The Butterfly and the Violin by Kristy Cambron Page A

seems you and I have a common interest in this story, then.”
    “And that would be?”
    “Whatever our motives, I want to find the rightful owner of this painting as badly as you do. And when I do find them, I’ll have the pleasure of presenting him or her with a summons to appear in court. Our family has to contest the will. We have no other option.”
    “You’d take someone to court over this?”
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could see it all around them. Money. Inheritance. The lavish lifestyle that had been showered upon him. Of course the Hanover family wouldn’t want to give it up. Who would? In fact, William would probably do just about anything to protect his family’s fortune, and she could be instrumental in that.
    “Why did you ask me to come here?”
    “I told you—when I heard you were looking for the painting, I assumed you were after our estate and I figured I’d better have a chat with you.”
    She sat in silence for a moment. A memory flashed before her eyes. Her dad, leading her into a Paris gallery to talk to an old colleague. And there it was, hanging on a back wall. Not in a place of prominence, but tucked away in a dusty corner, as if the lovely violinist had been forgotten by time.
    Sera stood and shrugged her purse up over her shoulder. “Well, if you think I’m of the fortune-hunting type, I won’t stay and dampen your sister’s wedding with my presence. But if you decide you want to talk business, the address of where I’ll be staying is on the back of my business card.”
    Sera walked toward the door with as much confidence as ever. Inheritance or not, she would find the painting. With or without his help.
    “Oh, and if you call the hotel, I’ll be under the name Manhattan.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

    December 4, 1942
    C ould snow hold memories? Adele wondered. It fell down around her now just as it had on so many other nights she’d waited for him. And though it was years ago, she could still remember the first time she’d sat upon the bench, waiting in the garden hideaway as she watched the minutes tick away until it was time for her first concert. She’d been young, faith untested, so different from who she was now.
    “Here you are.” She could hear Vladimir trudging up behind her, his feet crunching on the ice-tinged grasses with each step. “I know—we were supposed to meet more than an hour ago.”
    “I was going to stay right up until performance time, hoping you’d come.”
    She half turned on the bench then, enough to see him walking up behind her in a pristine black tuxedo. Vladimir Nicolai was steadfast and strong, his dark hair falling over his forehead enough to tip his lashes. He wore an overcoat of black wool and an ivory tucker that danced out on a light gust of winter wind.
    “Tell me you haven’t been out here all this time.” He rubbed his hands together and blew into his palms. “It’s freezing out here.”
    “No. I went in for a while.” She shrugged. “But I don’t mind.”
    And she didn’t, even though her legs felt like blocks of ice. Who ever thought of waiting in a snowfall while wearing paper-thin satin? But facing the painfully cold night was nothing in comparison to waiting, hoping, and praying he would arrive. In truth, she’d have stayed out there all night, concert or not.
    She stood then, watching him, fearful of her own reaction whenever he was near. Adele had been in love with him from the moment they met more than three years before. She’d been young then, and had probably seemed like the kid-sister type to him. He’d been young too. And clueless as to her affection. But something had changed. And now the tall young man had grown up. He had grown up in the midst of war and was taking her breath away with each step in her direction.
    He stopped in his tracks, holding back from her by several feet.
    “Why are you wearing that?”
    She looked down at the fur shawl that draped over her satin gown. “What, this?” she