"I will. I intend to go tomorrow."

"That's good, Nicky. I'll feel better knowing that you're nowhere near me."

Suddenly Nicky understood there was nothing more to say, and she pushed herself to her feet. "I think I'd better be going." She began walking toward the archway that led into the foyer.

Charles also rose and followed her.

She turned, waited for him to draw closer, and then she said, "I'm glad that we had this meeting, Charles. So much has been clarified for me." "Yes, I'm glad we saw each other, too, Nicky." He studied her for a moment, his head on one side, and then the small smile touched his mouth and he said, "You're as beautiful as ever."

She nodded, but discovered she could not speak.

He went on, "You're obviously still flying around the world, covering disasters and the like. But you're not married, I see.

Or rather, I should say you're not wearing a ring. Are you married, by any chance?"

"No, I'm not married."

"There's no special man in your life?"

"Yes, there is, as a matter of fact, but only recently."

"Are you in love with him?"

"I think so--I'm not sure."

"Are you going to marry him?"

"He hasn't asked me."

"He's a fool if he doesn't. And if he does ask? Will you?"

"I don't know."

"I wouldn't have done you any physical harm, you know," Charles remarked, changing the subject. "However, I can't say that I blame you for wanting your own car and driver to come out here to see me."

"I was being cautious."

"And independent. That was one of the many things I always loved about you."

She turned to walk into the foyer and he caught hold of her arm, pulled her to him and held her tightly, held her very close to him.

Nicky was taken by surprise, but she did not resist him. She let him hold her in this way, understanding that he needed to do this, needed to be close to her. She could feel his heart hammering under his thin shirt, and with a sudden flash of insight, she thought, Oh God, he still loves me. Swallowing hard, she gently pushed him away.

"It's better that I leave now," she murmured softly, and then against her own volition she reached up and touched his cheek.

"Please don't worry, I will never betray you, Charles."

"I believe you, Nicky," he said, taking her arm, walking with her to the front door. "I trust you. With my life."

Once she was back at the Ritz Hotel and in the privacy of her suite,

Nicky broke down.

She lay on the bed and cried bitterly, sobbing as if her heart would break. Her tears were for Charles and the dangerous and lonely life he had chosen to lead, for herself and what they had once had together, and for what might have been.

But eventually she calmed down and took control of herself. She lay for a long time propped up against the pillows, thinking of everything that had happened in the past few weeks. And not unnaturally, she felt a sharp stab of guilt when she considered some of the dreadful things she had ascribed to Charles. How could she have ever thought that he was some sort of criminal--an arms smuggler, a drug trafficker? She should have known better.

Yes, he had sacrificed her, their love, their future, the future of the children they might have had together. But he had done it for a noble cause. He had done it for his country. And yes, she ought to have known it was something like this, not some grubby deal. After all, his mother's family, the famous Cliffords of Pullenbrook, had always been in service to the Crown of England, and since time immemorial. Honor and duty and loyalty to country had been inculcated in him since birth.

He was simply following in the footsteps of his ancestors.

PART FOUR.

It was that time of the year when Parisians have fled to summer resorts for their annual vacations and the tourists have invaded.

Paris was awash with foreigners, but Nicky did not care, she was both relieved and glad to be here.

Madrid was not a city she knew well, and she had visited it only once before this last trip, but she had no desire to return. The past forty-eight hours had left their mark on her, particularly the confrontation with Charles yesterday, and she knew that thereafter Madrid was always going to hold unpleasant memories for her.

She had managed to get a flight out of Madrid late on Saturday afternoon, and had checked into the Plaza-Athenee when she arrived at night. Clee was not returning until Sunday evening, and was not expecting to see her until Monday. And, in any case, she needed some time alone, time to sort out her turbulent thoughts, to come to terms with all that had happened since she had last seen him in New York at the beginning of August.

On an urgent quest for Charles Devereaux though she had been, the unexpectedness of suddenly coming face-to-face with him had been an enormous shock, as indeed was the news that he had a secret life as an agent with British intelligence. She had not slept well last night, even though she had been bone tired, and after restlessly tossing and turning for hours she had finally fallen asleep as dawn broke.

When she awakened around ten, she had felt out of sorts with herself, and by noon a heavy sadness had settled over her. It was a sadness so acute it verged on depression, and in an effort to throw this off she had dressed and left the hotel.

Optimistic by nature and generally upbeat, Nicky was not accustomed to being down in the dumps, and she loathed the feelings enveloping her now. So she hoped that being outside in the sunshine, walking the familiar streets and visiting favorite haunts, would help to lighten her mood.

For as long as Nicky could remember she had felt a spiritual affinity for Paris. It was her city in so many different ways, and the childhood years she had spent here in the sixties had been extraordinarily happy. And so it was that she tried to recapture some of that youthful joy as she walked along energetically, perhaps the happy memories of the past would help to chase away the demons of the present.

Nicky was not sad for herself but for Charles. Long ago, long before he had known her, he had clearly set himself upon a deadly course that was now irrevocable. He had made a choice, one that had ultimately led him to that safe house in Madrid, where they had met yesterday. In deciding to serve his country, he had elected to live in the covert world of espionage, a dangerous netherworld of secrets and spying, duplicity and double-dealing-and, more often than not, death.

A chill ran through her, despite the warmth of the day and the radiant sunlight. Such a life had little to commend it, or to offer a man, she knew Charles could never marry now, never have children, never lead a normal existence. The loneliness and fear he had to contend with must be excruciating, and the specter of betrayal, or discovery, unnerving.

That kind of terror must strike close to the bone, she thought, and she shivered involuntarily.

Nicky walked on at a steady pace, but her mind raced. All manner of different thoughts jostled for attention, and one, in particular, took precedence over the others, Charles had admitted to being a British agent since the age of twenty-five, and since he was so obviously deeply committed, then why on earth had he ever become involved with her in the first place?

She wished she had asked him this, she also wished she had asked him why he had not left one last word for her, as he had for his mother.

Maybe he had not known what to say to her, or had had nothing to say, perhaps, certainly the letter to Anne had been brief and to the point, a bleak little epistle, if ever she had read one. Well, she would never find out now. It was too late, the chance had gone.

Having come down the avenue Montaigne from the hotel and turned onto the Champs-Elysees, Nicky now struck out across the vast place de la Concorde, and was soon entering the Jardin des Tuileries. She slowed her steps and glanced around. It was years since she had been here in the gardens, but there were so many good things to remember, so many lovely memories of her childhood associated with them.

Quite unexpectedly she thought of Marie Therese Bouret, the all pair who had looked after her. She had been seven years old, Marie Therese seventeen, when the young French girl had come to live with them, being more like a big sister than a nanny.

Vivacious, loving and joyful of spirit, Marie Therese had brought Nicky to the gardens to play almost every day in summer. And she had taken her to so many other places as well, during the six years her parents had been based in Paris for their respective newspapers. It was with Marie Therese that she had gone to the Louvre for the first time to see the Mona Lisa and other great paintings, together they had gone up the Eiffel Tower to view Paris from on high, and, as the young nanny had explained, for her to see how the Arc de Triomphe resembled the hub of a giant wheel, with the great avenues and boulevards designed by Baron Haussmann stretching out from it like long spokes.

And when her mother had taken her to Fontainebleau, Versailles and Malmaison on her"historical outings," as she called them, Marie Therese had always accompanied them. She, too, had been treated to her mother's unique lessons in French history, which were never dull and boring but intriguing and fascinating. And it was Marie Therese to whom she had clung when her parents were away, doing their work as journalists, and to whom she had said her first halting words in French. Yes, she had been indispensable to her when she was little, had loved her dearly, taught her so much about the language, about Paris and the French way of life.

