“Not tonight. But I’d love to have dinner with you tomorrow if you don’t have plans.”

“Then we’ll have another celebration tomorrow. We’ll go shopping and buy you a midnight blue dress with many sequins, I think. It will be dazzling with that wonderful red-brown hair.”

“Sequins aren’t my style. And I don’t dazzle.”

“No, maybe not usually. But you’re beautiful and people stare at you and remember your face after they’ve forgotten all the dazzle around them. But I still think we need a little dazzle to set my Paris whirling.” She swept toward the door, with the red silk cape flowing behind her like a banner. “Go to bed, you boring person. I’ll set the alarm to keep someone from stealing you, but don’t expect me in before dawn.”

Jane was smiling as she got on the elevator. Celine might not be in before dawn, but she’d be up and working in her gallery by nine. As for Jane, she’d be packing and perhaps spending a few hours walking around Paris before she met Celine for dinner. She loved this city though she never felt totally at home here. It was too sparkling and effervescent. She had been much more at home in Scotland at MacDuff’s Run though the castle’s grandeur should have intimidated her. Particularly since her time there had been filled with the overwhelming threat engendered by that bastard, Reilly, and his hunt for MacDuff’s lost treasure.

Why had she suddenly thought of MacDuff’s Run? Why not the lake cottage back in Atlanta?

It must have been Celine talking about the painting and her lust for MacDuff. He had obviously impressed her. Why not? MacDuff was an impressive man, and the force of his personality was pure magnetism. She wasn’t sure that Celine had believed her when she’d told her that she hadn’t gone to bed with MacDuff. Their relationship had consisted of part ally, part adversary in the past few years. Whenever they were together, he ignited a response in her that always put her on the defensive. She didn’t need MacDuff in her life.

The elevator opened, and she stepped out into Celine’s apartment. All blues and creams and Louis XV furniture and gorgeous bronze mirrors. Restful, but exquisite. All Celine. Not at all Jane. She’d be glad to get back to the U.S. and the simplicity and comfort of her own apartment.

Day after tomorrow. She’d already made her flight reservations.

For now, shower, crawl into the bed that looked like Marie Antoinette had probably slept in it.

In a few minutes Celine would probably be at a club, flitting from table to table like the butterfly to which Jane had mentally compared her.

Jane didn’t envy her at all.

JANE’S CELL PHONE was ringing.

She reached out sleepily for the phone on the nightstand.

“Whore.”

She was jerked wide-awake at the hoarse male voice.

“Bitch.”

“Who is this?”

“Blasphemer.”

An obscene caller. She was about to hang up when something occurred to her. “How did you get my cell number, you creep?”

“Liar.”

“I’m going to hang up. And then I’m going to call the police and see if they can trace you.”

“They won’t be able to do it. I have all the angels of paradise on my side.”

“I don’t believe angels would have anything to do with a slime-ball like you. You’d better check your information.”

“You sit there spitting foulness at me in your little cocoon above the gallery of sin, Jane MacGuire. You think you’re safe.”

A chill went through her. Gallery. This was no random obscene call. He was speaking in English. He knew where she was. Who she was. “I am safe.”

“Not from me. Not from us.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve left a calling card at the front door. Come and get it.”

“No way.”

“Never mind. I see a taxi coming down the street. It may be the whore who runs this gallery. I’ll give my card to her.”

He hung up.

Celine.

She jumped out of bed and ran to the window overlooking the street. There was a taxi drawing to the curb across the street.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She’d be stupid if she went down and opened that door.

But if she didn’t, then that bastard who had called her might attack Celine when she finished paying the driver and came into the vestibule of the gallery.

She dialed Celine’s number.

No answer.

Dammit, she wished she had a gun. But it was just too difficult traveling with even licensed firearms through airport security. So compromise. Call the police and tell them she suspected an intruder, then go downstairs and talk to that son of a bitch through the door and try to distract him.

She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife, and ran toward the elevator. What the hell was the French version of 911?

THE GALLERY WAS DARK. Celine must have turned out the lights when she had put on the alarm before she left.

Jane froze for a second as she stepped out of the elevator.

The carved oak door of the front entrance was directly across the room from where she was standing.

She could see the headlights of the taxi through the plate-glass window to the right of the door.

Stay where you are, Celine. Don’t get out of the taxi.

She ran across the room.

Distract him. Quick.

When she was close enough to be heard, she stopped, and called, “I’m here. Are you out there, scum?”

Nothing.

“You’re brave on the telephone. Talk to me, bastard.”

Silence.

Had he gone away, or was he waiting for Celine to come toward the door?

And then the front door began to slowly open.

She froze.

But it couldn’t be opening. The door was locked, and the alarm would have gone off.

She took a step back, her grasp tightening on the butcher knife.

Someone was there.

A dark form was silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlight.

Her heart was pounding. Where the hell were the police?

“Blasphemer.” He stepped forward. “He told me to wait for you. I’m trying to wait, but it’s an agony. Come to me.” He had something in his hand, something dark and pointed. “Surely the angels will forgive me.”

“I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute.” Dear God, he was big. But she had the knife, knew karate, and if that wasn’t a gun in his hand, she might be able to-”

He sprang toward her.

She sidestepped, then sprang forward, and the edge of her hand came down on the side of his neck. It was only a glancing blow, but he staggered and almost fell. She ran past him and out into the street.

The taxi. Warn Celine.

“Celine! Stay where you are. Don’t come-”

A hand grasped her shoulder, spun her around. “Bitch.” That bastard had followed her from the gallery. He was raising his hand with the odd-shaped weapon. Her foot lashed out and connected between his legs.

He screamed but didn’t release her.

She’d have to use the knife.

He suddenly arched violently backward and cried out.

What was hap-?

Then she saw the gleam of metal as a dagger exited his chest.

Someone was behind him. In the darkness, she could only make out a man, tall, lean, powerful.

“Jane.”

He knew her name, but so had the bastard on the phone. Her hand tightened on the butcher knife. She stiffened, waiting.

The man who had attacked her was falling to the street.

“Don’t make me take the knife away from you, Jane. You’d fight, and I might hurt you.”

She knew that voice and that faint Scottish accent. Relief poured through her as her gaze flew to his face. “Jock?” She stared at him in bewilderment as she lowered the knife. “What are you doing here?”

“At the moment, cleaning up Venable’s mistakes.” Jock Gavin was bending over the man lying before them, going through his pockets. “And trying to get a step ahead of the police I hear a few blocks away. You called them?”

“Yes.” She could hear the sirens, too, now. Relief was surging through her. The police were coming. Jock was here, everything would be all right. She could trust Jock. At times she felt as if they had been closer than brother and sister.