Zoya sat on a park bench and palmed her new phone. Reading the ad one more time, she hoped the property was still available.

Constructed with the same quality and style as the one-hundred-year-old main house, the furnished single bedroom garage apartment provided a private entrance. Hardwood floors. Washer and dryer. An upper patio overlooked an arbor to the courtyard and fountain. Located in the historic district, a grocery store, coffee shop, and several restaurants were within walking distance.

Her heart hammered as she dialed, and a woman with a French accent answered. Once Zoya confirmed the property's availability, she arranged to see the place.

An hour later, she set her duffle bag down and rang the doorbell. When Delphine Angier opened the door, she wasn't anything like Zoya pictured. She imagined someone older and fat from years of eating rich cuisine. Before her stood a beautiful woman of Asian descent with dark eyes full of what had to be joy. Black hair twisted into a messy bun with wisps dangling around her flawless face. A round beaded turquoise necklace, weighing at least a pound, rested against her stylish orange and red brocade tunic.

Delphine eyed Zoya from top to bottom and she felt uneasy. Although, she'd removed her nose ring and dressed in basic black slacks and white cotton shirt, she still had the bottle blond hair. She picked up her bag, straightened, and pulled her shoulders back.

"Mrs. Angier?"

"Yes. Come in, my dear."

Zoya followed her into a sitting room and got dizzy. It'd been awhile since she'd thought about French décor, but she'd not forgotten how gaudy it could be. The woman eased onto one of two orange velvet Bergere chairs and motioned for Zoya to sit. She chose the opposing crewel Queen Victorian. On either side of the fireplace, stone columns held urns full of leafy plants, and a wall tapestry depicting a grape harvest hung above the mantle.

Removing a sheet of paper from the top of a French cerulean antique two-drawer chest, she handed it to Zoya. "I'll leave you alone to fill out the application. I had chocolate croissants for breakfast. Would you like one with a glass of champagne?"

It was only ten o'clock in the morning, but Zoya wasn't going to mention it. However, those pastries sounded good. "I'd love a croissant and water is fine."

Her hostess flapped a hand in the air. "Absolument pas! Vous ne pouvez pas boire de l'eau avec de la pâtisserie."

Zoya blinked. She understood the first part. Absolutely not. But wasn't sure about the rest. She'd not spoken French since she was fifteen. She'd have to brush up on the language.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I grew up in Louisiana, my maman always spoke French in the house. You can't drink water with pastry. I'll bring you some fresh squeezed orange juice. Oui?"

Zoya nodded. "Yes, thank you." Once she was alone, it didn't take long to finish the paperwork. She stared down at the blank lines and her heart sank. No chance of being approved. She glanced around the room again. Resting on an easel, a painting of sunflowers in a blue vase caught her eye. She walked to the canvas and squinted to read the signature. D. Angier. If she played her cards right, living here just might be possible.

When the woman returned, she set a silver tray on a small ottoman.

Zoya passed the paper and took her first bite. After nothing but peanut butter and crackers, the pastry shocked her taste buds. As she ate, Mrs. Angier studied the application.

"So, I see you have no credit cards. No bank account. No job. No references. No former employment. You list a previous landlady—deceased. Your parents, as well."

She looked up at Zoya as if waiting for an explanation.

And she had none. At least nothing she could share. Setting the tray back on the ottoman, Zoya finished her juice, then cleared her throat. "I don't have any pets. I don't party. I'm not messy. I can pay six months' rent in advance, if you'll accept cash."

Lacing her fingers together, Mrs. Angier shouldered back in her chair. "With no employment record, I'm forced to wonder where your money comes from."

"I inherited it." The look in the woman's eyes said she was about to send Zoya packing, but she couldn't let that happen. This was perfect. "I just want a nice quiet place to concentrate on painting."

That got her attention with renewed interest. "You're an artist?"

"Struggling."

"Do you have anything I may see?"

"Just some sketches."

"Show me."

Zoya unzipped her bag, removed the pad, and handed it over. At first, she turned the pages quickly, then slower. Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she held the pad for Zoya to see. "This man. Your lover? Oui?"

In her excitement, Zoya had forgotten to take that picture out. Roman. Every inch of him. Some more important than others. "Yes."

She raised a brow. "Ah. More than that. You are in love with him. Oui?"

Zoya's throat thickened. She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

"But he doesn't love you?"

This wasn't going the way Zoya had planned. The last thing she wanted was to look at the sketches of Roman and remember how it felt to run her hands over his beautiful body. She hung her head and bit back tears. "No."

