papa. And I’m sorry there isn’t more clarity. But I refuse to feel sorry that you were not fathered by Didier Palomar.” She took out her phone and navigated to the pictures they’d developed in the darkroom, scrolling to the shot of the tall, dark-haired soldier. “This was from a roll of film we found. He appears to be an American paratrooper. Now I wonder if he could be the one.”

Her father studied the small screen. “Lisette took this picture?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Is there a way to find out more about this man?”

She nodded. “We’re working on it. Finn has a whole historical inquiry class working on it.” She pressed a hand on his shoulder. “If people had known this about you when you were a boy, things would have been much different. They would not have accused you of being a traitor and the son of a Nazi lover. They would have been kinder to you.”

Her father’s face changed then, his eyes taking on a distant glaze as the color drained from his cheeks. She touched his arm in consternation. “What is it?”

He gave himself a small shake. “Probably nothing. But . . . a flicker of memory, perhaps. When I was very small, a stranger came to Sauveterre. He was tall and walked with a cane, and he spoke to my aunt in a language I didn’t understand.”

She caught her breath. “English? Was he speaking English?”

“Honestly, I can’t say. I was so very young, maybe four or five.” He sighed. “The past is the past. It happened. There is no point in wondering how my life would have unfolded if I’d known.”

“But . . .” She could tell there was something weighing on his mind. “Did you tell your cousin Petra about the results?”

“Of course. She was kind enough to agree to the test, and therefore I owe her the truth. She was the first one I called, even before I called you. At which point I am forced to tell you that you didn’t take my call, so I had to send a text message.” He wrinkled his nose. “You know how I feel about text messages. All those emotions and whatnot.”