LISTEN TO A SAMPLE CHAPTER

 Audiobook format: MP3

Runtime: 00:28:21 minutes

Read by Angelica Robotti

CHAPTER ONE

Ooooh! She was so mad! 

Babs Wilcox seethed. The infernal gall of the man! Her high heels beat the pavement of the Champs-Elysées in sharp, staccato beats, like a hammer pounding in nails. Her lips, usually so full, were pressed now into a thin, hard line, and her brown eyes glinted with an inner fury. Her hands, with their deep rose polished nails, were clenched into tiny fists. 

If Hank Goddard were here now instead of up in the lavish rooms of Watteau et Cie, dealers in jewels and rare gems, gloating over his purchase of the Krakov emeralds, she would hurl herself at him and—and—slap his face. She would. She really would 

So maybe it wouldn't be ladylike. Phooey! Who cared? It certainly wasn't very gentlemanly of him to outbid her for those Russian emeralds. As he had outbid her two months ago for the Haberle diamond, and three months before that for the Spanish rubies. He was always there at her elbow with that slow grin of his and those blue eyes that seemed to bore down inside her, not even raising his voice, just motioning in that casual manner he had and getting his bid noticed. 

She was so busy condemning Hank Goddard to a dozen fates worse than death that she did not hear the feet pounding the sidewalk behind her. 

Something hit her and banged her sideways into a big blue Citroën parked at the curb. Babs yelped and fell against the car, clawing at it to maintain her balance. Two big men were there beside her, one of them impatiently shoving her out of the way so he could open the car door. 

Babs opened her mouth to protest but was unceremoniously yanked by an elbow and hurled to one side. She went flying the other way, staggering to keep upright, and banged into the plate-glass window of a storefront.

The blue Citroën had been standing there with its motor running. Babs noticed a pretty girl with brown hair at the wheel. As soon as the men were in the car and the doors were slammed shut behind them, the girl fed gas to the motor and the Citroën roared off down the street. 

"Well!” Babs gasped, straightening. "The nerve of—" 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw big Hank Goddard running. Instantly she whirled, took two steps, and opened the door, walking inside the store. She certainly did not want to see Hank Goddard now. Or maybe she would claw his face for him. 

Yet she kept looking at him, seeing him slide to a halt on the sidewalk and peer down the street as though he were watching that Citroën. Babs scowled as she studied him. Ha! Apparently things were not going so well for Mister Henry Atwell Goddard, for a change. He certainly looked disturbed, all right. 

Glee caught hold of Babs. Serves you right, you big bully. So something has gone wrong for you. Good! Now you know how the rest of us mortals feel. Babs hugged herself. Her lips twitched in amusement as she noted his distress, his frenzied look. 

And yet— 

Something inside her twisted and bit, as though a knife were being ground into her. Babs opened her mouth in shocked surprise. Now why would she feel this sudden surge of pity and concern for that big know-it-all? He was obnoxious, so sure of himself, so much a master of his own destiny, that it was no wonder he roused her ire. He was running a hand through his thick mane of golden hair in a troubled fashion. Babs felt a sudden urge to run her own fingers through that hair, and immediately despised herself for it. 

What was the matter with her? 

Hank Goddard was a conceited boor. He was also rich, famous, and would make any girl a fabulous husband. Babs sneered. Well, he wouldn't make her a husband. No way. He had tried, she had to give him that. Ever since they had met, he had been after her to marry him. Oh, she had dated him a couple of times, but that was before he had begun beating her at the auctions. 

She would not marry him if he came crawling on hands and knees! 

Her eyes were still glued to his big body. He stood there scowling, his hands plunged deep in his trouser pockets. Apparently something had gone wrong for Hank Goddard today, though in all honesty, she could not imagine what. He had bought the Krakov emeralds, hadn't he? They were his now, to sell to some rich American heiress for a fortune that would make him even richer. What in the world could he be so troubled about? 

She was on the point of stepping out and confronting him, maybe to gloat a little at his discomfiture, when he turned and went striding away. It was beneath her dignity to go running after him. She watched him go, wondering at the emotions that seethed inside her. 

When she resumed her walk, clutching her handbag under an arm, Babs discovered that her lips were quivering. Why did life have to be so mean? She was always failing, it seemed, at jobs her firm gave her to do. Bid for the Spanish rubies. Make sure she got the Haberle diamond. Don't fail to get those Krakov emeralds. Well, she had failed. And always, it had been Hank Goddard who had beaten her out. 

She wouldn't blame her boss if he fired her. 

