He paused, forced a smile and waved at several people greeting him. Bijou immediately took over for him, making the conversation, easing him into it occasionally. She tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm, a small way of using code between them. When Arnaud needed a little space from the crowd grouped around them, he pressed his palm tightly over her hand and she would find an excuse to graciously move on, giving him breathing space.

The next two hours were spent talking to couples, groups and individual fans of Arnaud’s work, all eager to purchase one of his famous sculptures or a smaller item from his rare jewelry section. They worked the room together, Bijou making certain that no one felt slighted. They were all potential customers, and many were repeat buyers, millionaires and even two billionaires perusing the art. Not only did they get to talk to Arnaud, but they were more than delighted to chat with the celebrity on his arm.

The music turned dreamy and the small dance floor became crowded. Men in tuxedos and women in long, glittering gowns moved together to sway and twirl. Bijou caught sight of Saria and Drake dancing, steps perfectly matching.

“Is Drake your bodyguard?” Arnaud asked as they distanced themselves from the latest crowd of admirers.

“No, why?”

“He carries himself like a bodyguard, and he’s very aware of everyone in the room and where you are. He isn’t the only one either,” Arnaud added.

Bijou had forgotten just how much Arnaud, as an artist, took in. He was very observant, even if he really wasn’t all that social. She inclined her head, respecting him too much to lie to him. “Remy’s worried that someone is tryin’ to hurt me. And you know I’ve always had to have bodyguards. I’m tryin’ to make it so that won’t be necessary, but I’m not quite there yet.”

“You’ll get there,” he assured. “Although, I like the idea that someone’s looking out for you. Is this thing with Remy serious?”

“I’ve always been serious about him,” she admitted. In some ways it seemed a relief that she could say it out loud. “He helped me when no one else would. He stood up for me and risked his job to do it. I always thought he was everythin’ a man should be.” She shrugged. “I guess I came home to find out if the real thing was as good or better than my fantasy.”

“I hope he is,” Arnaud said. “You deserve to be happy, Bijou. I hope he keeps bodyguards around you for a long time.” He took her hand and brought it absently to his lips, bowing slightly, very old world.

Bijou turned her head as a series of flashes went off. Bob Carson stood only a few feet away, snapping pictures, one right after the other. Involuntarily and in a slight panic, she tightened her fingers on Arnaud’s arm. She hadn’t expected to see Carson after the incident in the swamp, but smelling him there wasn’t the same as proving that he’d been there.

Arnaud put up a hand to shield her from the camera, turning her quickly and walking her toward the back. He glanced over his shoulder. “You definitely have bodyguards looking out for you; they’re escorting him out. That’s got to be the one who destroyed my car and wrote all over yours. Your stalker.”

“There’s no proof, but he does scare me a little bit,” she admitted. “Who’s escorting him out? I can’t imagine him going quietly.”

She stopped to watch as Gage and Remy came up on either side of Carson. Drake stood in front of him, relieving him of the camera. When he started to protest, Remy leaned in and whispered something very softly to the man. Carson went absolutely pale. He backed up, both hands going up in the air in surrender. Drake handed Carson back his camera as he and Gage walked the photographer outside. Remy turned and looked straight at her.

Her eyes met his. All that intense glittering green. Her heart gave a jump and began to pound hard. He looked extremely handsome in a black suit and tie. His shoes were a little scuffed and his tie had already been loosened, but his jacket emphasized his wide shoulders, and to her, no one could hold a candle to him.

“Have you ever noticed he has cat’s eyes?” Arnaud asked. “Very unusual. Very focused. He doesn’t blink. He even moves like a cat. Fluid. Graceful. I wish I could capture that particular motion.”

With a sinking heart, Bijou recognized Arnaud’s tone had already gone to that place she had come to recognize. He was all about the muse and was in work mode, completely forgetting where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. He studied Remy as the detective made his way across the floor, weaving in and out of the crowd easily.

There would be no distracting him, Bijou knew. He was as focused on Remy as Remy was on him. Remy’s gaze had shifted to the artist and then dropped to her hand tucked so comfortably in the crook of Arnaud’s arm. Faint color stole up her neck to her cheeks. Arnaud wasn’t paying any attention to her at all, his artist’s focus completely on Remy.

“I went to a big cat sanctuary once and sat on a bench all day just watching the various cats. Look at the way he moves. The crowd actually gets out of his way. He doesn’t maneuver around them so much as they move for him, almost instinctively as if they recognized danger, someone higher on the food chain.”

“That’s probably the cop in him,” Bijou said, a little shocked at how perceptive Arnaud was. She should have realized an artist of his caliber would notice things others didn’t. “And he was in the military as well. He can handle himself.” She tried to distract him.