Her face showed no surprise that he was making such a costly purchase. She removed the brooch delicately from the case and carried it to the counter, where a second well-dressed assistant, a man this time, wrapped it expertly in gossamer-soft tissue paper and royal blue ribbon, placing it in a rose-coloured jewellery case. It nestled, glittering, against the satin, and Hugh thought with satisfaction that it might be the most beautiful thing he owned.

He passed her his credit card, which Mlle Chiron took without examining it.

“Thank you very much, M. Montfort,” she said.

His head lifted. She had not looked at the card, which must mean she recognized him. It suddenly struck him that his romantic impulse was foolish. The press would love that story. Hostile bidder seduced by Massot’s new look.

“Mademoiselle—” he began.

“It is all right, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “At House Massot we maintain complete confidentiality about the purchases of our clients. All our clients. Without exception.”

“Thank you, Mlle Chiron.” Hugh paused. “For what it is worth—I have been most impressed today.”

She bowed her head slightly.

“Monsieur is most kind, but perhaps he should direct his compliments to the party responsible.”

“Which is?”

“Mme Massot, of course,” she said.

He went to lunch at a small café tucked down a side street. It didn’t have much of an awning, and the menu in the window was only in French. Hugh correctly deduced he would get an outstanding meal there. The place was crowded, but Hugh didn’t care. The food lifted him out of himself, and besides, he wanted to be alone.

Mlle Chiron had arranged to have the aigrette delivered to his hotel, with instructions it be placed in the safe. Montfort was not afraid of being mugged; men had tried twice before, once in the West End and once in a rough part of Los Angeles, and both had left with broken bones and smashed noses. But he knew he was distracted, and didn’t want to worry about leaving it somewhere.

Everything was going well. The press, the shareholder response. All the pieces seemed to be falling into place. Whatever the hard, sexy American’s information, he did not think he would need it.

All I have to do is wait for the shareholder meeting, Hugh thought, and Massot will be mine.

It would be his greatest triumph as a Mayberry executive. His brand lifted to world domination.

And after that . . . then what?

He chose not to face that question. Hugh took a final sip of the excellent house wine, then settled the bill, tipping 50 percent.

He walked out to the street, avoiding the waiter’s effusive thanks. A taxi was passing, slowing because of the narrowness of the road, and Montfort hailed it.

“Bonjour,” he said. “Rue Tricot, s’il vous plait.”

He trusted his instincts, and they told him to go see Sophie Massot.