They had stayed in close touch over the years, and saw each other from time to time, whenever Nicky was in Paris. Marie Therese had married at twenty-three, and had had a son a year later. Sadly, her husband, Jean-Pierre, had been killed ten years ago in a car crash in Mozambique, where he was working on an engineering job.

Her son, Paul, now twenty-two and an engineer like his father, had recently married.

I must call her, Nicky thought. I'll do it later when I get back to the hotel and take her to lunch tomorrow. I hope she can make it. The thought of seeing the woman she held in such affection, and who had played such an important role in her life when she was a child, cheered Nicky, a little of the sadness evaporated.

After walking in the gardens for a while, Nicky finally went on her way, past the Jardin du Carrousel and across the Pont des Arts. This was the only metal bridge in Paris, and one she knew well, since her father had a very good painting of it by Jacques Bouyssou, the official painter of the French navy.

When she came to the quai Malaquais, Nicky hesitated, she looked up and down, wondering whether to wander along the Seine to Notre-Dame or to plunge into the streets behind the quai. The apartment she and her parents and Marie Therese had lived in had been on the two top floors of an eighteenth-century house on the The Saint-Louis. It stood in the shadow of the ancient cathedral, and she loved that particular part of the city. She decided to wander up there later.

Striking out down the rue Bonaparte, she headed for the place Saint-Germain-des-Pres. "Napoleon Bonaparte," she murmured under her breath, recalling how that name had been a familiar one in their home for years. She had learned it young, and at once it evoked another rush of memories. Her mother had been fascinated by Bonaparte, and after years of scholarly research had finally written a masterly biography of the great general and France's first emperor.

To Nicky the book had been extraordinary, and she still believed it to be her mother's best. It was a portrait that was extremely fair and well balanced, and her mother had made the man accessible in modern terms. He had been all too human, and so had Josephine, his grand passion, the only woman he had ever really loved. But their love had foundered on the rocks of his overweening ambition, he had had their marriage annulled in order to beget an heir to his empire with a younger woman.

According to her mother, this heartbreaking decision had ruined their lives. Without Josephine at his side, Napoleon's luck turned bad, and Josephine died of a broken heart just after his first abdication and exile to Elba in 1814. "They never stopped loving each other," her mother had said to her time and time again when she was writing the book. "And that was the tragedy of it all."

Nicky sighed. The anguish men and women caused each other, the terrible things they did to each other in the name of love never failed to amaze her. Nothing has changed and it never will, she thought, because human beings are exactly the same as they were hundreds of years ago. And we've learned nothing over the centuries. What Charles had done to her was cruel, unconscionable, however important his cause might be. It had been wrong of him to even contemplate marrying her under the circumstances. He had been selfish. But then who isn't? she asked herself.

By the time she reached the place Saint-Germain, Nicky was damp with perspiration, tired from the heat and footsore. Heading in the direction of a cafe on the shady side of the square, she took a table and ordered cafe all lait, bread, a tomato salad, sliced chicken and a bottle of water. She had not eaten much in the last few days, and she discovered she was starving.

The waiter brought the bottle of water immediately. She thirstily drank a glass straight down and then leaned back in the chair.

The long walk had done her good, and she felt certain she would sleep tonight, and tomorrow she would be with Clee. This prospect filled her with warmth and pleasure. She could hardly wait to see him.

Taking off her sunglasses, Nicky blinked and looked around. The area was busy. People were strolling around or sitting at cafes as she was, whiling away the time, enjoying the nice weather on this pleasant Sunday afternoon. The noise of people talking and laughing surrounded her, and as her eyes scanned the place SaintGermain she could not help thinking how ordinary and normal everybody looked and sounded. This was reassuring, and she pulled her thoughts away from Charles Devereaux and the treacherous and cynical world he occupied. Suddenly it struck her that he had done her a favor by vanishing when he did. How terrible her life might have turned out to be if she had married him.

Marie Therese lived on the opposite side of Paris, just off the boulevard de Belleville. Since this was quite a distance from the Plaza-Athenee, Nicky allowed herself a good half hour to get there by taxi on Monday. Even so, she was a bit late when she finally arrived, because of the distance and the heavy traffic congesting the streets at this busy time of day.

As she climbed the long flight of stairs to the apartment she could not help wondering why her friend now lived in this section of the city.

Belleville--pretty town--certainly did not live up to its name.

It was an odd area, totally lacking in elegance and even a bit scruffy.

It struck her that it was rather off the beaten track for a woman like Marie Therese, who was used to so much better.

But after she had hugged and kissed the Frenchwoman in the small foyer of the apartment, Nicky glanced around and saw that the living room ahead was large and nicely appointed. Also, there was a happy feeling about the place, it had a pleasant atmosphere.

As for Marie Therese, she was as pretty and vivacious as she had always been, her large, dark eyes dancing, her generous mouth twitching with hidden laughter, just as it had years ago.

"Now you can see why it is difficult for me to get around," she said and pointed to her left leg encased up to the knee in a plaster cast.

"The stairs are hard for me--with this."

Nicky nodded sympathetically. "I was sorry to hear about your accident, and sorry that I couldn't take you to lunch at the Relais

Plaza. But it's great to see you, and you do look wonderful, Marie

Therese."

"I feel it, 77a che'ne, except for this silly thing." She tapped the cast with her cane and grimaced.

"This is for you," Nicky said, giving her the black shopping bag she was carrying.

"Nicky, you shouldn't have! But how wonderful--something from

Chanel."

"I hope you like it. I went across the street this morning to their boutique. They said you can exchange it, if you wish."

"I am sure that I will adore it, thank you. But come, let us not stand here, let us go and sit down so that I can open your cadeau. You are so generous, 7na petite." They sat in wide armchairs opposite each other, and within a few seconds Marie Therese had opened the Chanel box and pulled out a beautiful red-and-white silk scarf. It was obvious from her expression that she loved it, and Nicky was delighted to see this.

"Thank you, Nicky, you are such a darling." Pushing herself up, she went to kiss her and then added, "I have a bottle of white wine ready for us, and a little of the country pate you always liked."

With a chuckle Nicky said, "I hope you've got cornichons to go with it."

"Bien suAr. I wouldn't dare to serve pate to you without them. I have not forgotten how much you love them. Why, you and your little friend

Natalie used to eat them like candy!"

Nicky burst out laughing. "And I've never lost the taste for them.

Neither has Natalie."

"And where is the beautiful Natalie these days?"

"Living in Los Angeles, and being very successful in films."

"She was certainly beautiful enough to be a movie star when she was a child."

"And she's still a beauty. But she works in production, behind the scenes, not in front of the camera."

"But you are in front of it, my Nicky, and you are fantastic .

One of the French networks recently showed a documentary you had done for ATN on the women of Beirut and their point of view about the war.

It was very touching, and I was so proud of you."

"Thank you," Nicky murmured. "As I recall, they dubbed me in French."

Hobbling across the floor of the living room, Marie Therese said, "Yes, they did. I will get the wine from the refrigerator so that we can have a drink."

"Let me help you!" Nicky said, jumping up.

"Merci, che'ne." Nicky followed her through the foyer and down a short corridor to the kitchen, where she opened the wine and put it on the tray along with the loaf of pate, a plate of toast and a crystal dish of cornichons. Marie Therese placed several paper napkins on the tray, which Nicky carried back to the living room.

