He glanced around his huge corner office in the eighteenth-century building. It was elegant but a little nondescript, an ideal place to do serious business. At the heart of Paris, he had once thought of himself as a spider—his diamonds and gems sparkling like dewdrops on a web, enticing the prey in.

Once you gained all you desired, though, you got fat and lazy. Pierre, who still did a hundred push-ups a day, did not want that.

And now a window had opened to a whole new level. One which could only be bought at great personal risk. Paris belonged to him, soon it would be the world. Like Tiffany. Or, better—De Beers. . . .

House Massot sold great jewellery. But Pierre wanted more. The raw materials.

Diamonds.

He walked over to his desk and opened the secret drawer with the tiny gold key he wore around his neck. On their bed of dark green baize, the samples nestled.

Pierre drew them out and laid them in his hand. Breathtaking. They sparkled in the fading light of the evening, like tiny chips of ice glittering on his skin—as though moonlight could be captured and placed into cool, dazzling stones. One in particular caught his eye: It was blushing a rosy pink, like dawn over his château. A natural fancy pink, excellent clarity and rich colour saturation. At least three carats. It alone was worth at least ten million francs.

When he returned from that otherworldly place, he decided, he would take all these stones and have them set in a necklace. It would be a collar of diamonds in twenty-four-karat gold, the rose pink pear shape nestling in the centre. He would hang it around the neck of his wife, Sophie; for she, like the diamonds . . . like the mines . . . like everything . . . belonged to him.

His telephone rang.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, sir.” It was his secretary, cool and efficient in the office, eager to please out of it—when he was in the mood. “It’s Mlle Judy on the phone.” Her dislike showed; Pierre was amused by her jealousy. “Shall I put her through?”

He considered it. It might be a week, maybe two, before he was back. There might not be sufficient women on the journey. Young Judy was so slavishly adoring . . . so lithe, so fit; he had not been worshipped that way since Natasha, and he enjoyed her. . . .

But no, not tonight. He did not want the distraction. He would conserve his energy, as he always did at important times.

“No, I am busy.” He added cruelly, “I am returning to the château for dinner with my wife and son.”

The minute sigh at the end of the receiver showed that the barb had gone home. He liked to remind his mistresses of their situation, at times; it prevented any unpleasantness, any foolish expectations.

“Certainly, sir. Good evening, sir.”