“Too recognizable, I guess. I don’t ask questions.”

“Does David have access to the jewels?”

Giles didn’t respond immediately, and Sarah glanced up at him: so her question about the jewels hadn’t come as a complete surprise. He was weighing his response. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Sarah.”

“If I refuse to cooperate?”

He shrugged. “Then I’ll have to bring him myself.”

“Don’t let the boss be denied?” she said with a bitter smile. “I guess you don’t leave me much choice. I know you, Giles. I know your tactics.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“I’ll try. Is...is my father angry with me for skipping out on him?”

“Worried, Sarah, not angry.”

“Maybe I can make amends. All right. I’ll try to see David Wakefield, but I don’t know him. I’m not sure he’ll come to dinner just because I ask him to. When is the dinner?”

“Tomorrow night.” He laughed and patted her on the cheek. “Dress pretty and don’t be late.”

20

Ashley was stunned to find Lillian Parker waiting in the outer office, and immediately invited the famous newswoman in. She seemed much smaller off camera—unconventionally attractive, eyes a clear, alert turquoise, neatly dressed in a gray Dior suit, deep auburn hair in place. On air, Lillian Parker was renowned for her direct gaze and always was collected, controlled, calm. With uncanny and merciless accuracy, she could pinpoint what motivated a person and zero in on the central issues of that person’s life.

Always, Lillian Parker knew what questions to ask.

“Please, Ms. Parker,” Ashley said formally, “sit down.”

“Thank you, no. The shuttle was delayed this morning. I hate sitting on planes, don’t you? Right now it just feels good to stand.”

She’s fidgety, Ashley thought, and sat down herself at her immaculate desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Parker?”

Not answering at once, Lillian Parker walked over to the wall of aquatic photographs and took note of a black-and-white shot of the surf at Schoodic Point in Maine. “I read your profile in You,” she said, not turning. “I think Sybil tried to do a decent job on you. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel very lucky,” Ashley remarked dryly.

“Oh, the publicity will die down.” She turned from the photograph and smiled. “It always does. The entertainment media have incredibly short attention spans. Sybil got hold of me a few years ago; I survived.”

Ashley thought: I didn’t. I learned I don’t exist.

Lillian Parker’s incisive gaze seemed to be reaching inside Ashley, and she found herself wanting to duck, or put up a shield or something. Suddenly she was grateful she’d been dealt Sybil Morgenstern instead of this hard-edged woman. She seemed totally objective, totally committed to digging down deep to get at the truth, no matter what it was, no matter whom it hurt. It was simply who the woman was, what she did.

Then her expression softened, and she said, “You don’t think you will survive, do you? Well, if it helps, I know the feeling. I can just imagine all the people who’ve been hassling you.”