He instantly knew he must have her; she radiated innocence and purity. She was, of course, naive, gullible, overly religious—stupid qualities, but ones that suited her for the task he would assign. It helped that she came from parents who couldn’t be bothered with her, and longed to get out; it helped that she was pathetically grateful, and wedded to a bourgeois idea of marriage and fidelity. As with Aud, he had enjoyed Katherine’s reaction when he made the introduction, but unlike Aud, Sophie possessed ample beauty, and innate style and grace.

Had he written his requirements on a piece of paper and mag icked them into existence, he could have done no better.

Of course. Success was his destiny.

And soon enough, she was pregnant. Pierre found her laboured tension in bed unpalatable; there was too much good girl, no passion—unlike his mistresses, she did not adore him, or cling to him. When she gave birth to a son, he left her bed for good.

The boy interested him only academically. An heir was a necessity. It was pleasing to see that he resembled his father. Pierre occasionally played with him, and took pleasure in the physical resemblance. At work, he had discovered the most amusing of his many girls, Judith Dean: a young American unlike his wife— ambitious, pushy, in awe of his business achievements. She was erotic and adventurous, and made his days at the office more fun. He bought her an apartment, and kept a key. Some of the other women fell by the wayside. He kept only one or two besides Judy, for a connoisseur must always have variety.

And then, it seemed, his life was settled. The riches, the wife, the “mother,” the status, the son, the favoured mistress—all was in place. There was the odd pathetic attempt at a takeover, of which Mayberry’s was the most tiresome, but nothing serious.

And Pierre Massot began to get bored.

That was his weakness.

He desired excitement. Sluts were too easy, drugs beneath him. He wanted to be applauded, not for his new identity, but for his old. And he had promoted a man within the company who did not deserve it.

Gregoire Lazard.

Lazard was a mediocre manager at best. Pierre had summoned him to his office to fire him, and to do it cruelly, leaving the man abjectly humiliated and unemployable. There were no second chances at House Massot.

But as soon as he saw him, he changed his mind. And for one reason.

A glance could tell, Gregoire Lazard was not French.

He was Russian.

He knew instantly. There was the pallid skin that years of French sun could not totally alter; there were the slightly slanted eyes, with the hooded lids; there was a hard way of carrying himself that the man had not been able to shed.