I shake my head and sigh. “I did not come here to dine, monsieur, as you know. I came here for the key. That is all.”

“Well, you won’t be getting it,” he says and offers another smile.

Then he points to the blond-haired man sitting next to me and says, “Bring me the black box on my desk.”

The man glances at me coldly, drops his napkin on the table and stands up. And as he’s leaving the room, the woman with the honey-colored hair and heat between her legs re-enters the room with six slim wine glasses wedged strategically between her fingers. She sets one in front of each of us, walking over to me last. She takes her time about pulling her slender hand from the glass. I don’t offer her the luxury of my eyes.

François points at her. “Come here,” he says and she walks over to him.

He looks across the table at me in a sidelong glance with a clever look in his eyes. He points at the opened bottle of wine I brought. “He will drink first,” he says indicating me.

The woman takes the bottle and approaches me with it.

“You think I did not anticipate your intentions?” François says waving his hand in a dramatic fashion at the wrist. “I know more about you than just your…mishap…in San Francisco. Killing that woman. That innocent woman.” I’m seething beneath my skin, but I can stay calm. Taunting me in this way only shows François’ true level of worry. “I know all about you.” He grins maliciously and instantly I get the feeling he hasn’t brought out the big guns yet, that he knows something worse about me that I did not expect him to know.

For the first time since I walked through those mansion doors, I’m unsure of my next move. But I can keep my calm. It takes much more than the provoking words of a dying man to trigger me.

The woman pours the wine into my glass and steps over to the side.

Seeing that I’m not going to ask François exactly what else he knows, he proceeds to tell me anyway.

“I’ve heard of your past.” He takes another sip of the wine he’s been drinking since before dinner began. “About how you got that nickname of yours.” He rubs the fingertips of one hand together and looks up in thought. “What was it? Ah, yes, I remember now. They called you the little jackal. A scavenger boy. Rabid and worthless.”

I’m going to enjoy watching him die.

I pretend to be unaffected and simply raise my brows inquisitively. “Seems to me you’re trying to buy time.” I glance briefly at my Rolex. “You don’t have much left, I’m afraid.”

François chuckles and smiles at me with teeth. He leans forward against the table and relaxes both arms across it. The blond-haired man re-enters the dining room with a glossy black box that fits in the palm of his hand. He places it on the table in front of François.

Without taking his eyes off me, François opens the box and removes a gold key dangling from a thick gold chain.

He holds it up in the light so that I may see it.

“I do not fear you, monsieur,” he says as he opens his suit jacket and carefully drops the key into his hidden breast pocket. “I did want to give you an opportunity to, perhaps, negotiate your terms. But you really do possess more confidence than any man should.” His deep-set light-colored eyes drop from mine and fall on the new wine glass in front of me. “Why don’t you do the honors and drink from the wine you brought.” He smiles vindictively and brushes his hand in the air toward me, urging me to drink it. “That is what you expected, isn’t it?”

The dark-haired man on my left suddenly appears uncomfortable, shifting on his chair with a look of agitation. He reaches up and slides his index finger behind the neck of his dress shirt and moves it back and forth, trying to pull the fabric from his sweating skin. His face is growing pale and sickly.

François looks at him with little concern. “Is something wrong?”

The dark-haired man stands from the table. “Forgive me, monsieur, but I am not feeling well. Perhaps I should sit the rest of the evening out.”

François nods and waves him away.

The man pushes his chair out and steps away from the table, grasping his napkin in his hand. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with it as he leaves, stumbling just before he rounds the corner and disappears from sight.

“I’m certainly glad I didn’t eat the food,” I say with a raised brow. Touching the edge of my plate with my finger, I push it away from me.

The other men, including François, look down at their plates simultaneously and then toss their napkins on top of the leftovers. Two waiters act immediately to remove the food from the table.

François looks irritated, as if he’s already addressing the issue in his mind of firing his head chef as soon as this is over.

“Why don’t you have a drink?” he suggests, getting back to the matter at hand. “Or, did you forget?” He points at my glass.

“What, you think I poisoned it?” I ask.

François smiles and steeples his hands again. He looks at me knowingly.

“I would like for you to drink the wine,” he repeats, ready to get this over with.

All eyes are on me. The three men left at the table. François. One waiter standing against the wall behind him. The woman with honey-colored hair standing in wait on François’ right.

Finally, I nod and curl my index and middle fingers around the stem of the glass. Hesitantly, I bring the glass to my lips and slowly take a drink. As I’m doing this, I notice another one of the men starting to show signs of distress.

François only notices me.

“Drink it all,” François instructs.

“As you wish.” A grin tugs the corners of my lips just before I touch them with the glass.

A hard thump sounds from the area on the other side of the wall where the dark-haired man went just moments ago. A woman’s scream pierces the air, followed by shouts in French:

“Call an ambulance!”

“Monsieur Bertrand has collapsed!”

Clearly rethinking this whole situation, François’ eyes dart back and forth between me and the other men. But then he can only look at them when he realizes they are also sick. One collapses from the table, the chair that had been holding up his weight knocked onto its side.

François looks right at me, his deeply lined eyes wide with worry and rage.

“What have—,” he shoots up from his chair and points at me with a bony finger. “You did this! How did you do this? You will tell me!”

He clutches his chest and falls back into the chair.

Another man stumbles away from his chair and collapses on the floor, vomiting and convulsing.

Gun shots sound outside the mansion.

The waiter standing against the wall tucks his tail between his legs and takes off running. The sound of glass shattering and metal trays clanking against the marble floors echoes throughout the halls.

“Bastard!” François shouts, still pointing a finger at me while he tries desperately to cling onto the edge of the table with the other hand. His face is turning colors, a very nice shade of burgundy and ash. I’ll have to remember that when I buy my next tie.

I stand from my chair and casually straighten my black Armani suit, tugging both sides of the lapel. Then I take up the glass of wine I brought as a gift and I drink the rest of it down in front of him, setting the empty glass back on the table. François watches with horror, barely holding onto his life. Then I take the other glass of wine into my hand, the one I never really drank from but only pretended to, and I approach him with it. His eyes dart back and forth. He tries to reach into his jacket to grab his gun but he begins to vomit instead. I stop and wait, not wanting to get any of it on my shoes. François chokes and throws his head back, pressing his back against the chair. He gasps for air to fill his lungs with, but it just won’t come, and he falls over forward onto the table, his cheek pressed into the expensive wood grain.