Once they were settled in their chairs and had clinked glasses, Nicky let her eyes roam around the cheerful room. "Your things look beautiful here, and the apartment seems to be large, but why did you move? You were comfortable on the Left Bank, weren't you?"

"I was, Nicky, this is true. But my apartment had only one bedroom.

It was too small for three people."

"Three? Are Paul and his wife living with you, then?"

The Frenchwoman shook her head. "Non, non, che'ne, they have their own apartment. I live here because of Marcel, my friend. He is a widower, with a son, and he already had this place. It was so much easier to move in here with them. Marcel and I did it up a little, and brought my things...." She shrugged. "We are content here."

"I'm glad," Nicky replied. She suddenly realized that her former nanny looked far younger than her forty-six years. The short curly hair was still dark, untouched by gray, the rosy complexion youthful, and those warm brown eyes she remembered so well from her childhood shone with happiness. "Why, Marie Therese, I do believe you've fallen madly in love with your friend Marcel! I can see it in your eyes!"

Marie Therese blushed slightly and nodded, looking shy and girlish.

Nicky said, "I think Marcel must be very good for you."

"Oh, he is, Nicky, I have not been so happy in years. Marcel is a nice man, very kind, and we are happy together."

"Are you going to marry him?"

"Yes, perhaps. There is no hurry." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "When we feel like it, we will." Marie Therese leaned forward slightly and asked, "But what of you, Nicky? Last night, on the telephone, you said you had a boyfriend in Paris. Is that why you are here? To be with him?"

"Yes, it is. He's a photographer. We met in Beirut two years ago.

And then just after we came out of China, where we'd been covering the demonstrations in Tiananmen Square, we . . . well, we became involved.

That was at the end of June."

"I never thought you'd be interested in a Frenchman. You were such an all-American girl when you were small."

"I guess I still am," Nicky laughed. "And my friend is an American, even though he lives here. His name's Cleeland Donovan, Clee for short, I'm sure you've seen his photographs in Paris Match." 1-, , "Oui, oui!" Marie Therese exclaimed. "I have! And are you going to marry him?"

"Maybe," Nicky said.

"That would be wonderful for me, if you came to live in Paris . .

. perhaps we could see each other more often than once every couple of years," Marie Therese said, sounding wistful.

At this moment the doorbell rang, and Marie Therese said, "Nicky, could you go to the door, please? It is the lunch arriving, I ordered it from the restaurant next door."

Nicky hurried into the foyer, and Marie Therese, struggling to her feet, called after her, "Everything is paid for, all you have to do is put the dishes in the oven for me. It is already turned on."

"Okay," Nicky said over her shoulder and opened the front door, taking a large tray from the waiter standing there, she said "Merci beaucoup."

Marie Therese hobbled toward her, saying "Merci, Olivier, merci ," and the waiter inclined his head. "De rien, Madame Bouret," he replied before disappearing down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Marie Therese leaned against the doorjamb while Nicky put the dishes in the oven. "I ordered couscous, they make it with chicken. It is delicious," she explained.

"It certainly smells good," Nicky replied as she straightened and pushed her hair out of her face.

Marie Therese continued, "Now, let us go back to the salon and have another glass of wine, and you can tell me all about your friend Clee."

"I'd be delighted to do that." Nicky flashed her a wide smile, and added, "I'll begin now if you like by telling you that he's absolutely wonderful."

"Aha! I think you too are in love!"

"I just might be at that," Nicky said.

, Nicky felt her mood changing the minute she opened the door to Clee on Monday evening. The last vestiges of her sadness, that awful feeling of melancholy, dissipated instantly, and her spirits lifted.

All of the things that had troubled her for the last few days were pushed to the back of her mind. The only thing that mattered was Clee.

He stood there, saying nothing, a huge smile spreading across his face, radiating warmth, his love shining from his dark eyes.

She smiled back, her face filling with radiance, opened the door wide and stepped to one side so he could enter.

"I've missed you, Nick," he said, entering the suite. He grabbed hold of her and wrapped his arms around her, pushing the door closed with his foot. "It's been too long, babe," he went on, brushing her cheek with his lips. "Far too long. For me." li "And for me," she said, holding him tightly. "I've missed you terribly."

"I'm glad," Clee said, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then, with his arm around her shoulders, walked her into the small sitting room.

Pausing, he held her away from him. "Nicky," he exclaimed, "God, it's so good to see you! I've longed for you."

"And how I've longed for you !" Nicky responded, taking herself by surprise with this fervent admission. She was usually more cautious in what she said to him, yet now she ached to escape to Provence, to obliterate everything that had happened since she had arrived in Europe, and most of all to be with Clee and to forget about Charles Devereaux.

"Well, I guess I'd better dump my problems on you now," he announced with a grimace.

"What kind of problems, Clee?"

He didn't immediately answer this question. Instead, he asked, "Is that a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket over there?"

"Dom Perignon. Your favorite."

"Let's have a glass, darling, and then I'll explain."

Nicky sat down on the sofa, experiencing a pang of anxiety, hoping the problems he had mentioned were not insurmountable. She couldn't bear it if he had to go away on another assignment. All she wanted was to be with him. She needed him, needed his gentleness and affection.

Clee went over to the coffee table, opened the bottle of champagne with efficiency and filled the two crystal flutes on the tray. After clinking his glass against hers, he took a long drink. "Mmmm, that's good," he murmured, and walked over to the fireplace. "It's been a rough day at the office."

"The problems, Clee, what are they?" she pressed.

He put his glass down on the mantelpiece, and said, "Okay, here goes.

First, I've got a leak in the bathroom. I came back last night to find a flood. Bathroom and bedroom under water-well, almost. I called several plumbers today, but in typical French fashion, not one was available until tomorrow. Anyway, my housekeeper has done her best to contain the deluge, but there's no way I can move you into my apartment tonight. So--" Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a toothbrush and banged it down on the mantel. "I have to sleep here tonight. I can camp out in the suite with you, can't I?"

"Of course you can!" she cried, laughing, filled with relief.

"I'd love it, and I'd hardly call that a problem. I mean, staying here isn't, but I am sorry about your apartment."

He grinned at her. "It needed redecorating anyway." His face sobered as he went on. "Also, we can't leave for the farm on ,Wednesday as we'd planned, Nick. I've got problems at the office--" "Such as?" she cut in.

"Two of my partners have to be away for various reasons. Pete Naylor and I have been splitting their assignments between us. Do you mind if we stay in Paris for another week or so?"

"Oh, Clee, you know I love Paris. Besides, I don't really care where I am, as long as I'm with you."

"Nicky, that's the best news I've had in weeks," he said, smiling broadly. But his eyes were fastened on hers intently. He was very sensitive to every nuance of her behavior, and he realized that her feelings for him had deepened since they were together in Provence and in New York.

Taking a sip of champagne, he continued, "There's another thing, although it's more of a disappointment. Yoyo won't be arriving in Paris until the end of the week. So I'm afraid our celebration tonight will be private."

"Oh, Clee, I'm sorry we won't be seeing Yoyo right away," Nicky remarked between sips of champagne. "But the main thing is that we're together, and he's on his way here, not rotting in a Beijing jail.

Have you actually spoken to him yet?"

"No, but he phoned the office on Saturday, and Jean-Claude says Yoyo knew you would be in Paris today. Apparently he spoke to your secretary in New York."

"Last week, he phoned the network."

Clee nodded, finished his champagne and poured himself another glass.

"A refill, Nicky?"

She shook her head. "No more for me just now, thanks."

Leaning against the mantel, Clee asked, "How did your research go in Rome, Athens and Madrid?"

