Rusty! After eighteen years in France. Judy was shocked at the violent wave of dislike that shuddered through her. But of course Sophie could afford to have her French be poor; what did that woman need to do other than order servants about all day?

She could not think of anything to say, so she said, “I see.”

“I doubt that madame will enact many changes,” Lazard told her. “She doesn’t seem the type to be much interested in business.”

“You expect her to come here and take an inventory.”

“Precisely.” Lazard inclined his head.

“And then you’ll run things much as before?”

“I imagine that is what Mme Massot will prefer, yes.”

“I believe that it’s my time to be promoted to senior vice president for publicity,” Judy said, suddenly and fiercely. She thrust the image of mousy Sophie Massot from her. She had met her once, long ago, at a party to celebrate the launch of a new summer collection. Sophie, slim and dark-haired and only slightly pretty, had stood in the corner clutching her champagne flute, her eyes never leaving Pierre as he mingled and shook hands.

And that, that was what he had preferred to her. To Judy with her fire and passion.

It would make no difference to her that Pierre’s widow controlled the stock. She would carry on exactly as though nothing had happened. She had come here to ask for a promotion, and so she asked for it.

“Yes, I anticipated that.” Lazard smiled at her. “But I think we must wait at present for Mme Sophie to define her plans for us. If any.”

Judy’s head tilted up, arrogantly.

“Very well,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, then, M. Lazard, I think I should get back to work. The collections have met some resistance. It’s going to be tough, trying to sell them to the press.”

“Of course,” he said. He stood and offered Judy his hand. “And please call me Gregoire. We have been colleagues for several years now.”

Judy flushed with pleasure. “Gregoire,” she repeated.

“I may have to bring Mme Massot round to introduce her,” he said, apologetically.

Judy’s eyes flashed. She did not want Lazard to say anything open. Her affair was known, but never referred to. And now of all moments she wanted it to stay that way.

“Of course, I’ll be delighted to meet Mme Massot,” she said, lightly.

“Good day, Judy.”

“À tout à l’heure,” she said, grinning at him, deliberately choosing the informality. Lazard smiled as she left the office. He did everything short of wink at me, she thought. She took the marble stairs down to her own, third-floor office, avoiding the coffinlike Victorian elevator. Her heart was in turmoil. She didn’t know what to think.