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that couldn’t be broken.
    In the meantime, he knew where she lived. It wouldn’t take long. Early spring was one of the rainiest times of the year. All he had to do was be patient and hope that fool Malgreave didn’t realize he had anything to do with the two bodies found floating in the Seine last night.
    He didn’t have anything to worry about. The police didn’t fuss too much about dead drug dealers, as long as they weren’t part of a gang war. This way he had the money, the drugs, and Giselle had been able to enjoy herself, the greedy bitch. And in a few days, as soon as the rains came again, he’d get his reward.
    Marc came up behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her pliant body back against his. His warm, damp mouth nibbled her neck, and his narrow hips pressed against her buttocks. He was aroused, and she waited for an answering surge of heat in her own body. It came, obediently enough, but it took a moment.
    “Did you miss me while we were at
grand-mère’s?
” he murmured in her ear.
    She didn’t move. There was absolutely nothing to feelguilty about, she told herself for the twentieth time. All she did was share a park bench and an hour’s conversation with a fellow American. And a coffee ice cream cone that was sinfully delicious.
    It had been nothing. Just a sharing of idiotic things. Where they went to college. Where they’d worked. What pets they’d had when they were young. The miserable weather, and yes, the tragic deaths of the old ladies. The kind of conversation strangers had. And that’s all she and Tom Parkhurst were. Strangers who would be unlikely to meet again.
    So there was no need to tell Marc, was there? He was flatteringly jealous, but it wasn’t a game Claire cared to play. There was no comparison between the two men. Marc was heat and passion and dark, mysterious depths. Tom was about as mysterious as a teddy bear.
    No, there was no need to tell him. “Of course I missed you,” Claire murmured, turning in his arms and pressing her hips against his. “Do I get to go next time?”
    He smiled at her, his dark, dreamy eyes level with hers. “Not next time, darling,” he murmured, his hands deft with her zipper. “There wasn’t time to bring up the subject. But soon, I promise.”
    She felt the coolness of the air against her skin as the zipper parted company, and she squashed down the sudden surge of disappointment. She’d been looking forward to meeting Nicole’s beloved
grand-mère
. Anything to break out of her seclusion. Marc would have no reason for keeping them apart, unless … “She does speak English, doesn’t she?”
    Marc’s expressive face was answer enough, it didn’t need his words. “I’d been hoping you wouldn’t ask. Not really, darling. But I’m sure Nicole will translate for you.”
    “But she just spent almost a year in Los Angeles …”
    He shrugged. “You will find that Harriette Langlois does not do anything she doesn’t care to do. And she doesn’t care to learn a language she considers an abomination.” The dress slid to the floor, a pool of silk at her slender ankles.“Don’t worry about her, darling. As long as we have each other we don’t need a disapproving old bitch like her. Let Nicole have her.”
    “But …” Her mouth was silenced, swiftly and effectively, by his. And Claire, thinking of Tom Parkhurst and guilt, kissed him back.
    Harriette Langlois was washing her own dishes. She hadn’t yet arranged for her cleaning lady to come back, and in truth, she didn’t mind doing the dishes for a change. It helped her think.
    But even giving her Limoges the care it deserved didn’t take enough time. She scrubbed the wooden counters, threw out the leftover bread, and turned off the light, moving back into the airy, delicate living room that she’d missed so desperately when she’d been on her self-imposed exile.
    The room was almost English, she had to admit it, much as she hated the English. The