"Fine, thanks. And how did you get on in Berlin and Leipzig?"

"Not bad, not bad at all. I have a feeling I might go back there in the not too distant future. A lot's happening--we've seen nothing yet." He began to talk about the political situations now existing in East and West Berlin, Leipzig, the Eastern European bloc in general and, most especially, Russia.

Nicky sat back, listening attentively, respecting his judgment, as she always had. But at the same time, part of her mind was focused on him personally. She could not help thinking how marvelous he looked, his face lightly tanned from being outdoors so much, his brown hair lightened by the sun. He wore a darkblue silk suit, a pale-blue shirt and a navy tie, and she had never seen him looking smarter. But although he had long ago acquired that inimitable stylishness of the French, and looked European in a certain sense, his face was wholly American, boyish and open, a nice face. The brown eyes were full of candor and sincerity, his wide Irish mouth was generous, also very gentle. Yes, Cleeland Donovan was a quietly handsome man, and very appealing.

Unexpectedly, her feelings for him seemed to engulf her, overwhelm her.

For the first time she truly understood how much this man really meant to her. There was no one in the world who was more important than he was, and she was startled by this sudden realization.

Lost for a few seconds in her contemplation of him and of her feelings for him, she wasn't aware that he had stopped speaking until he let out a low whistle, startling her. With a jolt she sat up straighter and blinked.

"Hey, Nicky, where are you drifting off to?" he asked and broke into laughter. "Am I boring you?"

"Oh, no, Clee, certainly not, honestly," she said.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. "You've got a peculiar expression on your face."

"I love you," she said.

He gaped at her. "What?"

"I love you."

He crossed the floor in three strides and sat down on the sofa next to her. He held her hands tightly and peered into her face.

"Nicky, would you mind repeating that one more time?"

"I love you, Clee. I love you."

"Oh, Nicky," he said, and then he took her face between his hands and kissed her, he leaned against her and eased her down onto the cushions.

Moving a strand of blond hair away from her face, he said, "I love you too--I've told you that before. And it's been painful not having you with me."

Nicky touched his mouth and traced its shape with a fingertip. "I know, it was the same for me, darling."

He kissed her more passionately this time, his tongue finding hers, grazing it, lingering against it. Abruptly he stopped and whispered against her hair, "Let's go to bed. I want you."

Clee stood up, offered her his hand and together they went into the bedroom. They flung offtheir clothes and wrapped their arms around each other. They stood for a long moment without saying a word, without moving, just happy to be close and intimate and together again.

At last he said, "It's never been like this before for me."

"It hasn't for me either," she said, and she knew now that this was the truth. She had not loved Charles in the same way that she loved Clee, each man had brought out something different in her.

There was another moment of silence as he buried his face in her hair and his hands moved down over her back, sliding onto her buttocks, he pulled her against him so that their pelvic bones touched.

Nicky became aroused, as he already was, and now it was she who took the lead, pushing him gently away from her and pulling him over to the bed.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, gazing into each other's eyes, saying nothing. But neither of them needed words.

Each could read the other's face, which was eloquent with love and desire.

"Ah, Nicky, my lovely Nicky," he whispered, and he brought her closer, his right hand on the nape of her neck. "I want to possess you completely, take all of you to me...."

"I know . . . I want that too."

Their mouths came together again, and he slipped on top of her, pushed his hands under her back and pulled her against him. His mouth became insistent, demanding, ardently she responded to him, her passion mounting as his did. He entered her unexpectedly, without any foreplay, as he had several times in Provence, and she gasped in astonishment. And then as he eased deeper into her, her legs went around his back and she cleaved to him, became part of him. At once they found their own rhythm, as they always did, moving faster and faster.

"Oh God, Nicky, oh God," Clee cried as he lifted his mouth from hers.

His breathing was labored, he gasped as she was gasping.

She stiffened under him, began to quiver. "Clee! I love you!" She opened her eyes and looked up into his face. "I love you," she moaned softly. Her quivering intensified and she gave herself up to him, came to him swiftly.

As always, her passion for him brought Clee to the very height of excitement, and he began to lose control. Before he could stop himself, he was flowing into her, calling her name as she had his, telling her that he loved her as he had not loved any woman ever in his life.

He fell against her, breathing heavily, then lifted his head, bent over her and kissed her face. Her cheeks were damp, he tasted the salt of her tears.

"You're crying," he said in surprise, wiping the tears away.

"Nicky, what is it? Why are you weeping?"

"I don't know," she murmured, looking up at him. Half laughing, she added, "Because I'm so happy, I guess."

He merely smiled that lopsided smile of his, which she knew so well, and saying nothing, he simply took her into his arms and held her.

"This is a much better picnic than the one we had that night at the farm," Clee said between bites on a chicken leg.

"I don't agree!" Nicky looked at him and shook her head. "That was the best picnic I've ever had in my entire life. You made such wonderful things, including the greatest peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I've ever eaten."

Clee threw back his head and laughed. "If that's all it takes to please you, I can see I'm going to have an easy time with you."

Nicky laughed and reached for her glass of white wine on the bedside table. "I can be very tough about some things, you know."

They sat cross-legged in the middle of the large bed, wrapped in the hotel's white toweling bathrobes. There was a plate of chicken and the bread basket between them, on the room-service table nearby, which Clee had wheeled in from the living room, there was a bowl of green salad, a basket of fresh fruit and the bottle of Montrachet in an ice bucket.

"Do all the girls mistake you for Kevin Costner?" Nicky suddenly asked, eyeing him appraisingly.

"Heavens, no, why?"

"Well, he's your look-alike, you know."

He made no comment and drank his wine.

"I mistook you for him, in fact."

"What are you saying, Nicky?"

Then she told him about the mistake she had made in Athens, how she had bought a magazine because she thought it was he on the cover.

"It must be wishful thinking on your part," Clee said dismissively.

"Is that what you really want? A movie star?"

"No, Clee. I want you."

"You've got me, babe, in case you hadn't realized it."

Nicky smiled and said, "I'm glad."

"And what about you, Nicky? Do I have you?"

"You know you do, my darling."

He grinned and blew her a kiss.

Reaching for her wine, Nicky took a sip, then sat nursing her glass in both hands, looking thoughtful. After a moment or two she said slowly,

"Clee, when I was in London and called you in Berlin, just before I left for Rome, I told you I'd been to see Anne Devereaux at

Pullenbrook--"

"You went to make amends, right?"

"Well, yes, that's true, in a way. But I also had another reason to go and see her."

Nicky cleared her throat and plunged in. "I had decided that Charles might be alive. That he might very well have faked his own death, to vanish, for his own reasons."

Clee stared at her dumbfounded for a second, then put the chicken leg back on the plate and exclaimed, "You can't be serious!" He shook his head and began to laugh. "Come on, Nick, it's me you're talking to--stop kidding around."

"But I'm not kidding, I'm serious, dead serious."

Her sober tone had its effect, and he looked grave, carefully weighing what she had said. Finally, he asked, "What happened to make you think that, after all these years?"

Nicky told him the story, reciting most of the pertinent details, but stopping short once she had filled him in about the events in Rome and

Athens. She said nothing at all about Madrid.

When she had finished, Clee said in an oddly subdued voice, "Why the hell would you want to traipse all over Europe looking for a dead man?

Well, a supposedly dead man. Hadn't he caused you enough pain? Or do you still have feelings for him, Nick? Is that it?"

"No, I don't. I'm emotionally free of Charles Devereaux, and I have been for a long time. Long before I fell in love with you, in fact."

