Laughter drifted back to him from the corridor. Well, they could both go to hell. It was an act, he thought, calming down. Any way you cut it, Hugh Montfort had just been unceremoniously canned right before closing the biggest deal of his career. He’d made enough enemies at Tiffany and Cartier and Garrard . . . he was done, that arrogant fuck, done like a Thanksgiving turkey!

That thought made him feel a little better. Montfort and his girlfriend could stiff-upper-lip it all they wanted. He knew they were wrecked inside.

He was hungry; he’d order some food himself, a burger and fries, not any of that French shit that always made his stomach so upset. And then he’d take a car down to the Massot showroom, see what he was about to take over. Maybe pick out a piece for Claudia. That should stop her bitching for a day or two.

Hugh flagged down a taxi and gave it directions to place de la Madeleine.

“Where are we going?” Mrs. Percy, her bravado evaporated, looked a little shell-shocked.

“I think we deserve a splendid lunch,” Hugh told her. “Something really French. Lucas Carton is acknowledged to be one of the great restaurants in the city. I have known M. Senderens, the sommelier, for years.”

“That sounds wonderful, sir.”

His secretary was white and shaky. Hugh was almost glad; concentrating on her meant he didn’t have to think overly hard about his own position.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore, Mrs. Percy. Remember?”

“Oh, yes.” She tried to smile. “Then you should call me Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth,” he tried to reassure her. “You mustn’t worry about what just happened in there.”

“Well, it was my decision.” Elizabeth wrung her fingers in her lap. They had just bought a flat with a horrendous mortgage, and they needed every penny of her salary and her bonuses. “I just don’t know what I’m going to tell Jack. . . .”

“That’s Mr. Percy?”

She nodded mutely. Montfort had never taken a close interest in her personal life.

“I have plenty of friends who will be very glad to employ an assistant of your exceptional worth,” Montfort said. “And for the moment—what were you making a year with me?”

“Thirty-six thousand,” Elizabeth whispered. Montfort had been incredibly generous. Where would she find somebody else to match him?

“Then I shall give you two years salary. Possibly as a nominal payment. I’ll talk to my accountant as to the best way to avoid gift tax.”

She stared at him. “But that’s seventy-two thousand pounds, Mr. Montfort.”

“If you’re to be Elizabeth, I may as well be Hugh.” He took her hand in his. “It’s quite all right; I am a rich man, and what you did in there was very brave. It gave me far more than seventy-two thousand pounds’ worth of pleasure,” he added, thinking of Stockton’s pudgy face.