She pirouetted on one heel and walked out, chuckling.

Later that night, Stockton sat in his suite at the Crillon and wondered where it had all gone wrong. He was homesick. His dream had tanked. Montfort, that bastard, was printing money and Mayberry’s stock was sliding down the drain. He wanted to dump his own considerable portfolio, but after Enron, those busybodies on Capitol Hill had put a stop to corporate officers selling. . . .

Stockton shuddered. What would happen if this company failed?

It was possible. Jewellry was a nebulous business. You could forget that. It was about design value, like a fashion house or a perfume. Apart from the actual stock of gems, if House Massot, and worse, Mayberry, lost their cachet—more fucking French—then the company was worthless. There was no “there” there, as they say.

He wished that Sophie bitch hadn’t poached his lead designers. That was dumb. He should have wrapped them up in a contract so tight they could never get out. Ruin them if they tried to double-cross him.

Ruin them . . .

He gazed around at the sumptuous suite in the Crillon, with his balcony facing place de la Concord. Shit . . . if he lost his money ... What wasn’t in Mayberry stock?

There’d be no more hotels like this. No more limos. No more Claudia—she’d be out the door faster than a hooker after she got paid. Not that he loved her, but she was kind of familiar.

The phone rang.

“Lazard, where the fuck are you, you lazy bastard?”

“It’s not Gregoire Lazard. It’s Tom Massot.”

“And what the hell do you want?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Go to hell.”

Tom was unfazed. “One that will make you very rich and rid you of the headache of House Massot.”

Stockton paused.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“This has to be done in person. I’m in the lobby. Would you like me to come to your suite?”

Pete clutched the receiver.

“Sure,” he said heavily. “Why the fuck not.”

Pete stared at the Massot kid. And he didn’t like what he saw. How was it possible the spoilt, petulant little brat he’d gulled into doing the merger looked like this? There was, unmistakably, a young man in front of him, not a boy. He carried himself differently; there was a seriousness to his tone, and determination in his eyes.

Tom Massot had been a fool.

This was someone to reckon with.

Stockton knew it instantly. Whatever his other faults, he had a sharp appreciation of danger. And Massot spelled trouble.

He was unpleasantly reminded of Hugh Montfort.

“Let’s hear this deal you got,” he said. He tried to sound hard, but he worried that Massot could sense his back was against the wall, that he was a cornered animal.

“I want to buy my company back.”

“You don’t have that kind of money, kid.”