“Mademoiselle!” The young waitress stopped and turned, gripping a tray of champagne flutes. Henri de Saint-Clair, France’s greatest living novelist, reached out and took a glass. “Merci,” he said with a nod, before turning to his companion. “She must have walked right past me at least seven times.” “Then she cannot have recognised you,” Michel said. “Despite that thing around your neck.” Henri frowned, adjusting his cravat. “It’s my signature look.” “And it’s one you haven’t

Dr Petra McBride sank into the armchair, her feet finally free from the torture of her usual four-inch heels. She massaged them and winced at the tender spots. At least the hotel robe was soft against her skin, a small comfort after a long and difficult day. She’d tried the hotel slippers, and they were like sandpaper. She glanced towards the bathroom. The tub was filling, steam escaping into the bedroom. A bath would help. She needed to unwind, clear her head. She yawned and