The man finished the champagne in the fragile crystal stem
and set it on the silver tray deftly held aloft by a
passing servant. The tuxedoed waiter paused momentarily
for the man to avail himself of another glass of the
bubbly wine, then disappeared into the chattering crowd.
Reeves Grant sipped at his fresh glass of champagne,
wondering why he had even taken it. He didn't want it.
Everything had suddenly gone sour. Even the world's most
expensive vintage left a brassy taste in his mouth.
Derisive green eyes swept across the august assembly of
celebrities and VIPs, surveying it with tolerant boredom.
An aging but still beautiful French film star was
strategically draped on the arm of her new husband, an oil
tycoon from Tulsa, Oklahoma. West Germany's gold-medal-
winning Olympic downhill racer was earnestly hustling a
sulky, sensuous princess from a Mediterranean country, but
she studiously ignored him. A New York designer and
his "companion and protégé," both dressed in flaming pink
tuxedoes, were entertaining a group of avid listeners with
a malicious tale about a former cover girl model who had
gained forty pounds and had come to them for a figure-
camouflaging wardrobe.
All in all, the crowd were rich, famous, or important. Or
a combination of all three. Or merely outrageously
notorious for one reason or another.
Greeting them all with dignified graciousness was the host
of the lavish reception. Tall, strong, and lithe of
figure, he looked to be exactly what he was, a Swiss
industrialist of incalculable wealth. His blond, blue-eyed
good looks secured his position on the list of the
world's "beautiful people."
Disobedient green eyes refused a cerebral command and
unerringly moved to the woman standing beside the
millionaire. She was dressed in a stunning white gown.
White, for God's sake! he thought snidely.
Twenty-four hours hadn't dimmed Reeves Grant's memory of
how beautiful she was. The one-shoulder Dior sheath was
worthy competition for any other gown there. The opal and
diamond necklace around her slender throat was as
exquisite as any of the jewelry that bedecked the other
women in the room, and its simplicity was almost virtuous
by comparison.
Her hair came close to being styled too casually for the
formal occasion. It wasn't loose and flowing as Reeves had
last seen it. Instead it was swept up into a knot at the
top of her head. But the secreted pins seemed to have a
tenuous hold on those dark, thick, glossy strands, a few
of which had already escaped their confines. With the
least amount of encouragement-say, a man's caressing
fingers-the whole mass would probably come tumbling down
around his lucky hand.
Dammit! What the hell is the matter with you? he demanded
of himself. He had been suckered, but good. Yet, like some
masochistic fool, he couldn't keep his eyes away from her.
The question kept repeating itself in his brain: What had
she been doing in that bookshop last night? Or better
still, what was she doing here? Among all this? These
people? With that man? The tiny modest apartment over the
bookshop and this palatial reception room with its
frescoed and gilded ceiling, its marble floors, its
glittering chandeliers, had nothing to do one with the
other. She didn't belong here. She belonged in that
infinitesimal kitchen with its cheery percolator and the
smell of fresh coffee. He could still see her curled up in
the corner of that short sofa, one of the comfortable
pillows hugged to her breasts ... Damn!
Leaving the dregs of the champagne, he set the glass on a
small table. His Nikon camera hung around his neck by its
thin leather cord, and he adjusted it now. He was so
accustomed to the camera being like an extension of
himself that it didn't seem incongruous with his evening
clothes. The crowd, well used to being photographed,
seemed not to notice the camera either as Reeves threaded
his way through them, his eyes intent on the cameo profile
of the woman as she shook hands with a Belgian diplomat.
The man at her side had just introduced him to her.
She leaned over the man several inches shorter than
herself and spoke courteously to him, though her words
eluded Reeves as he brought the camera up to his expert
eye. He adjusted the ring around the lens until the
delicate features of her face sprang into focus.
She was accepting the diplomat's officious kiss on the
back of her hand when the photographer snapped the
shutter. The automatic flashing device on his camera
startled her, and she turned her head in the direction
from which it had come. Quickly, he rolled the focus ring
again as her face now filled his lens. Her smile was
tentative, shy, and self-conscious as he pressed the
shutter release.
This time the flash hit her full in the eyes and she was
momentarily blinded. A dark forest of lashes blinked over
gray eyes several times before she could clearly see. The
photographer slowly lowered the camera away from his eyes,
green eyes that impaled her with a ferocious, accusatory
glower.
Her gracious smile froze for an instant before it totally
collapsed. The eyes widened perceptibly. The mysterious
rings around the irises grew darker. A darting pink tongue
flicked over lips suddenly gone dry. Then the lips formed
a small, round, surprised O.
Reeves had seen that same expression of wonder and caution
just last night. It had been raining. The thunder had
echoed through the narrow alleys and bounced off the stone
walls of the ancient buildings of Lucerne, Switzerland.
Rain had pelted his bare head.
But suddenly the storm had ceased to matter. When he saw
her face through the glass door of the bookshop his other
senses had rested while his vision reigned supreme,
devouring her image.
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