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restaurant, known when he had a reservation, and known with some certainty that M. Durand would of course hold this particular bottle for his very important customer. The killer also had the skill to present a believable facsimile of a legitimate company. All of this pointed to a level of professionalism that practically screamed “competitor.”
    And yet, he still couldn’t quite disregard Denise.
    It wasn’t likely, but this could still be a crime of passion. No one was beyond suspicion until he knew for certain who had killed his father. Whatever his father had seen in Denise, perhaps some other man had seen the same thing, and been just as obsessed.
    As for Salvatore’s past lovers… Rodrigo mentally reviewed them, and all but categorically dismissed them from contention. For one thing, Salvatore had been like a honey bee, never staying long enough with one lover for any real connection to be formed. Since his wife’s death, some twenty years before, he had been amazingly active in the romance department, but no woman had come close to joining his wife in his regard.
    Moreover, Rodrigo had investigated every woman who spent time with his father. Not one of them had shown any signs of obsessive behavior, nor would they have had the knowledge of such an exotic poison, or the means of acquiring it, much less the hideously expensive wine. He would investigate them again, just to be certain, but he thought they would all check out clean. However, what about the people in Denise’s past?
    He had questioned her about that, but she hadn’t provided any names, merely saying, “No, there’s no one.”
    Did that mean she’d lived virtuous and nunlike all her life? He didn’t think so, though he did know for a fact that she’d refused Salvatore’s propositions. Or did it mean there had been lovers but no one she considered capable of such a thing? He didn’t care what she thought; he wanted to draw his own conclusions.
    Ah, there it was. Why wouldn’t she tell him about anyone in her past? Why was she so secretive? That was what bothered him about her; there was no reason for her not to give him the name of everyone she had been with since adolescence. Was she protecting someone? Did she have an idea of who could have put the poison in that bottle, knowing her dislike of wine and never dreaming she might drink some of it?
    He hadn’t investigated her as thoroughly as he would have liked; first Salvatore had been too impatient to wait, and then their dates had been so no eventful-until the last one-that Rodrigo had basically put the matter aside. Now, however, he would find out everything there was to know about Denise Morel; if she had ever even thought about sleeping with anyone, he would know it. If anyone was in love with her, he would find the man.
    He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “I want Mademoiselle Morel watched at all times. If she moves an inch outside her door, I want to know about it If anyone calls her, or she places any calls, I want the call traced. Is that understood? Good.”
    In the privacy of the guest bedroom’s bathroom, Lily had worked hard to regain her strength. A thorough search of the room had revealed neither camera nor microphone, so she knew she was safe from observation there. At first she’d been able to do only stretching exercises, but she’d pushed herself hard, jogging in place even when she had to hold on to the marble vanity to keep her balance, doing push-ups and sit-ups and ab crunches. She forced herself to eat as much as she could, fueling her recovery. She knew pushing herself could be dangerous, with her damaged heart valve, but it was a calculated risk, as was almost everything else in her life.
    The first thing she did once she was back in her flat was subject it to the same exhaustive search that the bathroom had received. To her relief, she didn’t find anything. Rodrigo must not suspect her, or he would have had the place bugged seven ways from