Tom had meant to go with her, but he had missed his chance. One of the dull girls that had been at his own party had buttonholed him, and Grandmother, never known for her patience, had swept from the room in a swish of silver satin, the doormen practically bowing as she left.

Tom had cursed, but all was not lost. He still had his mobile; a limo service had been summoned. They were late; party traffic, maybe. He checked his Rolex. If they weren’t here in ten minutes, he would start walking.

Guests were buying, masses of them. They were buying, and then they were leaving, clutching their purchases in his mother’s newly designed rose-satin bags. The party was thinning out, and he had no desire to be stuck here with Maman. The conversation that would ensue would not be pleasant. He’d had a couple of drinks, and he was angry; a sober corner of his brain warned against more public humiliation.

Tom might do something dreadful. He might yell—in front of all the nobles and socialites. Worse, he might cry.

Forget waiting, he would leave immediately. It was too risky to stay here, with his mother in that low-cut gown. . . .

“Excuse me.”

Tom looked up. A woman was standing in front of him. She was attractive and polished, in her mid-thirties—a real hardbody, wearing a slinky, shimmering sheath dress in crimson sequins. She had a slim figure, and she spoke English with an American accent.

“Yes?” he said.

“You must be Thomas Massot?” She extended one hand, and Tom shook it. “I’m Judy Dean. I had the honour of working for your father.”

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, stupidly.

The girl smiled; she had perfectly straight, white, American teeth. She looked healthy and vigorous, a million miles away from the dusty old ladies and broken-down men in their penguin suits.

“Looked in the mirror lately?” she asked. “You’re a perfect likeness of him. What are you, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

Tom smiled stupidly; she was bold, she reminded him of Polly.

“Nineteen,” he said, flattered by the question.

Judy sighed. “Too young for me. Alas.” She winked at him.

Tom was enchanted. And through his drunkenness, his masculine pride was piqued.

“Certainly not,” he said, enunciating his words carefully, not wanting to slur them. “A man is a man. And anyway, you can’t be more than twenty-eight.”

Such outrageous flattery; the American girl was thirty-five if she was a day, but Tom didn’t care; she was a good-looking thirty-five. He had a practiced eye for women and knew that Judy had the kind of body that would wear well. Her weight lifting would keep the years at bay; she was naturally lean, and she had high cheekbones—even at fifty, she would still be striking.

This assessment flashed through his head as the compliment hit its mark; Judy, embarking on her deliberate seduction, was surprised and flattered.