And she swept away from him in a marvellous silken rustle, leaving Hugh standing there, frustrated and furious, and yet, despite himself, somewhat admiring. He had to admit, it was a stylish insult. Our number is in the phone book. Yes, excellent. She didn’t sound brainless, but on the other hand, the alternatives were worse, he reminded himself.

He went and found his own table, where he was, necessarily, sitting with a bunch of strangers, but they all knew each other, and after perfunctory introductions, left him to his thoughts.

I hope I’m not such an amateur as to be swayed by a pretty face and good conversation, Montfort told himself, sternly. If Sophie Massot were not as stupid as he’d thought, she must then be a very calculating woman, and incredibly selfish. She had permitted a charade of a marriage, and now she was prepared to deny her shareholders, and her son, value for their stock, for what? To indulge a lover? Pathetic, and he was pleased to feel his resolve harden again.

“And what brings you to Paris, M. Montfort?” asked one of his companions at the table with a smile. Her husband was an investment banker, and he noticed now that she was wearing Mayberry earrings, beads of lapis interspersed with iolite and sapphires and flashing white zircons—from last season’s Icicles collection.

Hugh returned her smile and made sure he spoke loudly enough for her husband to overhear.

“I’m in Paris to take over House Massot,” he said.

When he got back to the hotel the first thing he did was call L.A. Hugh was often grateful for the time difference; if he had ideas in the middle of the night, it didn’t matter—he could still get Pete Stockton on the phone.

“He’s playing golf, sir,” said Maisie, Pete’s assistant. She had a breathy little-girl voice that annoyed him, but he was trying to get used to it.

“Put me through please,” Hugh said, tiredly.

Pete was more likely to go somewhere without his wallet than without his cell phone. He could hear Maisie sighing in disapproval, but ignored it. It was Monday afternoon; more work, less play would suit his chairman better.

“Hugh, old bean,” Pete said resentfully. “Is it important?”

Pete fondly believed he had the Brit lingo down pat, and Hugh never had the time to disabuse him.

“Sorry to interrupt your game,” Montfort lied. “I’m in Paris, and I’m about to launch a full takeover bid for Massot.”

“Something’s happened then? Excuse me, Peter,” he said to his companion. The resentful tones had vanished, as Hugh expected. The call was about money, Pete’s favourite participation sport; golf could not compete.

Hugh brought him up to date.

“They’re treading water,” he concluded. “The shareholders will hate the idea of the widow and the CEO.”

“And even with the family holding there’s enough of a float out there?”