Ashley Wakefield was stepping up to the podium now. Some of the crowd had recovered enough from the entrance of this outrageous beauty to resume whispered conversations, but Lillian was still breathless, standing just yards from the enigmatic woman who, it was said, had donated a million dollars to the institute.

“Good evening,” Ashley said into the microphone. “I’m glad you all came.”

But Lillian Parker didn’t hear what else Ashley had to say. The newswoman who had interviewed heads of state and covered the major stories of the past three decades had begun to shake uncontrollably. Her knuckles turned white on the stem of the champagne glass. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t breathe.

Around her neck, Ashley wore a choker of diamonds and pearls. On her head, woven into her hair, a matching tiara. In the center of the choker was a large deep red stone. A “pigeon’s blood” ruby, perfect.

In an agonized gasp, the air expelled from Lillian’s lungs. “Oh, Christ in heaven. Oh, Christ Almighty.”

Lillian Parker managed to stagger out of the crowded exhibit center before she collapsed.

Rob Gazelle used up three rolls of film at the gala opening. Nearly every shot had Ashley Wakefield in it, and he’d even caught her smiling, many times. Dancing, laughing, toasting with champagne, showing off her fish, she dazzled everyone.

And yet as he focused shot after shot, he perceived a melancholy about her, too, that he hoped would come out on film. He couldn’t put his finger on it: it was as if, in a way, tonight was an end for her, a completion, and she was putting her all into looking happy and excited, when what she was was a little bit sad and a whole lot uncertain—as if she didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

Rob grinned. He knew what tomorrow would bring to pretty Ashley Wakefield: Sybil Morgenstern. And this time, he thought, ol’ Syb would not be denied.

3

On Monday morning, Ashley and Caroline Kent, vice president of Touchstone Communications, huddled in Ashley’s office overlooking Boston Harbor. They were going over a redesigned internal communications system for a corporate client. The work was decidedly dull. Ashley had slung her gray silk shantung jacket over the back of her leather chair and kicked off her Charles Jourdan open-toed pumps. Her hair was up, her face highlighted with soft-hued cosmetics, and she was feeling very brisk and businesslike...and strangely impatient. With the opening done with, the jewels worn and safely back in her lingerie drawer, there seemed to be nothing else to look forward to. No excitement, no adventure. She made a living out of telling people how to talk to other people. This morning she was sick of it.

“Ash?” Caroline looked at her with concern. Always impeccably dressed, Caroline was big boned, yet lean, and had close-cropped hair and glowing ebony skin. She had joined the company six months after its founding, and she was hard-nosed and brilliant and a good friend—despite her oft-stated opinion that fish were best served broiled with butter and a touch of lemon. “You okay?”