From the window of her suite at the Paris Ritz, Beryl looked down at the opulence of Place Vend me, with its Corinthian pilasters and stone arches, and saw the evening parade of well-heeled tourists. It had been eight years since she’d last visited Paris, and then it had been on a lark with her girlfriends-three wild chums from school, who’d preferred the Left Bank bistros and seedy nightlife of Mont-parnasse to this view of unrepentant luxury. They’d had a grand time of it, too, had drunk countless bottles of wine, danced in the streets, flirted with every Frenchman who’d glanced their way-and there’d been a lot of them.

It seemed a million years ago. A different life, a different age.

Now, standing at the hotel window, she mourned the loss of all those carefree days and knew they would never be back. I’ve changed too much, she thought. It’s more than just the revelations about Mum and Dad. It’s me. I feel restless. I’m longing for…I don’t know what. Purpose, perhaps? I’ve gone so long without purpose in my life…

She heard the door open, and Jordan came in through the connecting door from his suite. “Claude Daumier finally returned my call,” he said. “He’s tied up with the bomb investigation, but he’s agreed to meet us for an early supper.”

“When?”

“Half an hour.”

Beryl turned from the window and looked at her brother. They’d scarcely slept last night, and it showed in Jordan’s face. Though freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, he had that ragged edge of fatigue, the lean and hungry look of a man operating on reserve strength. Like me.

“I’m ready to leave anytime,” she said.

He frowned at her dress. “Isn’t that…Mum’s?”

“Yes. I packed a few of her things in my suitcase. I don’t know why, really.” She gazed down at the watered-silk skirt. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? How well it fits. As if it were made for me.”