“You’re wrong.” She jerked her face up to meet his gaze. “I am married. I feel married. You don’t have to wear a ring to feel that. You don’t need a piece of paper, witnesses, any of those things.”

“I know that.”

“I know you thought it was over. I know Max thought that, and Lindsay and Charlotte—but you’re all wrong. It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. Pascal is my whole life…”

Rowland drew back sharply, as if she had just struck him across the face. He rose, and stood looking down at her for a few moments in silence. There was a rap at the door to the suite. Rowland ignored it. His green eyes rested on her face.

“You’re certain of that?”

“Yes. No. I’m not certain of anything. If it was true—I couldn’t do this.”

“I would imagine not.” The green eyes had become cold. He suddenly shrugged. “That will be the coffee. I’ll get it. You get up, get dressed. Then—”

“Then, what? We do what we said? Rowland, the lies have already started. You’ve already lied. I’ll have to lie this afternoon. I hate this.”

“We brought this upon ourselves. Now we have to extricate ourselves.” He was already turning away. “It’s damage control.”

He left the room, pulling on a bathrobe. As he reached the door to the corridor, he was asking himself just how deep that damage was.

“I’ll take that,” he began as the door opened, then stopped.

Standing outside was a tall, dark-haired man dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. Rowland knew instantly from his expression who he was.

“Can I help you?” Rowland said, placing one hand on the doorjamb.

The man gave him a hard, cold, gray-eyed stare.

“I would like to see Gini,” he said in a tight voice. “Is she asleep? Perhaps you’d tell her I’m here.”

Rowland, thinking fast, gave him a blank look. He was weighing the fact that he had been taken in, that Lamartine was, if need be, as determined a deceiver as himself.

“Gini? What, you mean Genevieve? I’m sorry—didn’t we just speak on the phone? I recognize your accent.”

“Yes. We did.”

“I assumed—hell, never mind. I can’t be awake yet. Didn’t I explain? There’s been chaos over rooms. They shunted me in here last night. They shunted Genevieve somewhere else. The Correspondent has most of the sixth floor. Have you tried that?”

“Can we stop this, and stop it now?” The man’s eyes glinted. “I haven’t spent two days traveling to end up in some Feydeau farce. Would you move aside, please?”

Despite the politeness of his tone, Rowland could feel the anger; he knew a physical fight was very near.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said pleasantly, “but you’re making a mistake. This is my room. Take it out on the front desk. I’m about to take a shower.”

“I heard the shower come on,” Lamartine replied less pleasantly. “I was wondering how you managed to turn it on from here.”