She wandered the streets of Paris, stopping at a side walk cafe for coffee and a sandwich, chewing and drinking by rote without any sense of what it was she was eating. At times tears came to her eyes. It was all the fault of that Goddard guy, too. He seemed to always get what he went after; he rode roughshod over his competition, almost as if they didn't exist. 

She paid her bill and resumed walking. It was late in the afternoon now. Soon enough she would have to return to the hotel and send a telegram of yet another failure to Penchard Brothers, her employers, to let them know that Hank Goddard had beaten her out once again. 

She put it off as long as she could. Only when the shadows were lengthening did she turn around and begin moving toward the Rue de Rivoli. Her steps lagged, she felt tiredness welling up inside her, and she told herself that she had no appetite. She would go to bed without dinner, and maybe when she woke up next morning—if she ever did wake up—the world would not seem so terrible a place, after all. 

Babs went in a side entrance and moved toward the elevators, looking around cautiously to see if Hank Goddard was anywhere in sight. There was no sign of him. At least she was being spared that. She pressed the elevator button and waited. 

In her room she stripped off her clothes, ran a hot tub, and for a long time lay in the water as some of the tension and anxiety seeped out of her. When she had dried and powdered herself and slipped into pajamas, she went to the bed and turned back the covers. 

A good night's sleep was all she needed. Tomorrow would be time enough to notify her office about the result of the Krakov sale. Slowly she pulled the covers up about her and rested her head on the pillow. Her eyes closed. She slept. As she slept, tears oozed out from her closed eyelids and ran down her cheeks... 

Suddenly she came awake. 

Babs lay a moment, listening. What was it that had so suddenly wakened her? A noise, very faint but somewhat alarming. She lay without breathing, just waiting for a repetition of that sound. Very slowly she reached out for the bedside lamp and switched it on. 

The room was the same as she had left it when she had crawled into bed. As far as she could see, anyhow. She was on the verge of getting out of bed when her common sense told her there was no point to that. She was comfortable in bed, there was no need to go traipsing around the room. She switched off the light and snuggled down under the covers. She was asleep again instantly. 

Morning sunlight on her eyelids woke her. She lay a moment, savoring the warmth, the comfort. Then she opened one eye and peeped at her little Waltham alarm clock. It was early and there was no rush to get dressed today. All she had to do was send a wire to Penchard Brothers, pack, and catch the next plane for New York out of Charles de Gaulle Airport. 

She dozed, then scolded herself. She was a business woman; it was time she dressed and went out to face the world. With a sigh, Babs threw back the covers and slid her feet down toward her slippers. She would wear the Kay Windsor jacket-dress in off-white, with the checked top and matching scarf. 

Babs was dressed and reaching for her alligator grained-calf handbag when her hand froze in midair and her eyes ran across the top of the bureau. Where was it? Last night when she entered the room she had put the bag down on top of her bureau. She had a distinct recollection of that. Where, then, could it have gone? 

She examined the floor, thinking it might have fallen off. Somewhat worriedly now—the bag contained her passport, all her money, every identification card she possessed, as well as her charge cards—she began her hunt. She searched carefully at first, then more frantically. 

Where could it be? How could it have disappeared? 

Not until she had spent close to half an hour looking everywhere in the room and in the closet did she remember that strange sound which had wakened her during the night. 

A sneak thief!

"Oh my God," she whimpered. 

Babs paled. She didn't even have enough money for breakfast. And she was ravenously hungry. It came to her then that the tickets for her return flight to New York had also been in that handbag. 

She sat a moment longer before she had enough strength to rise and walk toward the door. She would have to report the theft. She would have to—to— 

What was she going to do? 

In a panic, she flung open the door and rushed along the hall to the elevator. Maybe Penchard Brothers would wire her enough money to pay for her meals and to buy another ticket to get back home. Tears were in her eyes as she stepped into the elevator and let it carry her down to the main floor. 

The first person she saw as she stepped out onto the thick rug was Hank Goddard. He was standing with the Paris edition of The New York Times under one arm, his hand thrust deep in his pocket, jingling some loose change. 

His blue eyes fell on her and lit up.

"Bonjour mon amour," he said, grinning. "Thought you might be down around now. Come on, I'll buy you breakfast." 

"I–I cah—can't," she managed to get out.

He looked puzzled. "Can't what?” 

He looked so interested, so concerned, that she could not help it. The tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. "I've been robbed," she whispered. 

His big hand caught her arm and drew her close to him. His arm went around her shoulders, squeezing her. His voice was soft and sympathetic as he spoke. 

