Judy walked up to the steps of the porch, and the large walnut door swung open; that butler, whose name she could not recall, bowed to her.

“Good evening, madam,” he said in perfect English.

She nodded back, coolly. Yes. This was the life.

“Mr. Massot is waiting for you in the drawing room, madam. He asked if you would join him for a cocktail.”

How charming. Judy deigned to turn and smile at the butler.

“Why, thank you,” she said, sweetly.

She normally didn’t speak to the staff. After all, she was hardly on their level. But Judy made an exception for the bearers of good news.

She crossed the marble floor of the hallway, pausing to fluff out her new hairdo—fifty euros for a wash and blow-dry at Jean-Philippe’s, Paris’s latest hot hair salon, and worth every cent. After her horrid day at the office, Judy always stopped by. She wanted to look absolutely fresh for Tom, at her best, every night. No exceptions.

The rearview mirror had offered reassurance on the way home; her lips in that sexy fire-engine red, matching nails, a bold scarlet dress, and black Manolos, with a chunky gold bracelet from one of the Mayberry collections. Her dark hair flowed sexily around her shoulders. Judy gave herself a little shake and pushed down on the brass handle.

Ah . . . perfect.

It was the scene of her dreams. There was indeed a blazing fire crackling and hissing in the eighteenth-century hearth; the curtains, antique orange silk fringed with gold thread, were drawn against the cold; and the shadows of the furniture danced around the walls lined with books.

Tom was standing by the polished mahogany table. It was set with cut-glass decanters and tumblers, a silver bucket of ice with tongs, and slices of lemon and lime.

He looked frighteningly like Pierre. And yet, not. Too young, too green. Judy was never satisfied with Tom; he couldn’t rouse her like Pierre had done. Oh, he looked the same, but the fire wasn’t there: the dominance, the total control. As the young girl, the hero-worshipping mistress, Judy had looked up to Pierre Massot, and he’d been able to bend her whichever way he wanted. Now, with Tom, she was the one doing the manipulating. She was in charge. . . .

It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t love. It was like sickly sweet methadone instead of heroin. And Tom could never get her high.

But he was still Tom Massot. The riches were his. The castle was his. The jewels. The name. . . .

The last vestiges of tension drained from her body. She flashed him a come-on smile.