She ran across the room, opened the door, and let the man wheel the cart in, setting it up across from the television set. It was a lovely presentation—a silver carafe of coffee, dainty fine china and crystal goblets, and a little bud vase with a rose inside. She signed the folio and thanked him.

Then she slid into the chair and pulled off the lid over her breakfast. The scent of warm cherries wafted through the air, and she took in the lovely sight of the delicate crepes, covered in chocolate ganache, powdered sugar, and whipped cream. Someone had put the whipped cream in the shape of a smiley face.

It made her smile back.

But then she looked up at the news, and the smile fell away. They were back to another news story about the incident at Versailles. It was as if nothing else had happened in Paris but this murder. She was about to turn off the television when the picture of a handsome man in a modern tuxedo appeared.

It was Luc.

The reporter said, “The victim was identified as Claude Lachance, a history professor at a local college, whose wife was clearly distraught by the news of his death. She said that they had bought the tickets to the event months ago and had been planning to attend it almost since it was announced.”

The screen flashed to a pretty young blonde woman who looked about twenty years younger than Diana. Who looked almost exactly like Vidal, the model Evan had traded her in for. The woman was sitting in her living room on a brocade sofa with a white cat in her lap in what appeared to be a very nice, well-appointed house, tears running down her cheeks as she recounted the tragedy of her loss. “Je suis dévasté,” she sobbed as her name, Veronique Lachance, appeared on the bottom of the screen. I am devastated.

Diana stared at the screen long after the report ended.

What. In. The. World?

She blinked, sure she was hearing things. Seeing things. That woman couldn’t have been . . .

His wife?

No, obviously not. Something was wrong here. Where had she been at Versailles while Diana and her husband were tripping the light fantastic? The man she’d danced with had said he was alone in a forlorn way that had made Diana change the subject quickly, wondering if his wife had died.

Diana stared at the poor woman. Strangely, she felt bad for the woman. At least Evan had had the good sense to file for divorce from Diana before finding Vidal. And Evan wasn’t a lowdown liar who made up names so he could pick up women.

Here this woman was, crying hysterically on national television over the husband she’d lost. The man she loved. The man she’d trusted with her heart.

The man who was clearly a piece of absolute scum.

Letting out a “gah” of frustration, she jabbed the button on the remote control to turn the television off, and almost threw the control across the room.