He simply looked at her more closely, his eyes pinning hers. Then he said quietly, "If you say so . . . Yes, I believe you, Nick.

Just tell me why you went looking for him."

"I wanted to get to the truth. Listen, Clee, I was stunned, shocked, disbelieving, when I saw that face on our newscast from Rome. But he did look so much like Charles that I felt I had to go and talk to

Anne.

I just couldn't get that face out of my mind. And I'd always been a bit dismayed, sort of troubled because Charles's body was never found."

Nicky paused, then shook her head. "I suppose it's human nature to want to have a funeral, to bury the dead.... I think I wanted to get to the truth so that I could close that chapter of my life."

"Is it closed now? Really and truly closed? Or is he going to haunt you?"

"No, I've just told you, it's closed."

"Tell me something else, Nick. Why are you now so sure he committed suicide, that he's really dead? What made you change your mind?"

"Because I kept coming up against brick walls wherever I went.

There was no trace of him in Rome or in Athens."

"Why did you go to Madrid?" Clee frowned slightly before reaching for his drink. "What did you hope to find there?"

"I wasn't sure what I'd find, actually. I wanted to show the pictures to his former Spanish partner. I guess I was seeking a confirmation or a denial from Don Pedro."

"And what did the Spanish guy say?"

"I didn't see Don Pedro, he was away. As I told you on the phone this morning, I took a flight out of Madrid late on Saturday afternoon and checked in here."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" "It hit me that if I could so easily mistake Kevin Costner for you on the cover of a magazine, then perhaps I could have mistaken another man for Charles Devereaux--with a slightly altered appearance, of course."

"Photographs can be very deceptive and misleading. Let me see them, Nicky, I'd like to take a look."

"I got rid of them.... I hope you're not angry with me, Clee." "No, not angry, just startled, and troubled. I wish you'd told me immediately, the day after you'd seen the newscast. I'd have understood, Nick, once I'd gotten used to the idea that the guy might be alive--and giving me competition."

"You have no competition, Clee. I love you."

"I'd also like you to trust me--I'm a pretty intelligent guy, and I respect you, your emotions, your mind, your professionalism.

And your independence. I would never interfere with anything you wanted to do, unless I thought you might get hurt in some way.

For God's sake, you're a mature woman, a seasoned broadcast journalist, a war correspondent that I've worked side by side with for two years.

Do you think I don't know you and trust you?

Anyway, I'd never treat you like a child."

"Thanks, Clee, and yes, you do know me, perhaps better than anyone else. I'm glad you trust me, and I do trust you, you know."

There was a sudden silence, and after a couple of minutes, Clee said, "So his mother didn't think the photographs resembled him?"

"No, she didn't. She was adamant, in fact. And so was Philip Rawlings, her boyfriend. You know, the man she was with in Les Baux.

" He nodded. "I remember. What's the legal situation in England? I mean about Charles Devereaux."

"He was listed as a missing person because there was no body. A suicide note doesn't make any difference when there's no body.

I'm not sure whether the police have closed their files on him yet. I never thought to ask Anne."

"You've never ever discussed Charles Devereaux with me--what little I know came from Arch Leverson. But he was pretty close-mouthed about the whole thing, didn't say very much, out of loyalty to you. I didn't even know Devereaux had left a suicide note. Was it addressed to you?"

"No, to his mother."

"What did it say--do you know?"

"Yes, she showed it to me when I flew to England a few days after the suicide. It was only a couple of lines, very brief, almost cold. He said in the note that he didn't want to live any longer, that he was doing the only thing he possibly could--taking his own life--and that he hoped she would forgive him."

"Has she?"

"I don't really know--she still grieves for him, I'm certain of that, although she keeps up a good front."

"Was there a letter for you?"

"No."

"Didn't you find that strange?"

"Yes, I did. But maybe he didn't have any last words for me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because in the months before he killed himself he did everything very deliberately. He sold his shares in the wine-importing company to his British and Spanish partners, he sold his flat, made a will and put all of his affairs in order. It was all done very, very methodically, Clee. So if he had had anything he wanted to say to me, he would have written me a letter, don't you think?"

"I suppose so," Clee murmured. "Who got his money?" "Anne is the beneficiary under his will, but of course she hasn't inherited it yet, because Charles is not considered to be legally dead. Under British law, Anne can go to court for a legal declaration of death only after seven years, not before. She's got four more years to wait."

Clee leaned forward, a frown furrowing his brow, his eyes thoughtful. He said slowly, "When a man melts into thin air to start a new life with a new identity, he usually does so for a helluva good reason.

When you thought Devereaux might be alive, why did you think he'd faked his own death? For what reason, Nick?" "I wasn't sure. I told Arch when I saw him in Rome that it might be a reason so bizarre no one could even imagine it. But actually I thought Charles was involved in something illegal."

"Such as?"

"Arms smuggling or drug trafficking."

"Yeah, I guess I'd have come to the same conclusion," Clee agreed.

"Especially in view of the world we live in today."

"I brought all this up tonight because I wanted you to know, Clee,"

Nicky said, gazing at him earnestly. "I didn't want anything to be between us."

"I'm glad you told me, and I'm not angry." Clee's boyish smile flashed, and he went on, "I just feel a bit protective of you, that's all.... I love you."

"And I love you."

"Let's not discuss this guy Devereaux anymore. Let's bury him once and for all, shall we?"

"He's already buried," Nicky said as she slipped off the bed. She went around to Clee's side, and hugged him hard. "Thanks for being so wonderful, and for understanding," she murmured. Then she said, "I'll be back in a minute, don't go away."

"I'm neer leaving," Clee said, and smiled.

Nicky went into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned against it.

She had wanted to tell Clee as much of the truth as she possibly could, but she had known all along that she must not tell all of her story.

Thankfully she had managed to tell it without a hitch. No one must ever know that Charles Devereaux was still alive. She had given her promise and she would not betray him, his life was in her hands. And her secret did not harm Clee.

Besides, she would never see Charles Devereaux again. That chapter of her life was finally closed. fter Mai die in Xiehe Hospital I take her body to parents," Yoyo said, looking from Clee to Nicky. "Friends help me. We find two pedicabs.

They take us. We go to Mai's house. Her parents weep.

They very sad. I very sad." Yoyo shook his head, and he mournfully added, "Mai such young girl--" His voice quavered, and he stopped speaking.

Nicky reached out and touched his arm in sympathy and with deep affection. It was hard to believe that Yoyo was with them in Paris at last, and looking so well, almost prosperous, she thought. He wore a neat, dark suit, a white shirt and a red tie, and seemed totally in command of himself and the situation.

Clearing her throat, she said, "Clee and I know how terrible it was for you, how grief-stricken you must have been, and still are. It is so tragic. We were all upset and so very sorry when Mai died."

Yoyo tried to smile without much success. "I know, Nicky." He turned to Clee. "Thank you, Clee, for carrying Mai so far. Trying to save Mai. Taking her to Xiehe. You a good man, Clee. You a good friend.

And you a good friend, Nicky."

"I just wish we could have saved her," Clee said, his heart going out to the young Chinese student who sat with them in his apartment on the rue Jacob. It was early on Friday evening, on the first day of September. Yoyo had come over to the sixth awondissenent on the Left Bank to visit with them, tell them how he had escaped from Beijing and share his news. Later they were going out to have the long-awaited celebration dinner together, as the guests of his benefactor, a Mr. Loong.

Yoyo suddenly said, "Mai's death bad joss."

