A cab rolled past and he grabbed it. Normally Montfort would have walked, but it was just too hot; he didn’t want to start sweating through his shirt.

His mind rolled over names and figures as they pulled up. Unthinkingly, he pulled out ten euros and pressed it into the driver’s hand, not waiting for the change. There was House Massot, as freshly beautiful and luxurious as it had been when he bought the aigrette. But unlike that occasion, the shop was packed.

Hugh’s heart sank. He shut the door of the cab and crossed the street. Now that he was here, he might as well look.

The doorman saluted smartly and wished him bon matin. Montfort entered the room with some difficulty; the place was seething. He glanced at the registers; they were busy, too; customers were buying, not just browsing.

Damnation, he thought. He turned around to go, and bumped into Sophie Massot.

She was wearing an attractive silk suit, but her eyes were red; she looked pale, drawn, still utterly beautiful. From a business point of view, this was an awkward meeting; she had caught him in her shop. But Hugh didn’t care. He was instantly and fiercely glad.

His eyes ran up and down, across her body, her slim curves perfectly visible through the well-cut suit. Even like this, she was attractive. He wanted her, but when he saw the strain in her eyes, he wanted to protect her, to hug her.

But they were opponents. It was not his place. He contented himself with a handshake; the feel of her thumb, the little swell of flesh next to her palm, he found electrifying. The smallest things about her engaged him.

“Mrs. Massot. Good to see you again,” he said, truthfully, and smiled warmly at her. “I must congratulate you on the number of people here.”

“Thank you.” She seemed unenthused.

“I hope you’re well? You look a little tired.”

“Tired? No. Upset, perhaps.” She smiled wanly. “I suppose I must thank you for warning me about Judy Dean. I discovered the truth. . . . Fired her.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Montfort was concerned. “It must have been very difficult for you.”

“I felt such a fool.” She bit down on her lip; how he wanted to gather her into his arms and kiss the life out of that mouth. Here and now. “I didn’t know,” she said flatly. “Had no idea . . . it’s the oldest cliché, isn’t it?”

He wondered what to say. “You weren’t at fault for believing in your marriage. Others are to blame here, not you.”

She shook her head. Hugh could see she was trying not to cry. But she smiled at him, bravely.

“At any rate, it was kind of you to warn me.”

“I’m not the monster people say I am.”