"Easy now, no need to panic. I'm here, I'll handle everything for you. You just come along with me, and we'll put some food in you." His blue eyes looked down into her brown ones, wet now with tears. "We'll handle it, you and I. There won't be any trouble. I can give you all the money you need. No, better than that. You just let me take care of everything." 

“But—" 

His arm shook her. He was so big, so strong, it was easy to shake her, she thought wildly. It was a comforting shake, it brought her body up against his, and she sensed his strength and competence. 

"I really oughtn't—" 

"Hey, don't go all proud on me. That's what friends are for, to help each other." His grin was warm, friendly. "Besides, I'd consider it an honor. Hey, come over here." 

He drew her with him into a corner of the lobby, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and very gently—almost tenderly, she told herself—dabbed at her closed eyes and cheeks. He leaned forward then and kissed the tip of her uptilted nose. 

Babs opened her eyes at that. She also opened her mouth to protest, but she found herself staring up into his blue eyes, so filled with tenderness that she caught her breath. If only she didn't know what a con artist this man was, if only he were a perfect stranger, if only— 

His big hand was turning her and guiding her toward the restaurant. 

"How do ham and eggs sound? And a couple of pots of hot, steaming coffee? With rolls and melted butter, of course. And after that, we'll spend the day together. I figure that as long as I'm in Paris, I might as well see the sights. Ever been to the gardens at Versailles? I never have. We'll go together." 

"Hank, now listen " 

His arm was about her middle, he was walking so close to her that their hips were brushing, and despite all the warnings that her mind threw at her, her body was telling her in no uncertain terms that it liked the nearness of him. 

He was guiding her toward a table near a window, through which the morning sunshine was streaming. Then he was holding her chair for her and she was sinking into it, watching as he smiled down at her and went around to sit opposite her. 

His hand was holding hers, suddenly, encompassing it in its warmth, and Babs had to admit that it felt good, being held by him in this way and comforted. She was not on her own any longer, not with big Hank Goddard here to help her. Besides, she was awfully hungry. 

"I'll pay you back," she said with a rush, "when we return to New York. You understand that, don't you?” 

His hand waved idly. "Whatever you say. Don't fret about it, just enjoy." 

"We—ell, all right." She managed a smile and found herself staring back into those disturbing blue eyes. She wished he wouldn't go on staring at her that way. On the other hand, the look he was giving her was telling her that she was a very beautiful girl and that if he had his druthers... 

Babs shook herself mentally. This would never do. Talk to him. Get his mind off what his eyes were saying to her. 

"Congratulations," she blurted. "You got the Krakov emeralds." 

Something seemed to change in him. His eyes lost their tenderness, their gentleness. For an instant they appeared to become hard as agates. 

"Oh, didn't you know? They were stolen from me yesterday right after the sale." 

Babs sat up straight, her mouth a little open.

“Stolen? Oh, no!" 

He eyed her almost suspiciously. "You didn't know? It was on the radio last night. It's in all the newspapers this morning." 

He opened the paper and showed her the front page. Babs let her eyes drop to it, studying the headline: DARING JEWEL THEFT AT WATTEAU ET CIE. She sat stunned, unable to take it in. How much was it he had paid for those rare Russian emeralds? More than a million dollars! She herself had bid almost that much. 

"Hank, I'm sorry! How did it happen?" 

He folded the paper and put it to one side. "I had paid over my money and was waiting for the jewels when two men burst in, covering us with guns. They snatched up the jewels and ran. I raced to the window as others went after them." 

He hesitated, then went on. “I saw them get into a Citroën and drive off. By the time I could get to the street they were gone.” 

"Dear God," she breathed. “Those men—why, they were the ones who bumped into me, I'll bet." She told him about it, how she had been slammed into the car, then thrown back across the sidewalk, Hank was listening with his head to one side, but there was a funny look in his eyes. 

"A girl drove that car," he said slowly.

“Yes, I know. I saw her. Just a glimpse, of course." 

The waiter came up and Hank gave the orders, then sat back and smiled at her. He seemed to be studying her, almost as if he had just met her for the first time. There was something in his stare that rang an alarm bell inside Babs. 

For an instant she wondered if he could be thinking that she was that girl—the one who had been behind the wheel of the Citroën. But no, that would be too absurd. Just the same, he seemed almost waiting for her to offer some excuse. 

Babs said, "You've lost all that money. It's a damn shame." 

"Well, now, I'm not all that much out of pocket. I took out theft insurance, naturally. I always do when I buy rare and expensive jewelry. The amount won't cover what I laid out, but it will help." 

She eyed him. "We both seem to be in the same boat. Both of us were robbed. Your loss was so much greater it scarcely seems worthwhile to mention my own." 

