Judy was glad to see it; how often had she longed for him to hate Sophie, to despise her the way she did.

The bell rang. She reluctantly took her gaze from Pierre and went to the door. The food had arrived; Judy took the tray from the compliant waiter and slammed the door in his face. There was no question of payment. Her credit was more than good.

Pierre closed his eyes; she saw purple bruising around the lids. He breathed in, deeply.

“I will eat,” he said.

Judy served him at the table. It was the oddest meal of her life. Pierre ate slowly, almost agonizingly so; he was clearly half-starved, but he would not rush even a single bite.

He had perfect control. It killed her.

“This is acceptable,” he said, at one point. “You will have them deliver breakfasts, lunches, and suppers here. With wines, and fresh juices and coffee.”

“Yes—of course. Whatever you say, darling.”

“They will leave the meals in the hallway. You will pay with your card.”

She nodded.

“And of course, you will quit work. There must be a reason that you are staying in the apartment, and ordering food.” He made a gesture. “Depression, perhaps.”

“I’ll be glad to quit.” Judy wanted to shout for joy. “I hate Pete, and I hate Gregoire even worse—”

Pierre stared at her. “Lazard? I thought you said Sophie had dismissed him.”

“Oh, yes, but Pete Stockton rehired him—to show ‘continu ity.’ ” Judy withdrew a cigarette and lit up; her fingers were trembling, so she walked to her balcony. “It didn’t work. The stock is tanking. Nothing helped, not firing your son, not ousting Sophie.”

“And Gregoire is there now?”

“At work. Every day.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Pierre pronounced. “You will return to the office. Now. You will find the personnel files. Get me every detail on Lazard. His address. His car.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Call here as soon as you have it. Be fast.”

“I—yes, I’m going . . .”

Judy hesitated. Pierre would be alone—there was a TV set here. He would watch the news. He would learn about her and Tom—if he didn’t already know. . . .

“I must tell you something,” she said.

“It’s not important. This is.”

“No—it does matter.” Tears clouded her eyes. She was a professional spinner, yet Judy had no idea how to manage this information. “You have to understand that I thought you were dead, my darling. . . .”

Pierre turned around. And his eyes on her now were chips of ice.

“You have betrayed me, Judy?” he asked flatly. “Is that what you are to tell me?”

“I missed you,” she blurted. “So much . . . so long . . . every day . . . and he looks so like you—I—I went out with Tom. . . .”

Pierre’s eyebrows lifted.

“It’s over now!” she wept, almost hysterical. “It’s over! It was never serious.”

“You slept with my son?”