Then the problems began. They were stacked over Charles de Gaulle airport. When she finally reached the taxi stand, there was a long line. The trip from the airport was slow, the center of Paris gridlocked with traffic. She ran up the steps of the St. Vincent, into its huge marble-floored lobby. There she stopped dead.

Rowland McGuire had been luckier, it seemed. He rose to his feet as she entered. As she attempted to walk straight past him, he blocked her path. He then took her arm.

“What kept you?” he said.

Gini gave him a furious look; she struggled to free herself.

“Don’t you touch me,” she began. “Just get out of my way.”

“Let’s not waste time,” he said, tightening his grip and propelling her toward the elevator. “I suggest we go straight up to our room.”

“What did you just say?”

“Our room. It has three phone lines and two faxes. It’s a suite. One bed and one couch. Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll take the couch.”

“Let go of my arm, damn you.”

“—Besides, neither of us will be getting much sleep. The French press has a head start, and I intend to catch up. Press eight.”

“Go to hell.”

“Along the corridor. First door on the right. That’s it. You like it? It’s the last available room of its kind in Paris. It’s cost the Correspondent six thousand francs above rates. When in doubt, bribe. Now…” He closed the door. “I would like you to listen to me.”

“Let me out of this room.” Gini rounded on him, her face white with anger and distress. “You think I’d work with you now? After what you said to me? Just get out of my way. I don’t want to work with you, I don’t want to be in the same room with you.”

“Maybe. But you’re going to hear me out.”

“The hell I am. I remember what you said. You damn near accused me of being a whore.”

“I never used that word.”

“Don’t lie. It’s what you meant.”

“Possibly. My phrasing was more tactful, I think.”

Gini smacked him hard across the face. She had to reach up to do it, but she hit him with her full strength. The blow left a mark across his cheek. Tears had sprung to her eyes. She drew back, shaking, fighting to control her voice.

“You think I work like that? You think I operate that way? Well, I don’t. I never have—never. I despise women who do that. I fought for years to get an assignment like that. I care about the stories I work on. I tried to cure myself of that in Bosnia because I thought I couldn’t do my work and care—but I’m not cured. And now I don’t want to be. I’m going to find Mina Landis—and I don’t need your help. I’m going to find her because—”

She broke off with an angry gesture of the hands. “… because I talked to Anneke’s mother, and… she wept. You wouldn’t understand. But I care, Rowland, I care very much about that.”