Jenna’s Marlborough Street apartment was considered luxurious by the few acquaintances who’d seen it: a spacious duplex in a century-old limestone mansion, two fireplaces, a skylight, a planted terrace, simple contemporary furniture mingled with a few Oriental antiques. But to her—or rather to the woman she had been, a woman who had lived literally in palaces—it was a quaint, cozy little pied-a-terre.

Not so cozy today, though. Not with the remnants of last night’s intimacy reminding her of how wrong it had all gone. On the Chinese lacquer bar stood the nearly full bottle of Beaujolais Brad had brought. As he held her in his arms, the wine had tasted like sunlight. But after he’d renewed his proposal of marriage—and she had given the only answer she could give—the mood broke, and they had parted like strangers.

Now, Jenna poured herself a glass of Brad’s wine and drank a long swallow, but it no longer tasted of sunlight. She pushed the glass away.

The apartment was astonishingly quiet. Oppressive rather than serene. She wished her son, Karim, were home, even with his prickly eighteen-year old’s independence. But he was spending the summer with college friends, sailing the Greek islands—slipping away from her already, a grown man soon, out on his own.

Then she would be truly alone. Self-pity, the most ludicrous of emotions. Some psychologist.

Why couldn’t Brad be patient? she thought. Why couldn’t he just trust her love? Suddenly, she laughed aloud. It was a harsh, bitter sound. How could she expect absolute trust when she had none to give? There was a tap at the door.

With a rush of joy, she hurried to open it. “Oh, love, I—”

But the man looming in the doorway wasn’t Brad. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him despite the red hair: he was bigger, beefier than he had seemed on Newbury Street or in the blue car on Commercial Street.

Behind him stood a smaller, darker man.

The big man had ice-blue eyes, and he said two words that froze Jenna’s soul. “Amira Badir?”

“There … there must be some mistake.’’ Her hand clutched at the hall table.

Without its support, she might have fallen.

“I doubt it.” The man flipped a badge and identification card. “INS: Immigration and Naturalization Service. We need to ask you some questions, Ms. Badir. We’ll ask them at our office. Get your purse, your coat.”

Moving like an automaton, her mouth dry with fear, Jenna obeyed.

Feeling as if she were in a bad movie, she followed the INS men to their car, the blue car.

The big man opened the door to the back seat, but the gesture had nothing to do with courtesy. It was a command.