The crowd stared. The woman was utterly magnificent, shimmering in silver and lace, huge jewels on her hands, a sparkling collar at her neck; beside her the young man—Hugh guessed he might have been twenty—stood, also haughty, but silent, and possibly, Hugh thought, a little embarrassed. He wondered if this was it, a scene, already the party ruined, and he had not even gotten inside. Behind the velvet rope, the reporters and other predators were fascinated, snapping pictures, scenting blood on the red carpet.

The door to the Massot showroom opened wide, and with a swish of silk, Sophie Massot came out.

Hugh’s jaw dropped. And so, he noted, did Katherine’s, and the boy’s. The mother-in-law glared disdainfully; the boy looked shocked and hurt; his face was a picture of dismay.

“Katherine! Tom!” Sophie said, clearly and distinctly. She leaned forward and kissed them both on the cheek; both were still as stone. “How lovely to see you! This is such a nice surprise. Please do come in,” and she stood aside, ushering them into the room.

Katherine Massot paused, but there was nothing for it; she nodded icily at her daughter-in-law and swept inside, and her grandson followed, without another glance at his mother.

For a second Hugh thought he saw a flash of pain on that pretty face, but Sophie rearranged her features and went back inside, once again the picture of serenity.

The crowd closed ranks, murmured again, this time in tones of approval; the reporters sank back, annoyed; the crisis had passed.

Hugh made his way inside. He wanted to observe the mother and the son. They were major stockholders. And he also wanted to see Sophie again—in that incredible dress. Montfort hadn’t thought she could get any more attractive, but he had been wrong. Sophie had ditched the black—she was not in mourning. Her gown was pink; what a dress, he’d never seen anything like it. As he entered the Massot showrooms to the low hum of appreciative conversation, the gentle strings of a quartet, and the chink of champagne glasses, Hugh Montfort was already looking for her.

Judy moved inside and made straight for the cloakroom, where she was able to ditch the plain Joseph coat; she shrugged it lightly from her shoulders, using the tight muscles of her upper back. And she was rewarded.

Just as she had foreseen, the gasps came. Judy stood out. She was admired; even the old women standing around her, in their clichéd ball gowns and overdone rocks—even the cream of Paris—they were admiring Judy Dean, the mechanic’s daughter from Oklahoma.

Triumph and satisfaction mixed with her rage. It was a heady sweep of emotions, and Judy’s eyes gleamed as she made her way back into the main room. A waitress passed and offered her a flute of champagne; there was a choice, she was told: rosé, brut, or demi-sec.