HE STOOD in the entranceway, next to a fair-haired woman of early middle age, and greeted each member of Zizi’s large entourage as they came filing up the flagstone steps. He was tall, with the broad square shoulders of a swimmer and narrow hips. His hair was dark and tightly curled. He wore a pale-blue Lacoste sweater and white trousers. The sleeves of the sweater were pulled down to his wrists, and his right hand was thrust into his pocket. Zizi took Sarah by the arm and made the introduction.

“This is Sarah Bancroft, the new chief of my art department. Sarah, this is Alain al-Nasser. Alain runs a venture capital firm for us in Montreal.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sarah.”

Fluent English, lightly accented. Hand firmly in the pocket. He nodded at the woman.

“My wife, Sophie.”

“Bonsoir, Sarah.”

The woman extended her hand. Sarah shook it, then held out her own hand to Alain al-Nasser, but he looked quickly away and threw his arms elaborately around Wazir bin Talal. Sarah went inside the villa. It was large and airy with one side open to a large outdoor terrace. There was a turquoise swimming pool, and beyond the pool only the darkening sea. A table had been laid with drinks and snacks. Sarah searched in vain for a bottle of wine and settled for papaya juice instead.

She carried her drink onto the terrace and sat down. The gas lanterns were twisting in the night wind. So was Sarah’s hair. She tucked the rebellious strands behind her ears and looked back into the villa. Alain al-Nasser had abandoned Sophie to Jean-Michel and was now in close consultation with Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and bin Talal. Sarah sipped her juice. Her mouth was sandpaper. Her heart was banging against her breastbone.

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

She looked up, startled, and saw Nadia standing over her.

“Who?”

“Alain?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the way you were looking at him, Sarah.”

Think of something, she thought.

“I was looking at Jean-Michel.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it?”

“It’s never a good idea to mix romance and work.”

“He is beautiful, though.”

“Very,” said Sarah. “But trouble.”

“They all are.”

“How well do you know Alain?”

“Not very,” she said. “He’s been working for my father for about three years.”

“I take it he’s not Saudi?”

“We don’t do names like Alain. He’s Lebanese. Raised in France, I think.”

“And now he lives in Montreal?”

“I suppose.” Nadia’s expression darkened. “It’s best not to ask too many questions about my father’s business—or the people who work for him. My father doesn’t like it.”

Nadia walked away and sat down next to Rahimah. Sarah looked out to sea, at the lights of a passing vessel.