"Yes, it was bad luck," Clee agreed. He and Nicky glanced at each other, and in an attempt to change the subject, Clee went on, "Nicky and I have been terribly worried about you all these weeks, Yoyo. So have Arch and the guys. We didn't know what had happened to you after we left Beijing. We waited in Hong Kong for you, as we promised we would, and for several days, you know."

"Sorry I did not come. It was hard for me, Clee."

Nicky said, "Don't apologize, Yoyo, we understand. It's just that we were so concerned for your safety. We hoped nothing bad had happened, that you weren't locked up in a Beijing jail." She, squeezed his arm again, gave him a warm smile. "Thank God you're all right."

"Many things happened to me. But I lucky. Really."

"Tell us everything, how you got out of Beijing, how you came to Paris," Clee said.

"I begin at beginning. Yes?"

"Okay, Yoyo, shoot," Clee replied, smiling at him.

Yoyo nodded, took a deep breath. "After you leave, police everywhere in Beijing. I go Mai's house. Mai's parents hide me.

Police asking many questions about students. Many arrests. Many students go to jail. At Qinghua University very bad things happen. It dangerous. I stay Mai's house one week. Mai's parents worry police find me. Arrest me. Mai's father take me house of friends. They hide me for ten days. It difficult. Dangerous.

Necessary I leave Beijing."

"Is that when you left the city? In the middle of June?" Nicky asked.

"No. No. I stayed in Beijing. I move many times. I go to friends of Mai's parents. They hide me. Mai's mother say she help me escape.

She have,ganxi--" "That means connections," Nicky interrupted, looking across at Clee. "Philip Rawlings told me when I was at Pullenbrook."

"How would he know a thing like that?" Clee asked, frowning.

"I told you before, he's got an important job at the British Foreign Office. Hong Kong is a British Crown Colony and under British protection and government until June 30, 1997." Nicky thought a moment. "Who knows, maybe he's on the China desk or the Hong Kong desk at the Foreign Office. He's always been very cagey about what he actually does there."

"I understand," Clee said, then turned to Yoyo. "Sorry for the interruption. Keep going, Yoyo."

"Mai's mother have many connections. She sent me to southern China.

Mai's father give me money. I have your money. I keep it safe. Mai's mother say I need much money. For bribes. They very important."

"How did you get to Hong Kong?" Nicky asked.

"Many people help me. Ordinary people. They hate government. They hate what government did to students. They sorry for students.

They like democracy movement. Many different people help me.

Mai's mother help me go to Shenzhen--"

"That's adjacent to Hong Kong,"

Clee cut in, looking at Nicky and explaining. "It's an economic zone, something like long Kong, and it became a sort of boomtown overnight.

Yoyo nodded. "You know Shenzhen, Clee?"

"Yes, I did a story there about a year ago." Once again he glanced at

Nicky. "It's kind of honky-tonk, full of criminals and lowlifes, as well as legit businessmen and entrepreneurs. But continue with your story, Yoyo."

"I needed papers to go to Shenzhen. All Chinese citizens need special certificate. Mai's father have friend. This friend have guanxi. This man buy certificate for me."

"But how did you get to Shenzhen from Beijing, it's a long way," Nicky said.

"Mai's father take me to Shanghai. In car. His brother help. He pass me along. To many friends. It is network, Nicky. They help students.

I cannot say more. Okay? You understand?"

"Yes, of course I do," she said. "You don't want to divulge too much about the network, because other students may have to use it as an escape route."

"That is correct, Nicky. I arrive Shenzhen beginning of August. I have special connection. Friend of friend. I stay two weeks.

Friend in Shenzhen take me to Zhong-Ying Street one day. It busy shopping street. One side China. Other side Hong Kong. Many tourists. We bribe police. They look other way. I go over border.

" "But there are Hong Kong police stationed on the other side of

Zhong-Ying Street," Clee said. "On the Hong Kong side. I know that area because of the story I did on Shenzhen. How did you manage once you'd crossed over?"

"I run. I slip through back streets. Alleyways. I hide. I get to water. Hong Kong on other side of bay. Mr. Loong have boat waiting.

Every day boat wait for me. Until I come. I go to Hong Kong on Mr.

Loong's boat. Mr. Loong look after me in Hong Kong.

He good man."

"Who exactly is Mr. Loong, Yoyo?" Nicky probed.

"He brother of Mai's mother. He very important man in Hong Kong.

Big businessman. He leave Shanghai in 1948 before Communists come in 1949. He start export-import business in Hong Kong. Now he very rich man . He help me . He bring me to Paris ."

"You were an illegal immigrant in Hong Kong with no papers. How did you manage? And how did you get out?" Clee asked. "You have a Chinese passport, I know, but what about visas and all that?"

"Mr. Loong fix everything. He has many friends. Important friends.

He buy me real Hong Kong passport. It is in my name."

Nicky said, "May we see it, Yoyo? You don't mind showing it to us, do you?"

"No, Nicky." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the passport and handed it to her.

Clee rose and walked over to join her on the sofa. Together they examined it, and then looked at each other. They had expected to see a forgery, but it appeared to be an authentic and valid Hong Kong passport in Yoyo's full name, Chin Yong Yu.

Handing it back to him, Clee said, "Very good, Yoyo. Your friend Mr. Loong obviously has bigguanxi."

Yoyo laughed and nodded.

"And what are your plans?" Clee now asked. "Are you going to stay here in France, or what?"

"Mr. Loong has Paris office for import-export company. He brought me here as his secretary. Maybe I stay. Maybe I go to New York."

As he said this he looked at Nicky questioningly.

"We'll talk that over tomorrow, shall we, Yoyo?" she said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I think we ought to be going. Isn't Mr. Loong expecting us at eight o'clock?"

"Yes." Yoyo got up, and continued, "He and Mrs. Loong expect us then. At Ritz Hotel. Place Vendome. Ernest Hemingway suite."

Clee caught Nicky's eye and they stared at each other, and then before she could stop herself Nicky burst out laughing. Clee stood next to her, laughing too.

"What is it?" Yoyo looked puzzled.

"I can't help thinking that your luck has changed, Yoyo. Mr. Loong is definitely good joss."

"Oh yes, Mr. Loong very good joss," Yoyo agreed.

Nicky had been thinking of Anne Devereaux ever since Madrid, and on Sunday morning she decided to phone her at Pullenbrook.

"It's lovely to hear your voice, Nicky," Anne said.

"And yours, Anne. I'm here in Paris with Clee, and I thought I'd call to say hello."

"I'm so glad you phoned--I didn't know where to find you-- I've been wanting to talk to you."

Nicky caught something odd in Anne's tone, she shifted in the chair and sat up straighter. "What about?" she asked carefully.

"Charles. Nicky, I--" "Oh Anne, I'm so sorry I came to see you at Pullenbrook two ~ weeks ago, with that story, I know how much I upset you, and it was wrong of me. I acted impulsively, without really thinking things through. Charles did commit suicide three years ago, I know he did. It wasn't Charles in the news segment, I was wrong about that."

"I'm not so sure anymore," Anne said.

Nicky stiffened, gripped the phone tighter. "What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking--mostly about the two photographs you had.

When you first showed them to me I did see the resemblance. In fact, I thought it was quite striking. But then I immediately convinced myself that they couldn't possibly be of Charles, for the simple reason that my son would never do anything shoddy like fake his own death. But in the last two weeks those photographs have haunted me."

"Forget them, Anne, it wasn't Charles. Honestly, it wasn't."

"I'd like to see the pictures again," Anne said quietly. "Would you be kind enough to send them to me?"

"I don't have them, I destroyed them. There was no point in keeping them."

"You really don't have them?"

"No, I told you, I got rid of them, they were torn up and thrown away."

