Diana quickly looked away as a message came back: How do I know this is you? What is that stuff about murder? You HAVE to tell me!

She sighed. It’s nothing. I promise. Everything is fine.

She hated to sound like a broken record but she really didn’t want to get into it with anyone. She just wanted to sit, relax, and enjoy her meal, without any outside distractions. Was that too much to ask? She reached for her glass of champagne and drained it so fast the bubbles tickled her nose. It made her think of the ball, and how she’d sipped champagne with Luc. Claude. Whatever. And what a nightmare that had been.

The next time she looked up at the bar, though, the lothario was no longer seated at his stool. What, had she disappointed him so much that he’d had to high-tail it out of there? She scanned the room and made out his bald head between the crush of people. To her horror, he was coming closer to her, his eyes trained on her like a leopard zeroing in on its prey.

Great. Doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s perfect. Helplessly, she looked up at the bartender, who shrugged and said, “Sorry. He seems to think he can change your mind.”

Oh, no, she thought, looking around for an escape. Behind her was a doorway that led to the toilets. She jumped off her stool as quick as she could, grabbed her purse, and started to rush for it. She’d only managed two or three steps when a waiter stepped out of another doorway she hadn’t seen, carrying a tray. In the last second, she skirted away to avoid him, finding herself pressed up against a booth, where a group of young men were talking in rapid-fire French. It was like she’d shown up to their conversation uninvited, because they all stopped and stared at her. She looked over her shoulder. The bald man had gotten to her spot at the bar and was now looking for her.

“Sorry,” she said to the men. Whirling away, she’d just spotted a clear path to the bathroom and began to rush for it when someone stepped backwards. The toe of her shoe caught the other person’s heel, and she went flying, falling flat to the ground and sliding slightly, putting her hands out at the last minute to stop her nose from smacking the grimy wood floor.

But the pain barely registered.

Instead, it’d sent her mind spiraling, thinking back to the last time she’d felt such embarrassment. She’d been wearing that red ballgown at Versailles, and those drunken people had gone by, and suddenly, she’d lost her balance and gone flying. And then . . .

Then that man had come by. He’d helped her up. He’d said, Here, let me help you, and lifted her to standing. There you are. No harm done.

As people rushed around her, trying to make sure she was all right, she realized that that man hadn’t. He’d helped her up, but then he’d disappeared in a flash, not asking if she’d hurt herself or twisted anything. He’d left almost too readily.