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He left Kate seated on the sofa, her head back against
the fat striped cushions. She ran her fingers wearily
through her hair. It was very untidy. Their long drive, in
the open-topped sports car, had whipped her blonde hair
into a positive birds’ nest and she had not yet had time to
comb it.
She sipped her chocolate and choked on it as she heard
the voice of the new arrival behind her. Spinning round,
with a scarlet face and wide, panic-stricken eyes, she
faced Marc.
He was grim and furious, his eyes sparking at her.
“Quite a surprise,” he drawled, jamming his hands into
his pockets. “Who would have expected to see you here at
this hour?”
“Let me explain, Marc,” stammered Jean-Paul, very
red.
Marc raised a lazy, sardonic eyebrow. “Do, by all
means. I am in the mood for fairy tales.”
Jean-Paul looked aghast. “No, no, you misunderstand!
It looks odd, I suppose, but truly ...”
“Looks odd?” Marc bit off his words with a fierce snap
of his white teeth. “You’re damned right it looks odd! Let
me guess—Kate got locked out and had to beg a night’s
lodging here? Or she couldn’t find a hotel in Paris ready
to take her?” He laughed unpleasantly. “Or would it be
more accurate to guess that this ...” he gestured around
him, “is the hotel at which she is staying?”
“I am staying at the apartment of Henry Murray,”
Kate intervened in a clear, cold voice. Her own anger had
got the better of her now. How dared Marc burst in here
