“He may be right, you know. There was a lot of talk about it last night on the Croisette.”

“Oh, the goddamn nervous French. Anyway, if there's a war, I'm taking my ass home. And not to Paris. I mean Boston or New York.”

“If you can get there, my friend. Does he want to go back now?”

“I don't know. He didn't say. He just wants me in Paris with our son.”

“You know, you're probably safer here. Hell, if the Germans bomb anything, they'll be sure to hit Paris first.”

“That's a comforting thought.” His sarcasm didn't ease her fear. She looked pensive for a moment and held out her glass for more champagne. “Do you think I should go back?”

He leaned over and kissed the cleft between her breasts. “Eventually, pretty girl. But not just yet.” He devoured one nipple gently with his lips, and as she leaned back against the bed she forgot everything that Nick had said to her on the phone. It was only later, as she lay on the beach outside the hotel, that she thought about it again, and some deep inner instinct told her that she should go home. She told Markham about it as they dressed for the dinner party they were giving, and he shrugged with a relaxed air. “I'll get you home in a few days. Not to worry, love.”

“And after that?” She was combing her hair as she asked. It was the first time she had asked him that kind of question, and he looked at her now in surprise.

“Do we have to worry about that?”

“I'm not worried, I'm just asking. Will you stay in Paris with me for a while?” Her voice almost cooed as he watched her, but his face broke into a broad grin.

“Wouldn't Nick Burnham just love that!”

“I don't mean at the house, you ass. You can stay at the Ritz or the George Cinq. But you don't have to rush home yet.” He lived off the income his mother gave him, and everyone knew he was a playboy. He made no secret of it, but he also made no secret of the fact that he was no longer looking to get permanently attached. Four ex-wives had cost him dearly, and he was no longer shopping for a fifth one. But for those purposes, Hillary was perfect. She was already married and she had long since told him that marriage didn't suit her, which made him all the more surprised by the worried look he saw in her eyes now.

“You haven't fallen in love with me, have you?” There was a devil-may-care attitude about him, and it was that that appealed to her so much. He wasn't a tame one she could have for the asking, like Nick. He made her sweat for it, and she liked that. He was the first man who had openly and lovingly called her a little bitch. “I'm a dangerous man for a woman to love, pretty girl. Ask any woman. Hell”—he laughed at his own joke—“ask any man.” He had stolen plenty of wives from his cronies.

“I don't need to. I know what you are. And you're as rotten as I am.”

“Good.” He pulled her gently backward by her hair and kissed her mouth and then bit it. “Then maybe we deserve each other.” He didn't want to admit it to her, but he was more taken with her than he had planned to be. He had thought in New York that it would be an amusing affair for the summer. She had almost openly invited him to meet her in France. But she had thought then that she couldn't have him, and it intrigued them both that having spent the summer with him she still wanted him now. “Maybe I will stay in Paris for a while.” The idea of a month at the George V pleased him, and he wasn't really worried about a war. “Tell you what, I'll drive you up myself the first of next week. Will that do, or do you think Nick will come racing down here for you before that?”

“Not likely.” She smiled. “He's too busy with Johnny, our son, and his business.”

“Good. Then we'll go home when we're ready. I'll call the hotel tomorrow and see if I can get my usual suite.”

She left him then to finish dressing for the party, and when she emerged from the dressing room they were sharing, he whistled loudly. She was wearing a red organza dress almost cut to her navel in front. It barely hung to her body by a thread, and he loved it. He loved it so much that with one evil look, and a leer, he tore it right off her body and threw her on the bed, pressing his body against hers, and taking her with such force that it left her panting and breathless, with no thought at all for the thousand-dollar creation from Dior that lay in shreds beside her.





And on this same Sunday afternoon at the Place du Palais-Bourbon, on the Left Bank, Liane and the girls waited for Armand to come home. He had had to work all through the weekend, but there was an aura of unexpected calm about him now. Everything was moving into action. In the streets, there were posters everywhere with the words APPEL IMMÉDIAT, calling men into the army. The girls had seen the signs everywhere on their way home from the park, and Liane had tried to keep them informed of what was going on. Their father no longer had time to. Elisabeth was still too young to understand very much, and she was desperately afraid of guns, but Marie-Ange was greatly intrigued with what was happening. There were other posters in the streets too, which she read aloud to her nurse and her sister, giving instructions in the event of a possible gas attack, and telling civilians about car headlights and house lamps during blackouts. The night before, Paris had been only partially illuminated.