you really work for?”
He paused. “Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.,” he said. “Security consultants.”
“Wrong answer,” she said. Then, laughing wickedly, she turned and scampered out of the maze.
Paris
AT 8:45, AS WAS HER HABIT, Marie St. Pierre patted on her bee pollen face cream, ran a brush through her stiff gray hair, and then slipped under the covers of her bed. She flicked on the TV remote control and awaited her favorite program of the week—“Dynasty.” Though the voices were obviously dubbed and the settings garishly American, the stories were close to her heart. Love and power. Pain and retribution. Yes, Marie knew all about love and pain. It was the retribution part she hadn’t quite mastered. Every time the anger bubbled up inside her and those old fantasies of revenge began to play out in her mind, she had only to consider the consequences of such action, and all thoughts of vengeance died. No, she loved Philippe too much. And they had come so far together! From finance minister to prime minister would be such a short, short climb…
She suddenly focused on the TV as a brief news item flashed on the screen—the London economic summit. Would Philippe’s face appear? No, just a pan of the conference table, a five-second view of two dozen men in suits and ties. No Philippe. She sat back in disappointment and wondered, for the hundredth time, if she should have accompanied her husband to London. She hated to fly, and he’d warned her the trip would be tiresome. Better to stay home, he’d told her; she would hate London.
Still, it might have been nice to go away with him for a few days. Just the two of them in a hotel room. A change of scenery, a new bed. It might have been the spark their marriage so terribly needed—
A thought suddenly crossed her mind. A thought so painful that it twisted her heart in knots. Here I am. And there is Philippe, alone in London…
Or was he alone?
She sat trembling for a moment, considering the possibilities. The images. At last she could resist the impulse no longer. She reached for the telephone and dialed Nina Sutherland’s Paris apartment.
The phone rang and rang. She hung up and dialed again. Still it rang unanswered. She stared at the receiver. So Nina has gone to London, too, she thought. And there they would be together, in his hotel room. While I wait at home in Paris.
She rose from the bed. “Dynasty” had just come on the TV; she ignored it. Instead she got dressed. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions, she thought. Perhaps Nina is really home and refuses to answer her telephone.
She would drive past Nina’s apartment in Neuilly. Check the windows to see if her lights were on inside.
And if they were not?
No, she wouldn’t think about that, not yet.
Fully dressed now, she hurried downstairs, picked up her purse and keys in the darkened living room, and opened the front door. Just as she felt the night air against her face, her ears were blasted by a deafening roar.
The explosion threw her off her feet, flinging her forward down the front steps. Only her outstretched arms beneath her prevented her head from slamming against the concrete. She was vaguely aware of glass raining down around her and then of the soft crackle of flames. Slowly she managed to roll over onto her back. There she lay, staring upward at the fingers of fire shooting through her bedroom window.
It was meant for her, she thought. The bomb was meant for her.
As fire sirens wailed closer, she lay on her back in the broken glass and thought, Is this what it’s come to, my love?
And she watched her bedroom burn above her.
Chapter 2
Buckinghamshire, England
The Eiffel Tower was melting. Jordan stood beside the buffet table and watched the water drip, drip from the ice sculpture into the silver platter of oysters below it. So much for Bastille Day, he thought wearily. Another night, another party. And this one’s about run its course.
“You have had more than enough oysters for one night, Reggie,” said a peevish voice. “Or have you forgotten your gout?”
“Haven’t had an attack in months.”
“Only because I’ve been watching your diet,” said Helena.
“Then tonight, dear,” said Reggie, plucking up another oyster, “would you mind looking the other way?” He lifted the shell to his mouth and tipped the oyster. Nirvana was written on his face as the slippery glob slid into his throat.
Helena shuddered. “It’s disgusting, eating a live animal.” She glanced at Jordan, noting his quietly bemused look. “Don’t you agree?”
Jordan gave a diplomatic shrug. “A matter of upbringing, I suppose. In some cultures, they eat termites. Or quivering fish. I’ve even heard of monkeys, their heads shaved, immobilized—”
“Oh, please,” groaned Helena.
Jordan quickly escaped before the marital spat could escalate. It was not a healthy place to be, caught between a feuding husband and wife. Lady Helena, he suspected, normally held the upper hand; money usually did.
He wandered over to join Finance Minister Philippe St. Pierre and found himself trapped in a lecture on world economics. The summit was a failure, Philippe declared. The Americans want trade concessions but refuse to learn fiscal responsibility. And on and on and on. It was almost a relief when bugle-beaded Nina Sutherland swept into the conversation, trailing her peacock son, Anthony.
“It’s not as if Americans are the only ones who have to clean up their act,” snorted Nina. “We’re none of us doing very well these days, even the French. Or don’t you agree, Philippe?”
Philippe flushed under her direct gaze. “We are all of us having difficulties, Nina—”
“Some of us more than others.”
“It is a worldwide recession. One must be patient.”
Nina’s jaw shot up. “And what if one cannot afford to wait?” She drained her glass and set it down sharply. “What then, Philippe, darling?”
Conversation suddenly ceased. Jordan noticed that Helena was watching them amusedly, that Philippe was clutching his glass in a whiteknuckled fist. What the blazes was going on here? he wondered. Some private feud? Bizarre tensions were weaving through the gathering tonight. Perhaps it’s all that free-flowing champagne. Certainly Reggie had had too much. Their portly houseguest had wandered from the oyster tray to the champagne table. With an unsteady hand, he picked up yet another glass and raised it to his lips. No one was acting quite right tonight. Not even Beryl.
Certainly not Beryl.
He spied his sister as she reentered the ballroom. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with some unearthly fire. Close on her heels was the American, looking just as flushed and more than a little bothered. Ah, thought Jordan with a smile. A bit of hanky-panky in the garden, was it? Well, good for her. Poor Beryl could use some fresh romance in her life, anything to make her forget that chronically unfaithful surgeon.
Beryl whisked up a glass of champagne from a passing servant and headed Jordan’s way. “Having fun?” she asked him.
“Not as much as you, I suspect.” He glanced across at Richard Wolf, who’d just been waylaid by some American businessman. “So,” he whispered, “did you wring a confession out of him?”
“Not a thing.” She smiled over her champagne glass. “Extremely tight-lipped.”
“Really?”
“But I’ll have another go at him later. After I let him cool his heels for