But the brink was not good enough. Montfort wanted to go all the way. To establish a brand so big, so impressive, that people would pay tens, even hundreds of times what a piece was worth just because it came packaged in red and white stripes. He knew it could be done. Tiffany had done it.

Mayberry was going to be next.

The limousine pulled up and Hugh prepared himself for the next round of congratulations. He smiled in the backseat, preparing his charm like the weapon it was.

This was business, he reminded himself. And he lived for business.

There was certainly nothing else to live for.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“Voilà, Mademoiselle,” said the waiter. He placed Judy’s breakfast down in front of her with a flourish, together with the check.

She smiled. “Merci.”

Judy sighed with pleasure. This was absolutely her favourite moment of the day, and her favourite time of the year. Breakfast in a little café along the banks of the Seine, 8 a.m. on one of those warm mornings as spring faded into summer, with the light golden and warm, and the breezes not cool enough to be chilly. She was surrounded by tourists, but she didn’t care. Her café au lait smelled heavenly, as did her croissant, and they were guilt free because she had finished her morning run. Three miles a day, without fail, all weather. It kept her figure slim, her eyes bright, her energy up. And it worked. Sometimes, like today, waiters still called her mademoiselle and not madame.

She was trying to learn not to hate that word so much. There was no point in hating aging. I need to keep my energies for things I can change, Judy thought. She was proud of that attitude. Fifteen years in France had not knocked all the American out of her yet. She took a sip of milky, sweet coffee—only the French really did coffee quite this well—and stared out at the river, glittering in the morning sunlight. Soon it would be warm enough to switch to an outside table.