Sophie Massot. Judy imagined her now, thickened with the passage of time, a plump, boring dowager. She would come round the offices, poke at everything, shake a few hands. Leave M. Lazard—Gregoire—to get on with things. Judy would be forced to endure the meeting, and the sniggering of all the secretaries.

But on the other hand Lazard had asked her to use his first name. A good sign—no, an excellent one. Once Sophie had left, she would get that promotion. But I can’t stay around for her visits, as she swans in here like the queen bee, Judy thought. I’ll go home—to New York. Head up the division there. Make my name, maybe put in for a transfer.

And then she thought, but no. No. Let her hound me out of Paris?

Never. Judy resolved, on the spot, she would fight. She would never give in to Sophie.That woman had stood between Judy and her only love. Judy hated her, and she would never let that spoiled, pampered woman defeat her again.

She turned onto her own floor. Judy’s secretary was already in her office, laying out last night’s faxes and this morning’s call sheet.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” she said cheerfully.

Judy thought of Pierre, her darling, with his chocolate eyes and his smooth chest lifting above her. The thought caused her physical pain, a stabbing in her side.

“Speak English, Marie,” she said. “You can speak English?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Mme Massot is arriving to take over the company,” Judy said calmly. “And we must all make her just as welcome as possible.”

Whatever happened, she would face this like she faced everything: head high and damn them all to hell.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The bells in Tom Tower tolled nine times. That meant it was five past nine at night. The old clock was exactly one degree west of the Greenwich meridian, and so the clockmaker had decided to set it five minutes slow.

Tom smiled. He loved it. Right now he was in love with the English and all their mad eccentricities. He thought about Polly, the redhead who had just slipped from his room five minutes ago. She swore like a sailor and left the place reeking of smoke, but on the other hand, in bed . . .

He reclined in the covers over the spot where she had been, breathing in the musky scent of her. He wondered what streams of invective Polly would spew forth if she knew she was the third girl he’d had this week. . . .

Ah, college; it was great, wasn’t it?

An endless procession of opportunities. His studies weren’t going too well, he’d barely scraped through in mods, and then only because Maman had offered to make a large donation to the Old Library restoration fund. But studying was way down on the list of things he’d come to Oxford to do.