Then she looked up for security cameras. They were probably hidden because she didn’t see any. Or maybe there were none to begin with. Maybe that was why the police hadn’t come up with any answers yet.

She needed them. And the more she sat there, twiddling her thumbs, the more convinced she became that they were there in Blaise Chevrolet’s office.

The second he disappeared from sight, rounding a bend at the far end of the hallway, she jumped to her feet and pushed open the door. She rushed to his desk, which was scattered with papers. Sure enough, there were a couple of reports there. Because they were written in French, she wasn’t sure what they said at first. But then she spied the word, la montre à bracelet. Wristwatch.

“This is it,” she murmured under her breath, her heart beating like crazy as she studied the name on the top line. Someone named Willy Laughler, who appeared to be staying at the Grand Paris Hotel, wherever that was. She kept repeating the name over and over to herself, committing it to memory, as she rifled through the rest of the papers. There were a few more too. The second one was for Bronson Moreau, 62 Rue des Martyrs, 9.

She said the addresses over and over to herself as she headed for the door and had just placed her hand on the doorknob when she heard a sound, outside.

It was the sound of Blaise Chevrolet’s shoes, walking quickly down the hallway, toward her.

She backed up, behind the desk, trying to think quickly. Was there a window she could jump through? A trap door? Another exit? Yes, there was another door there, but it was all the way on the other side of the room. But the biggest thing in her head was, This is a great way to take suspicion off you, Diana, rummaging through a man’s private office.

Outside, Chevrolet called, “Mademoiselle? Where have you gone?”

The pulse in her throat seemed to beat loudly in answer. She swallowed it back, hardly able to breathe.

The lock on the door clicked, and it slowly started to open.

Then she rushed behind the massive desk and ducked underneath, flattening herself into the thick oriental rug and wishing she could dissolve into it like a wine stain.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

This is really not how I expected my year abroad to begin.

That was the thought in Diana’s head as she sprawled there, behind the desk, carpet fibers tickling her nose and making her think she had to sneeze. She wiggled her nose, trying to suppress.

Luckily, the desk was huge, allowing her to hide there, unnoticed. From her place on the floor, cheek pressed up against the plush oriental rug, she could easily see not only all the dust bunnies underneath the desk—there were quite a few—but Monsieur Chevrolet’s shiny black wing tips as he hovered in the doorway.

He stepped inside, pausing tentatively there, likely wondering where she’d gone. The toes of his shoes faced toward the door, then pointed back into the room again, and then he started heading closer to the desk.