Sophie picked up her phone. Her new secretary was buzzing her. Celine had proven to be incredibly grateful and hardworking, and had kept her head down. Sophie was delighted with her; there had been no repeat of her standoffishness to Judy Dean.

“Yes, Celine?”

“Madame.” The girl’s voice was nervous. “Madame. There is a person to see you. But I don’t know if you will wish to see him.”

“An appointment?” Had she forgotten a meeting with Herr Brandt? Or one of their gemologists?

“No, Madame. It is—it is M. Hugh Montfort.”

Sophie jumped in her chair. “Hold on a second, Celine.”

Montfort? What should she do? It was arrogance, incredible arrogance, for him to turn up at her office and assume she would see him. Maybe she ought to tell Celine to get security and have him thrown out.

No, that wouldn’t do. She would have to see him. He might use it in the press, otherwise. More of those vicious stories that Judy couldn’t seem to stop.

There was a tray on her desk. Responses to the party invitations. So far they had had only one refusal, from the Duchesse de Nevers, and she had asked if her daughter might go instead. Sophie considered stacking them away somewhere. The party was, after all, her secret weapon.

But again, no. That did not fit the style of Massot she was working on.

“Show him up,” Sophie said.

While she waited she stood and went to the mirror, antique and full-length, a fine nineteenth-century piece Sophie had brought in from the château. Making a good impression had always been a priority, because Pierre wanted it. But it was now the heart of her business, too.

She still looked well, she thought. Today’s suit was classic and strong.

For the first time, she wore her hair loose. It looked sexy, and she rather liked it. Sophie felt a little more daring; she’d dropped the court shoes and was experimenting with heels; they changed her walk, and she was feeling younger, more confident. She was going to have to handle this by herself.

There was no Gregoire Lazard to look to for help.

“Come in,” she said when he knocked.

Montfort entered and bowed slightly.

“I ought to have called first,” he said. “You are good to see me on short notice.”

“Have a seat.” Sophie took hers, determined not to lose time on pleasantries.

She took him in. Hugh Montfort was just as she remembered him: confident, good-looking, insanely good-looking, in fact. But not in a smooth, conventional way. His face was weather-beaten and looked tired; he was too muscular, and he moved in a precisely controlled way that many people would find unsettling. Including herself.

Hugh Montfort registered as dangerous. Sophie felt the tug of attraction in her body, but tried to ignore it.