There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Nicky waited for a moment, and then she said, "Anne, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here, Nicky."

To Nicky her voice sounded very faint, and she exclaimed, "Are you all right?"

"I haven't been sleeping much lately, to tell you the truth. I suppose my mind has been on Charles. So many memories coming back . . ."

"Oh, Anne darling, don't do this to yourself," Nicky said softly, aching with compassion for her friend. "This is all my fault. I don't know what to do to help you, to put your mind at rest, to make you feel better." When there was no response at the other end of the line, Nicky said, "Is there anything at all that I can do?"

"Could you come to England, Nicky? I would like to talk to you-need to talk to you--there's no one else. Perhaps if I saw you I'd feel less alone . . ."

Nicky's heart dropped, and she was about to refuse, but knowing she was responsible for this woman's pain and heartache, she said, "I could try to come over tomorrow, Anne, for the day. I wouldn't be able to come to Pullenbrook, could you meet me in London? For lunch?"

"Of course, that would be marvelous!" Anne's voice sounded stronger, more cheerful, and she hurried on, "Why don't we meet at the flat?

It's quiet and private, and so much more comfortable than a restaurant."

"Yes, that'll be fine, Anne. All right, then, I'll see you tomorrow--let's say between noon and twelve-thirty."

"I'm so looking forward to it."

"Give my best to Philip."

"I will. He's out taking a walk at the moment, otherwise I would have put him on. I know he would have wanted to say hello. Well, I'll see you tomorrow, darling, and thank you."

After Nicky had hung up she sat in the chair at Clee's desk in his small den, pondering her conversation with Anne. Anne had sounded wan and low-spirited at the beginning of their conversation, and she knew it was her fault. She was the one who had ripped open a wound that had partially healed during the past three years, and in so doing had caused new suffering.

The past had come rushing back to torment this lovely woman, who deserved so much better. Nicky experienced a flash of sudden anger, thinking of Charles and what he had done to his mother when he had vanished, and then she instantly pushed this to one side. He no longer played a part in any of this, and certainly not in Anne's life. She was going to find a way to stop the bleeding, to help Anne's wound to heal again. In order to do this she had to go to London, and so she would fly over in the morning. It was only an hour's flight, after all, and when she got there she was going to convince Anne Devereaux that her son was dead. As indeed he was--to all intents and purposes.

The front door banged and startled her, she jumped up and went into the small entrance foyer. Clee was standing there, his arms laden with shopping bags. Two baguettes poked out of one, vegetables out of another, and flowers were balanced on top of a third.

"Hi," he said, grinning at her over the top of them. "Come on and talk to me while I unpack this stuff."

She followed him into the kitchen. "It looks as if you bought enough food to feed an army!" she exclaimed. "What are you intending to make for lunch?"

"Donovan's famous farm omelette, for one thing," he replied, dumping the armful of bags on the kitchen table.

"And what's that, may I ask?"

"You'll have to wait and see. It's my specialty, and it's delicious.

You'll love it." Whipping the bunch of flowers out of the bag, he spun around and handed it to her.

"For my girl," he said, leaning forward, kissing her on the cheek.

"And the top of the mornin' to you, mavourneen," he added in a strong Irish brogue.

"Oh, Clee, how sweet of you, thank you," she said, taking the bouquet and pressing her face into the blooms. Then impulsively she threw her arms around him and hugged him close. Her face next to his, she whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too, Nick." He lifted her chin with one hand, looked into her eyes and added, "And you'll never know how much--I'll just have to try and show you. In the meantime, I've got to get started and make brunch, otherwise we'll be eating at four o'clock this afternoon."

"What can I do to help?"

"Once I've moved the groceries over to the countertop, you can set the table, open the bottle of champagne, pour us two glasses, and add a dash of orange juice to them. Then you can sit here and talk to me while I make the omelettes. Okay by you?"

"Okay by me," she said, laughing, and helped him to carry the grocery bags to the other side of the room before putting the flowers in a vase of water. Once she had spread the cloth on the table, and added the plates and knives and forks, she busied herself with the bottle of champagne. Her father liked mimosas, the mixture of champagne and orange juice, and now she made them with great expertise.

"Here's to the girl I love," Clee said, clinking his glass against hers. "Sante " "Sante, darling," she murmured and smiled at him.

Clee strode to the long countertop under the window, began emptying the bags and then started to prepare the meal.

Nicky sat watching him, thinking how fast and efficient he was as he handled the vegetables, all of which were obviously intended as ingredients for the omelette. Looks to me as if he's making a Spanish omelette, she thought, and bit back a smile.

"Are you still going to Brussels tomorrow?" Nicky asked after a moment.

"Yep, sure am. Why?"

"I called Anne Devereaux while you were out, and I was a bit upset when I heard how depressed she sounded. That's the wrong word, I thought she was troubled actually, Clee."

He turned around and looked at Nicky thoughtfully. "I guess you think you've opened a can of worms. Or, perhaps more appropriately, Pandora's box. Is that it?"

"Yes. And it really is my fault, Clee. I was very stupid, rushing to see her the way I did. It was far too impulsive on my part. I should have waited, thought things over, and spoken to you."

"You most certainly should have done that, and I would have told you to forget it. But never mind. No use crying over that now."

He turned back to the counter, and began to peel the three large potatoes lying on the chopping board. "What do you want to do about her, Nicky? Is there a way to help her?" he asked as he worked.

"She wanted me to come and see her. Asked me to, in fact. She says she has no one else to talk to but me."

"What about Philip? Isn't he sympathetic to her needs?"

"I'm sure he is, but she and I have always been extremely close, and anyway, I was . . ." She let her sentence trail off.

"And anyway, you were engaged to Charles," he finished for her, glancing over his shoulder. He smiled at her. "You don't have to tiptoe around me--about Charles Devereaux, I mean. You were engaged to him, and you did have a relationship with him, and none of us is without a past, a history, at our age. We all carry a certain amount of baggage with us."

"Thanks for understanding. Anyway, I did agree to go to London tomorrow, to have lunch with her at the flat in Eaton Square.

Since you'd said you were going to be in Brussels for two or three days I thought you wouldn't mind."

"I don't, and I wouldn't have minded even if I were going to be here.

You have to do what you have to do, and I'm not going to try to put a leash on you. I'm not that kind of guy." He turned to face her, and leaning against the countertop, he added, "And I hope you're not going to put a leash on me either."

Nicky shook her head. "Never! That's verboten, for sure. Besides, you're a bachelor at heart, remember? You cast yourself in the same mold as Robert Capa years ago, when you were still a boy.

And I know that you want to take your camera and roam the world as he did. I understand."

He put the knife he was holding on the countertop and walked over to her. He took the glass out of her hand, placed it on the table and pulled her to her feet.

"Listen, honeybunch, I might want to roam the world taking photographs, and I might want to be footloose, but I certainly don't want to be fancy-free. I want you at my side." He kissed her hard on the mouth, then held her away from him, and the lopsided smile flickered.

He touched her face lightly with one finger, and said, "Shall we get married?"

Nicky was caught off guard, and she stared at him. "You've taken me by surprise--do I have to decide today?"

"No, you don't have to decide today." He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. "You can decide tomorrow or next week, or whenever you want.

Just as long as you say yes."

, Like Pullenbrook, Anne's flat in Eaton Square was beautiful, and impressive in its own way. It had been decorated years before by the great English interior designer John Fowler, and it was one of his last assignments before his death.