His hand came out to hold hers. Babs wanted to snatch it back, but she told herself his touch wasn't going to contaminate her, and besides, she rather enjoyed the feel. 

"If I hadn't been here, you might have starved to death in Paris," he said with a smile, "before you could have gotten everything straightened out. I'm glad I was here, Babs.” 

"So am I,” she admitted. 

She was glad, too. She was starving, and the ham and eggs ought to be here very soon. She was dying for coffee, too. It was not easy to sit across from this man, feeling those blue eyes that seemed to reach down deep inside her as though hunting for something. 

"Sure you won't marry me?" he asked abruptly, 

Babs stared at him. "Honestly, Hank! You know very well that I—" 

The waiter was there then, and Babs bit down on her words. The ham and eggs looked positively scrumptious. She reached for her knife and fork, and watched as the waiter filled her cup with coffee. Then Babs began to eat. 

Food had never tasted so good, she told herself. She buttered rolls and ate them; she sipped at the coffee; she finished the ham and eggs as though she had not eaten for a week. When she was finished eating, she refilled her coffee cup and sat back. 

Hank was smiling at her. "I like to see a girl eat," he said. "Especially breakfast. So few of them do. Eat breakfast, that is." 

"Normally, I don't. But I didn't eat dinner last night and I was ravenous. I want to thank you for the meal, Hank. I'll pay you back, of course, but—"

He was shaking his head. "You'll do nothing of the sort. I enjoyed having a beautiful companion. I'd enjoy it even more if I could have you in front of me every time I sat down to breakfast." 

"I'm not the marrying kind," she muttered. 

He shook his head. “You are, you know. You just don't realize it. The wife-and-mother type." 

"I'm a businesswoman.”

"Sure, sure. For now. For a time.” 

She sipped the coffee, trying to think of something to say that would calm his eagerness. She had no wish to get married, especially to Hank Goddard. Ye gods! Of all the men in the world, to be married to him would be awful. Oh, he was handsome enough, in his rugged way, and he certainly had enough money to satisfy any woman. She supposed he knew what he was doing, asking her. 

The corners of her lips twitched. Suppose she accepted him? What would he say then?" 

"Do you normally ask your breakfast companions to marry you?" she asked. 

He laughed. "Only you."

"I'll bet." 

"No, seriously. I've known you for some time now. I've watched the way you conduct yourself at those auctions we attend, I've heard great reports about you." He chuckled. "Sounds as if I were buying a horse, doesn't it? But I don't mean it that way.” 

He reached for her hand and she was too slow to draw it away. His big fingers clamped down and held her flesh. "I really mean it, Babs. You're a beautiful girl, you're intelligent and—" 

"Only I don't love you," she interjected. “And I could never marry a man I didn't love." She wriggled her fingers, trying to get free of that iron grip he had on her, at the same time wishing he wouldn't stare at her so avidly. It gave her funny feelings, deep down inside. 

"Okay,” he said softly, letting go of her hand. Instantly, she wished he hadn't given in so easily. It was nice to be wanted. Nobody else seemed to want her. Not the way Hank did, apparently. 

"I really have to see about getting a passport," she muttered. 

"You're not to trouble yourself about that. Just let me make a phone call and I'll have it taken care of. I have friends in the diplomatic service who owe me a favor or two. They can speed things up. So you go upstairs, powder your nose, and meet me by the reception desk. Then we'll go for a ride while we wait for the wheels to begin grinding." 

Why not? she thought. I might as well spend my time with him as sit in my room and feel sorry for myself. I don't have any money so I can't even go shopping. She nodded and rose, to find Hank there with her, taking her elbow and guiding her as if she weren't able to walk by herself between the tables. 

They parted at the elevator, with Hank telling her to meet him downstairs in half an hour. Babs nodded and watched him walk away toward some telephones. She clutched her hands together, telling herself that things might be worse. If Hank hadn't been downstairs to meet her today, she really would have been in a pickle. No money, no passport. It would have taken her all day and probably all of tomorrow before she could have gotten things squared away. 

In her room, she studied herself in the bureau mirror. She looked rather lovely, if she had to admit the truth. Her color was good, her soft brown hair was luxuriant, and her eyes actually sparkled. Hmmm. Her lips could stand a touch of Borghese lipstick. 

Babs stared at her reflection in dismay. Her lipstick was in the bag that had been stolen! Drat! Back home she'd had a dozen different lipsticks, but she'd only brought the Borghese with her. Now she'd really have to ask Hank for a loan so she could buy some. 

