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tarragon and wine. At least she could cook. She hadn’t had to change that part of her nature, she thought with that uncomfortable trace of defiance. Indeed, she’d had so little to do during the last few months that she’d developed her modest talent into something approaching art. She would have liked to study further. Paris was the perfect place for learning haute cuisine. But the cooking schools weren’t bilingual, and French was the language, not only of love and ballet, but the language of food.
    Through the endless corridors and rooms of the old apartment she heard the soft closing of the front door. Her ears had become very finely tuned. Living with a mime did wonders for your senses, she thought with a trace of humor. Marc used to be able to sneak up on her when she was completely unaware. She hadn’t liked it, hadn’t wanted to say anything and hurt his feelings. So she’d worked on listening. Marc hadn’t surprised her in months. No, that wasn’t true. He was always surprising her. But he hadn’t managed to sneak up on her in a long, long time.
    She took off her apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the spotless kitchen table. Her narrow, delicate hands were trembling slightly, and she frowned at them. It must be the excitement. She’d been left alone for two nights, and ever since the accident she hadn’t liked to be alone. Now that Marc was back, and Nicole, things would be better. Things would be as they should be.
    Smoothing her challis dress, she headed for the living room, setting a welcoming smile on her face. Only for a brief moment did she consider that she shouldn’t have to call forth a smile to greet her returning lover. It should have come on its own.
    Once more she cursed her depression, her indecisiveness. She was going to throw away the best thing that ever happened to her if she didn’t shake herself out of it. Marc was home, and she loved him. Maybe it was time she madeit clear just how much she did love him. Maybe it was time to get married. And maybe it was time for her to tell him so.
    But then, she didn’t want to spoil Nicole’s homecoming, did she? It could wait. Wait until Marc asked her again. This time, she would say yes. And to hell with second thoughts.

CHAPTER 2
     
    Rocco Guillère propped his feet on the battered table and eyed his pointy-toed black leather boots blearily. He would need a shine tomorrow. He liked having classy boots, with a real shine, not that plastic coating they had nowadays, and he spent a lot of money on them. He knew the places where you could still get a decent shine, and he tipped well.
    He liked people’s reactions. He’d stride up to the stand in the lobby of the best hotels, all black leather and menace, and take his place with the gray-suited businessmen, propping his huge black boots beside their hand-sewn Italian leathers. The others would pull away, as if he gave off a bad smell.
    Rocco grinned, lighting a stubby Gitane and drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. Maybe he did give off a bad smell. He wasn’t one of the bourgeoisie, into hot baths and clean clothes. He lived in the roughest, nastiest part of Paris, and his life was rough and nasty. He had no time, no patience for the finer things in life.
    It was just after midnight, the heart of the evening, and his work hadn’t even begun. He had to waste another hour until he was needed.
    It was a simple job tonight, if he chose to make it so. He’d been hired as protection during a drug deal. He would simply stand in the background, glowering, his huge AmericanMagnum prominently displayed, while Achilles and the little Spaniard traded lots of money for a decent amount of cocaine. He’d been told to stand guard while the Spaniard counted his money and left, and Achilles would pay him with part of the drugs.
    It would be good pay for an easy night’s work. And if he could keep the stuff away from that greedy little tramp Giselle he could make a nice profit.
    But there was