Tom looked at her gleaming eyes, and saw the excitement. He wanted her, more than anything. It had been weeks since he’d had any women. And this American was not just any woman.

He thought triumphantly of Polly. If only she could see him, right now. Judy Dean was not a placid pudding like Flora or a simple roll in the hay like Gemma. Judy was a woman worth courting. In her mid-thirties, sophisticated, with all the guts of Polly, but all the polish his ex-girlfriend lacked. She would not cling to some stupid English rugby player. She was independent, free, and clever.

“I would like to discuss it with you,” he said. “But I would also like to see you again. Not to talk business, just to see you.”

“You’re right.” Judy turned and signalled for the waiter, and Tom threw down two hundred euro notes.

“Come again anytime, Monsieur,” he said. “But wait here till I get a taxi. It’s a rough neighbourhood.”

Tom agreed with him; he was sober now and wanted to get Judy back to his flat, and out of that dress.

When the cab arrived he helped her into it and gave the driver his address on the Rive Gauche.

Judy widened her eyes. “But why there?”

“It’s my apartment,”Tom said, kissing her hand. He was already anticipating his lovemaking. She thought he was a boy, so he would need to be rough, teach her otherwise.

“And why would we be going there?” Judy drew back from him. “I only just met you,Tom.You don’t take me for one of your easy college girls, do you?”

Tom’s lust withered and died. He sat back from her, frustrated, but still glad. So she had refused him. All to the good; she was a worthy woman. He resolved to court her, properly. She sat there on the ripped and stained leather of the cab seat, stiff and haughty, with the perfect amount of froideur.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Rue des Cloches,” Judy told the driver. He swung around, and she unsnapped her glittering metal bag, the crystals glinting under the neon streetlights. “Here’s my card,” she said. “If you want to see me again, you can call me.”

“You can be sure I will.”

Judy turned her head away; he admired the firm lines of her long neck under the close-cropped hair. “We’ll see,” she said maddeningly.

Tom dropped her off; she did not so much as give him a chaste kiss on the cheek before he waited, watching her enter her apartment building. But that was fine, just fine. As the car headed back to the Left Bank he was quite sober, but light-headed with pleasure.

Who would have thought it? Some good had come of that wretched party—after all.

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

“You like the purple?” Claudia held up a swatch. “Or the beige?”

“I don’t give a shit,” Pete Stockton grunted.