She bit her lips hard to bring the blood into them and make them somewhat redder. It was the best she could do under the circumstances. 

Hank was waiting at the elevators for her, grinning like a boy who'd been at the jam pot. He caught her by an elbow and brought her along with him, leaning down to beam at her. 

"Everything's arranged. Your passport will be waiting when we return. We'll fly back together tomorrow on a Pan Am jet. Unless, of course, you're agreeable to spending a few more days in Paris with me, sightseeing." 

"I'd better get back, thank you." 

"Ever the devoted employee. I like that in you, at least a part of me does.” He sighed heavily. "Another part of me wants to chaperone you around Paris, to take you shopping. You must need a few things, certainly?" 

“A lipstick," she muttered. “My own was in my handbag." 

"Right. A lipstick, first of all." 

He guided her along the sidewalk until they found a shop and then walked beside her to the counter. A pretty salesgirl came toward them, smiling up at Hank. 

"A lipstick," Hank beamed at the girl. "Something in a deep red.” 

"I don't—"Babs began. 

The salesgirl chattered in French, to which Hank replied in the same language. Babs scowled. Her college French wasn't up to this rapid patter. She tried to pick out a word or two and failed. 

Babs sighed. She was at Hank's mercy, here in Paris. But she wasn't going to accept a deep red, no matter what he wanted. Something in a softer pink would suit her better. 

When she stared at the tube the girl handed her, Hank said, "Go ahead. Try it. It suits you perfectly." 

"No. It's too dark, too sexy." 

His eyebrows raised. "But that lipstick is you, darling. It's perfect for those gypsy-like features of yours." 

She looked at him, which was a mistake. She knew that right away. Because the adoration was there in his eyes again, and when she felt that adoration, something inside her turned to mush. 

"But—” she whispered. 

“Try it,” he urged gently.

Babs moved to a mirror on the counter and put the lip-gloss to her mouth. When she was done and stood back to survey herself, she told herself with frantic thoughts that she looked like somebody's mistress. 

“Great. Absolutely perfect,” Hank was saying. "We'll take it, and throw in a few more." 

"I can't wear this,” Babs wailed.

"Sure you can. Goes great with your coloring. I love it.” 

Under her breath, she hissed at him, "Will you stop it! You're turning me into some sort of hussy!" 

"You're a woman, my sweet. And every woman is a hussy at heart. With the right man, that is and I'm the right man for you." 

The salesgirl was giving Hank a worshiping smile, which added to Babs's fury. She would have thrown the lipstick down on the counter and marched out of the store, except that if she did that and Hank got sore, he would leave her to her fate here in Paris without a penny to her name. 

"Oh, all right," she grumbled. 

Hank took the package the girl handed him, put his change along with it in a pocket, then guided her out onto the sidewalk. Babs began to feel as though she were his prisoner, 

He led her toward a maroon Mercedes-Benz parked beside the curb. Babs glanced at it, then at Hank. “Your car?" she wondered. 

"I rent it,” he nodded, "Like to have wheels with me wherever I go. I write it off to expense, naturally. Now in you go, mon amour." 

That was another thing, Babs thought. All those endearing names he used with her. Darling. Dear. Love. She wasn't any of them. Not to him, anyhow. Nor to anybody else, for that matter. She was a girl who stood on her own two feet with no thanks to any man. But she bit her lip and refused to protest. 

The best thing to do was keep him in a good mood. Until she was safely home in Uncle Sam land. Then she would really let fly and give him both barrels. The thought mollified her and she began making up things in her mind to say to him as he eased the car out into the traffic on the Rue de Rivoli. 

They eased quickly into the flow of cars, past the Tuileries gardens, over the bridge above the Seine, and then onto the Boulevard de la Tour Maubourg. Hank was putting all his attention on his driving, she was happy to see; it gave her more of a chance to relax. 

Somewhat to her surprise, Babs discovered that she was enjoying this escapade. In a way, it was like playing hooky from school. By rights, she ought to be frantically sending wires to her boss and running from one place to another to get her passport and a loan so she could get back to the States. Instead, she was gallivanting around Paris with the man she ought to hate. 

Her eyes slid sideways toward him. He had a reasonably good profile, rugged and very strong. He was generous enough, he had taken her under his protection, and now he was even going off on a jaunt with her. 

Hmmm! Did he expect some sort of payment for all this fun? Like her body in a bed for him to enjoy? Ha! If he did, he had several dozen things coming. Babs settled back, hands folded on her lap, and told herself that if he laid so much as a finger on her flesh, she was going to claw his face—as she ought to have done when he outbid her for the Krakov emeralds.