Delphine shook her head. ''Men give us their cocks, and we give them our hearts. He is the real reason you want solitude. To heal your broken heart. Oui?''

Zoya nodded again.

''When can you move in ?''

"Now. This bag is all I have."

Mrs. Angier passed the pad to Zoya and motioned for her to follow. "I'll show you the place and if you like it, then it's yours."

Zoya couldn't help but smile. Everything was finally going her way. As soon as she began to paint, she'd forget all about Roman and the rest of her problems.

Her new landlady spoke over her shoulder. "Where are your painting supplies?"

"I don't have any. Maybe you can point me to the nearest supply store."

"Not necessary. I have many you can have." She held up her hands. "I cannot paint any longer." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. "After my husband died, I didn't have it in me anymore. He was my muse."

Inside the apartment, Zoya turned in a circle. The online pictures didn't do the place justice. Everything was pristine. Gleaming countertops. Spotless white cabinets. Stainless appliances. Her heart sped up. Eight months here would be a dream come true. Natural light poured through the windows. She couldn't wait to get started on her first canvas.

"I love it. I promise I will be the best tenant you've ever had."

The proprietor laughed. "No doubt because you're my first. This was my studio, but once I accepted I'd never paint again, I hated to waste the space. You, my dear, were sent to me as an angel. Watching you create what I no longer can will be my joy. Perhaps you will let me teach you."

"Yes. I would like that very much."

She cocked her head. "This lover. He was good?"

Zoya's cheeks heated. She'd not expected the question.

"Oh, Chere. I'm sorry. I have embarrassed you. It's just from his endowment. I assumed he was."

"Yes." Maybe someday when she no longer loved him, she would want someone else, but not now.

Mrs. Angier fingered the balls of her necklace. "I had a lover like him once. I still shiver when I recall our time together."

Zoya's chest tightened. "Did you marry him?"

She chuckled. "No. He was already married. I've had countless lovers, but he was the best. Perhaps it was because he was younger. So virile. So insatiable. Anyway, I bring this up so you will understand you will also have many, if you choose. That is the thing with women. We are the ones who set the rules of lovemaking." She laid the key on the counter. "I'm sure you have noticed the market down the street. And I hear the coffee shop is good. However, I have breakfast each morning at eight and I would be happy for you to join me. I would welcome the company. My housekeeper stays until noon each day, but she is too busy to provide companionship."

"Okay." Zoya reached into her bag and pulled out six stacks of bills banded together. "Here's the rent."

She laughed again. "You were convinced I would accept your application?"

"No. But I wanted to be prepared."

Roman disconnected, threw his phone onto the bed and cursed. He didn't care if he had called Mariana a thousand times; he needed to find out if Zoya was all right. Why in the hell she hadn't contacted her friend pissed him off. She'd promised.

It had been a week and during that time he'd not slept for thinking about her. Mariana's old Toyota wasn't dependable. Zoya was alone, and according to Mariana, had no plan. Who strikes out with no idea of where they're going? Hell, she could have had car trouble and ended up with some pervert or a serial killer. He took a deep breath. Okay, he was letting his imagination get the best of him. Sleep deprivation did that to a guy. Still, she should have been more responsible.

He stuck his phone in his pocket and headed outside. He still had scrap lumber to dispose of. At least the cleanup would keep him busy. He wanted to jump on his Harley and try to find her, but he had no clue where to start.

He got the wheelbarrow and tossed blocks of two-by-fours into it. After he rolled the first load to the burn pile he'd started, he returned for more, wheeling next to a row of tomatoes. The garden was already getting overgrown. Damn it. Every way he turned there was something to remind him of her.

He pitched more wood into the cart and thought about Miles Landry. Roman had expected the PI to come back, but he hadn't. Guess he figured his warning worked because only a fool would have hung around, and Zoya was no idiot. She'd been smart enough to cover her tracks for three years, she could do it again. That's what bothered him. He'd never find her unless she wanted to be found.

One hint. That's all Roman needed. Something to point him in the right direction.

He stopped and stared into space. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He didn't know who said that, but it was true. Then he palmed his phone and punched in Mariana's number again. She answered on the first ring.

She sounded irate, plowing right into the conversation without a greeting. "Look, Roman. I told you I'll let you know when I hear from her."

"That's not what I'm calling about. I want you to report your car stolen."

WELL. Lets hope that works better than some of his other bright ideas.

Who else loves Delphine? She and Lemon would get along fantastically.

In case you care, theres an image in the top of the chapter of some of Zoya's "drawings."

TEASER: "I am giving you two weeks."