He glanced out of the window; the thick clouds below him meant it was dull over the Atlantic, but up here, above them all, it was as clear and sunny as ever. Usually his mind worked best on planes; no phone calls, no distractions.

But today he was frustrated. No matter how he turned events over in his mind, he could not make sense of it.

A stewardess passed him.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling warmly at the gorgeous Englishman.

“How long until we land?”

“With the tailwinds, approximately four-and-a-half hours, sir.”

“Thanks,” Hugh said. His fingers drummed impatiently on his armrest.

“Can I bring you something? A drink . . . champagne . . . coffee . . .”

“I’m fine.” He smiled impersonally. “Thank you.”

“I could fetch you a portable video unit if none of our selections appeal,” she said, unwilling to move away from him quite so soon. Some girls married people they met on flights. Look at Lisa Halaby, she’d met the king of Jordan and turned into a queen. This guy was so sexy, with that clenched jaw and strong body. I could relax him some, she thought wickedly.

“Do you have a copy of the Financial Times?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll bring it to you.”

All business, she thought with a sigh. What a pity.

Against his wishes, Montfort was tired when they touched down. The temptation was to go straight to the office, possibly stopping by the Massot showroom in Bond Street, but he did not want to make any moves when he was exhausted. He had the driver deliver him home, took a long bath, and went straight to bed.

When he awoke, he considered everything again. It was 2 p.m., so he made himself a Gruyère omelet and a large pot of coffee, flicked through the papers, and headed for the office. First, though, he stopped to see the Massot store for himself. Montfort believed that one should always check a site, if possible. You could find things out that weren’t immediately apparent on paper, sometimes.

It looked horrible; in the middle of the opulent prosperity and conspicuous consumption of London’s main shopping artery, there it was: the venerable storefront covered in plywood, all the windows completely sealed.

There was, however, a small notice fixed to the front door. He bent closer. In neat black lettering, it said, simply: CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. OPEN JULY 14.

July 14, Bastille Day.

Montfort felt a wave of unease, and then a pressing sense of urgency. If his suspicions were correct, he had to call the investment bank, and the board. And he would need a financial PR firm—experts. There was no time to lose, no time at all.

And he, himself, must get back to Paris. At once.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

“M. Thomas Massot,” the butler said.

“Thomas.” His grandmother stood in a slither of silk and held out her rail-thin arms to him. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”