But when Derek had come to her hotel five years ago, why hadn’t he been turned off by her haggard look and the bruises on her face? She shivered as she remembered the plastic surgeon who had been waiting at the estate. He had said that he was going to hide the scars from the beating she had received. After the bandages had been removed, she had noticed that she looked slightly different – not better or worse, just different, her cheekbones slightly more pronounced, for example – but she had attributed that to an unavoidable consequence of hiding the scars. Now she realized, My God, Derek told the surgeon to make me look more like those other women.

In dismay, she peered around the room, so cold now that her teeth chattered when she saw photographs on the other walls. Some were in black and white, others in color. Some were close-ups, others group shots. Some were taken in outdoor settings, others in palatial interiors. But they all had one common denominator: The same woman was in all of them. Although the younger shots of her made her somewhat hard to identify, there was no mistaking her features as she became a teenager and then a young adult.

She looks like me, Sienna thought. Like the other women in the portraits. No, that’s wrong. I’ve got it backward. We look like her. That’s why Derek chose us.

But who in God’s name was she? Women’s shoes had been arranged on shelves. Her shoes, Sienna thought. Mannequins supported festive dresses. Her dresses, Sienna thought. She reached for a leather-bound scrapbook, opened it, and shuddered when she stared at a birth certificate for Christina Gabriela Bellasar. Derek’s sister?

Born in Rome on May 14, 1939.

One year after Derek was born.

Glancing with greater distress toward the photographs on the wall, Sienna confirmed another common factor – in none of the photos was the woman ever seen as old. Pulse rushing, Sienna flipped to the back of the scrapbook and found the document that would logically end a scrapbook that began with a birth certificate: a death certificate. On the final page, there was a yellowed clipping from a Rome newspaper. Her parents had insisted that Sienna learn Italian. She had no trouble reading the small item.

Christina Gabriela Bellasar (the last name suggested she had never married) had died in Rome on June 10, 1969, as a consequence of a fall from a balcony on the twentieth floor of a hotel. Sienna subtracted 1939 from 1969. Christina had been thirty.

As old as I am, Sienna thought. As old as the women in the portraits seemed. With soul-numbing dread, she felt compelled to turn toward a corner of the room, where she saw an antique table, upon which sat an urn. The urn seemed centuries old, its faded paint showing maidens lying beside a stream in an idyllic forest. Sienna had no doubt whose ashes were in that urn, just as she had no doubt what Derek would do to her if he discovered that she had violated this shrine. He wouldn’t wait for the second portrait to be completed. He would kill her now.

Descending the stairs, she was certain that every servant and guard she passed must be sensing the fear she struggled to conceal. Despite the pain in her thighs, she felt a panicked need to run, but no one looked at her strangely, and her body obeyed her fierce will, maintaining an apparently untroubled pace.

When she entered the sunroom, she saw that Chase had rejected tempera paint in favor of oil. Having attached a canvas to a frame, he was sketching on it. Her angle of approach prevented her from seeing the image. She didn’t care. All that mattered was getting him where they could talk without fear of microphones.

Chase looked at her, troubled by the stark expression on her face.

“I’ve been thinking this should be set outdoors,” Sienna said for the benefit of anyone who might be eavesdropping.

“Oh?”

“The first portrait was inside. The second ought to have a different setting. There’s a place on the terrace I think might work.”

“Why don’t you show me.”

When she took his arm, leading him, her trembling fingers made him frown.

They emerged onto the sun-bright terrace, Sienna guiding him toward a corner of its stone railing. “Here,” she said. “Like this.” She pretended to show him a pose, at the same time lowering her voice. “Do you think we can be overheard?”

A machine gun rattled in the distance.

“No. But if we stay outside too long, we might attract suspicion. What did you find?”

“Were you serious about taking me out of here?”

“Absolutely.”

“You honestly think there’s a chance?”

“I wouldn’t try it otherwise. But if you stay here, there’s no chance.”

The words rushed out of her. “Do it.”

“What you saw was that bad?”

“As soon as possible.”

“This afternoon,” Chase said.

The sense that everything was speeding up made her light-headed. “How?”

When he told her and explained what she was going to need, her dizziness intensified.

Time had never seemed so swift and yet so slow. She felt pushed forward and shoved back. Suddenly it was lunch hour, but as quickly as the morning had passed, the meal itself seemed to last forever. Derek stopped by to express his enthusiasm for how much work had been accomplished that morning, and Sienna tried not to look puzzled, wondering what on earth he was talking about. Work? No work had been done. But when she and Chase returned to the sunroom, she realized she had been too preoccupied all morning to pay attention to how much Chase had accomplished.

The sketch had been completed. It showed her only from the waist up, naked, standing against a blank background, her back straight, her arms behind her, a defiant gaze directed toward anyone viewing the canvas. The lack of detail in the background gave the impression that she was so furious about being forced on display that she had detached herself from her surroundings, her body here but her mind miles away.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. She felt so apprehensive about what they would soon try that everything around her was a haze. Even Chase seemed as insubstantial as smoke, and as for her half-naked body before him, she was hardly conscious of it. The only reality was in her imagination as she brooded about the future. She shivered, but not at all because her skin was uncovered.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea, she thought. Maybe we shouldn’t try it.

But I have to. It’s my only chance.

But maybe we should think about it more. Maybe this isn’t the right time. Maybe we should wait for a better – From the testing range, a burst of machine-gun fire brought her back to the moment. The sunroom seemed to materialize before her. The haze dispersed. She became aware of Chase studying her, darting his brush toward the canvas.

A distant explosion rattled windows. Immediately another sound rattled windows, the din of an approaching helicopter.