“Oh, right,” she said with a laugh.

“Seriously, you look great.”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised,” she said lightly, but I could sense the defensiveness underneath.

“Silly,” I said, avoiding the bait as I hugged her again. I casually looked around. “So where’s Martin?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s here somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I might as well tell you I’ve filed for divorce.”

I hoped my eyes weren’t bugging out of my head as I said, “No way! I’m so sorry.”

She gave me a pointed look. “Oh, please.” Then she slipped her arm through mine and we walked through the lobby. “You’re not sorry and neither am I.”

“How’s Martin taking it?”

“Not well, as you might expect.” She shook her head in disgust. “He was as big a jerk as everyone said, and I’m thrilled to be rid of him.”

I squeezed her arm. “Okay. Then I’m doubly happy for you and not sorry at all.”

Helen was right. I’d never liked Martin Warrington, and I wasn’t the only one. When she’d announced her engagement in Lyon, I hadn’t understood how such a smart woman could marry such an annoying man. Then I figured, with my own stellar record of bad choices and broken engagements, I was hardly one to criticize.

At the time, I was more sorry for myself than for her, because I knew we wouldn’t be able to be friends once she married Martin. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him, probably because I’d tried to talk Helen out of marrying him and he’d caught wind of it.

“So where have you been hiding?” I asked. “I didn’t see you in Lisbon.”

“Martin didn’t like me attending the book fairs.” She shook her head in irritation. “He said I flirted too much.”

Translation: Helen was a nice person; Martin was a toad.

“Did you happen to mention that attending book fairs is part of your job?”

“Don’t get me started,” she said, puffing out a breath. “I lost ten pounds worrying about it but came to realize there’s no making sense of it. Let’s just say I was a moron to put up with it as long as I did. And now I’m determined to have a fabulous time while I’m here.”

“Good.” I hugged her again. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She giggled. “And I have so much to tell you.”

“Really? Let’s hear it. What’s going on with you?”

“You won’t believe it,” she said, moving closer to whisper in my ear. “I’m in love.”

“What?”

“Shhh!” She waved her hand at me. “Nobody knows. We’ve kept it very hush-hush. It’s crazy, but I’ve never been so happy.”

She did look happy, and I was glad for her. Trust me. Anyone who had put up with Martin all this time deserved to be happy.

“Okay, we definitely have to talk,” I said, clutching her arm. “We can go up to my room. I’ll order drinks.”

“I can’t,” she said, pouting. “I’m off to meet a client. But look, a bunch of us are doing the ghost tour later. Join us. It’ll be a hoot. We can have a drink afterward, just you and me, and catch up.”

I caught someone moving in my peripheral vision.

“Hello, Martin,” I said loudly to alert Helen. He’d literally sneaked up on us, probably to overhear our conversation. What a creep. I hoped he hadn’t heard our plans, because I refused to spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary.

“Hello, Brooklyn,” he said, giving me a smile I didn’t trust for a second.

I supposed some women would consider him handsome. He was tall and lean and wore white linen pants with a beige linen jacket. He looked elegantly rumpled, with boyish blond good looks and an easy grin. He owned a bookstore somewhere in London, and I always figured he had some family money tucked away. He was feckless and disdainful of most of humanity. I’d seen the way he treated Helen and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him.

The smile disappeared as he confronted Helen. “I told you I’d meet you on the conference level.”

“And I told you I’d try to make it but probably wouldn’t be able to,” Helen said defiantly.

“We have to talk now.” He pushed up the sleeves of his linen jacket.

“I’m off to meet a client,” she said as she glanced at her wristwatch. “I can try to see you at two thirty.”

He tapped his elegantly shod foot as red blotches of annoyance cropped up on his cheeks. He shot a quick glance at me, then said to Helen, “I’m meeting with the president of King’s College at two and will be tied up all afternoon.”

Well, la-di-da. Was he trying to impress me?

“I’m sorry, Martin,” she said, but she didn’t sound at all remorseful. “Maybe tomorrow.”

His face puckered up as though he’d bitten into a lemon; then he flashed me a venomous look as if it were my fault his wife was insolent. “I can see you’re in a mood. I’ll speak with you later this afternoon.”

We both watched him stalk away.

“Gosh, I’ve put you in a mood,” I said, using air quotes as I tried to lighten the moment. “Sorry.”

“Yes, it’s all your fault.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “What a pill.”

“You handled him well.”

“I’ve had some practice,” she said. “He makes it hard to be nice. Now, where were we? Oh, the ghost tour. Please say you’ll come?”

“Definitely. It sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful. I’ll add your name to the reservations.”

“Great.” We arranged a time and place to meet. Then she gave me a hug and took off, leaving me with a decision to make. It would be smart to take a nap, because I was starting to feel dizzy and sleep deprived, but I wanted to see and breathe in a bit of the city first.

I headed for the wide double doors but spied a sundries store tucked into the far corner of the lobby. I made the detour, walked in and found a candy bar for sustenance and a pack of cinnamon gum for clean breath. As I stepped up to the counter to pay, a tall, heavyset man pushed me aside, slapping a newspaper on the counter and reaching in his pocket for change.

“Hey!”

He ignored me completely as he fished for coins.

I knew him. Perry McDougall, a pompous ass who thought he was smarter and better than everyone on the planet. Perry was one of Abraham’s contemporaries. He owned a rare-book store in Glasgow and fancied himself a scholar, specializing in Scottish history and the Georgian and Regency periods of the British monarchy. He’d always been a rude, angry man. Guess that hadn’t changed.

“Excuse me,” I said, getting more annoyed by the second. He hadn’t even glanced at me. In Perry’s world, only Perry mattered.

He took his change and folded the paper under his arm.

“I said excuse me,” I said more loudly. “You need to learn to wait your turn.”

He turned and sniffed at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can beg all you want, but it doesn’t mean you get to push people out of the way who were here first.”

He looked at me as if I’d soiled his shoes. “What are you raving on about, you silly wench?”

Blame the two beers and an extreme case of jet lag, but I moved up close to him and said, “I’ll show you raving, pal.” Then, without thinking, I grabbed his newspaper and waved it at his face.

He recoiled and I realized I’d lost what was left of my mind.

“Sorry,” I said, and handed his paper back to him.

His mouth opened and closed like a trout’s, but he finally said, “You’re a crazed bitch.”

“Oh, I’m a bitch because rude people piss me off? At least I said I was sorry. But not you. You’re just a big bully.” I slammed a pound note on the counter to cover the cost of the gum, the chocolate and the hissy fit, and walked out.

“I know you!” he shouted after me. “You worked with Karastovsky. I’ll make sure you never work again, missy.”

Oh, crap. I rushed across the lobby and escaped through the automatic doors. What was wrong with me? I never confronted people. Was this part of my new weirdness? Was I going to turn into a crazy old crone and mutter to myself? Would I scare small children wherever I went?