She turned toward him and held out her hand in a businesslike manner, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. MacFhionnlaigh.” Her voice was a sweet sonata in his ears.

Anselme took the delicate hand firmly and found himself looking down into the deepest pair of espresso eyes he had ever seen. She wore no discernible makeup, but her sakura pink lips still stood out from her porcelain skin. Somewhere between ebony and rosewood, her hair was set with a ginkgo branch of gold in an expertly self-coiffured bun by a well-practised hand. The parchment pale skin of…