His entrance, in fact, made a lot more of a stir than the display of the panel. The broad, well-lighted room was packed when he came in. The rows of folding chairs were all occupied. Buyers lined up along the white walls, two deep in some places, the aisles blocked. More buyers clustered at the back. There were even some standing behind the phone tables, behind the neat, wealthy-looking young ladies who sat shoulder to shoulder there, waiting for call-in bids. And everywhere, as Storm entered through the double doors at the rear of the room, attention was paid. A subtle effect, but definitely there. The crowd that was gathered before the doors parted slightly to let him through. Heads turned, briefly. Women’s eyes went up him in appraisal; men’s eyes went down him in critique. All over the room, fine ladies touched the tips of their hair. One egotistical French industrialist unconsciously straightened his posture; an Arab oilman smirked; a Silicon Valley whiz kid snorted derisively and then had to wipe the snot off his lapel. The girls at the phone tables turned like a row of cranes in unison to get a glimpse. The auctioneer himself glanced down from his podium on high, sensing a change in the relative gelt humidity, feeling out the weather.

All because of Storm. And he knew it too. Hey, the man was in battle gear this time, babe. Broad shoulders squared by the slashing planes of an Armani suit. A blinding spit shine on his black Guccis. An elegant splash of gold glinting at his cuffs, and on his tie. Silk at his throat, at his pockets. A hundred and fifty pounds of style on his sandy hair—and we’re talking pounds sterling, sweetheart, not the scale kind. There were people in that room who were like computers in judging these things, in assessing potential lovers, customers, rivals. But even to an untutored eye, even to a casual glance, the guy looked like a major tycoon, like an American multimillionaire at ease with power and glamour and fame. Which, of course, is exactly what he was.