The living room was spacious and high-ceilinged, its walls painted a peculiar faded pink, which the late interior decorator had named Ointment Pink. The taffeta draperies at the two tall windows were slightly deeper, and this soft shade, used throughout, helped to give the room its rosy glow. Georgian antiques, an Aubusson rug on the floor and several large horse paintings by Stubbs added to the room's quiet elegance. As she always did, Anne had put her inimitable stamp on it, there were skirted tables laden with family photographs in silver frames, pots of tall white orchids, vases of flowers everywhere and slow-burning scented candles.

On this sunny Monday morning, Anne and Nicky sat on a small sofa in front of one of the windows overlooking Eaton Square and the leafy green bower of trees in its central gardens.

Anne was more at ease with herself than she had been since Nicky's last visit, and this showed in her face. The tight lines around her mouth had all but disappeared, and her body was less taut. In fact, most of the tension had gone, and she was relaxed and smiling.

Nicky, relieved that she had succeeded in putting Anne's mind at rest, was also feeling more comfortable, and she was pleased she had come to London. The trip had been worth it just to know that the wounds she had opened would quickly heal now. Anne was already looking and sounding more like herself.

These two women had always been compatible, and after their intense, hour-long talk this morning there seemed to be an even deeper bond between them.

"You don't know what it means to me that you came," Anne said, reaching out for Nicky's hand, taking it in hers. "You made me see sense, helped me to put myself back together again, and for that I'm very grateful, darling. I had become rather depressed, and sad." She paused, made a moue and shook her head. "I think I was even beginning to feel sorry for myself, which is not like me at all. I can't abide self-pity, it's such a sign of weakness, and I'm very intolerant of it in others. Anyway, thank you, Nicky, you've worked wonders."

"You don't have to thank me, Anne, I was glad to come," Nicky said, squeezing her hand. "Quite aside from loving you, and caring about your well-being, I feel very responsible. It was I who opened Pandora's box and let all the horrors out. I wanted to put things right, make you feel better, if I could."

"Well, you did, so don't fret anymore, and the lid is firmly closed."

Anne looked deeply into Nicky's eyes, and added in a loving voice, "You always were very special to me, Nicky, like the daughter I never had--and you've brought me such enormous comfort today, helped me to draw on my inner strength again." A smile touched her mouth. "You've put me back on the track, so to speak."

Nicky smiled back at her. "That makes me feel good, Anne, it really does. I was so worried about you yesterday, and I could feel your pain. I knew what you were going through." There was a slight hesitation on Nicky's part, and then she said slowly, "Two weeks ago at Pullenbrook, you begged me to put Charles to rest again--I have, and I hope you can do the same."

"I think so--now. Yes, I'm sure I can, darling."

Nicky said, "Anne, I have some great news. Yoyo, the young Chinese student we met in Beijing, has managed to escape. He showed up in Paris last Thursday, and Clee and I had dinner with him on Friday.

He's in terrific spirits, looks wonderful."

"I'm thrilled he escaped, that he's safe," Anne exclaimed, her face lighting up, suddenly growing animated for the first time in days. "Do tell me about him."

Nicky did so, and she was just finishing recounting the details about Yoyo's journey to Hong Kong, their celebration dinner at the Ritz with him and Mr. and Mrs. Loong when the doorbell rang.

"Oh, that must be Philip," Anne said, rising, crossing the floor.

She paused halfway and turned her head. "I was rather surprised when he called at eleven and asked if he could join us. He usually lunches at his club. Then I realized he wanted to see you. He's so very fond of you, Nicky."

I "I'm glad he's having lunch with us, I'm fond of him, too," Nicky said, genuinely meaning this. "He's a lovely man."

A moment later Philip Rawlings was striding into the room, embracing first Anne, and then Nicky. "I thought you were supposed to be in Provence," he said, eyeing Nicky curiously.

"We were," she answered. "But Clee has problems at the office. We hope to leave sometime next week."

"Nice time of year, down there," Philip murmured. He went to a tray of drinks on a chest, and proceeded to mix himself one. He usually did not drink at lunch during the week, and today was an exception. In fact, this was not his first scotch and soda. On his way here he had done something he had not done in years-stopped off at a pub. He had gone to the Grenadier, which was the only pub he remembered in the Belgravia area, and downed a quick one before walking over to Eaton Square.

False courage, he thought, as he dropped a piece of ice into his crystal tumbler and turned around to face Anne and Nicky, who was about to sink into a chair next to the sofa where Anne had already seated herself.

He lifted his glass to his mouth, said, "Down the hatch," and took a long swallow. No use putting it off, he thought, and taking a deep breath, bracing himself, he went over to sit next to Anne.

"I'm afraid it's not a very fancy lunch, Philip," Anne remarked.

"I left Pilar and Inez in the country when I came up to town this morning. So I stopped off at Harrods and picked up a few cold meats, and I made a salad."

"Don't worry about it, I'm not very hungry," he said.

"I'm feeling so much better, darling," Anne continued, smiling at him.

"Being with Nicky, talking to her, has been a wonderful tonic ."

"I can see that."

"I'm really all right now, Philip. Truly."

"Yes," he said.

"I was just telling Anne about Yoyo," Nicky volunteered. "You know, the Chinese student who was so helpful in Beijing. He managed to get to Hong Kong, and finally to Paris, and we saw him this past week."

"One of the lucky ones." Philip shook his head. "Sadly, quite I a few of the students who were involved in the democracy movement, and who escaped, were sent back to China by the Hong Kong government. God knows what their fate has been."

"How terrible!" Anne exclaimed. "How could we do a thing I like that!"

Philip did not answer. He took another long swallow of his drink, almost gulping it down, and then he put the glass on the antique lacquered tray table in front of him. Again steeling himself, he said,

"Anne, I have something to tell you, and I'm glad Nicky is with us.

She has a right to hear this too."

Both women looked at him, noting his serious tone, the grim expression settling on his face.

"It's about Charles--" "Charles?" Anne interrupted, her voice rising.

Nicky stiffened in the chair, and apprehension stabbed at her.

"This morning some information came across my desk at the Foreign

Office. It's restricted, classified information, but I felt, under the circumstances, that I was morally obligated to take both of you into my confidence. However, because it is a privileged communication, is top secret, actually, I must warn you that what I tell you must never be repeated. It cannot go beyond these walls. I count on your confidentiality. I must have your word on this, Anne. And yours,

Nicky."

"You know I would never discuss anything you told me about the office, confidential or otherwise," Anne said, looking at him slightly askance.

"I give you my word," Nicky murmured. She was worried, wondering what this was about, what Philip was going to tell them.

Philip nodded, and then he reached for Anne's hand. "When Nicky came to see us at Pullenbrook in August, she was correct in everything she said, Anne. It was Charles on that ATN newscast from Rome. He had faked his death three years ago."

Anne gasped, her eyes wide with shock. She was speechless for a moment, and then she exclaimed, "Are you saying he's alive? Is my son alive?"

Philip did not immediately answer.

Nicky held herself perfectly still, clasping her hands together in her lap. She knew she must be careful in her reactions, that she must not betray anything.

Anne repeated, "Is he alive? Philip, please answer me! Is Charles alive?"

Philip took a deep breath, and very gently he said, "No, Anne, he's not. Charles is dead."

"I don't understand!" she cried, her agitation increasing. "You just said Nicky was right, that Charles did fake his own death, and was alive. Now you're saying that he's dead. How can that be?

Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Nicky, who was as shocked as Anne, was doing her best to control herself. Now she said in the steadiest voice she could muster, "But how do you know Charles is dead, Philip?"

"My friend Frank Littleton told me this morning. Frank and I were at Harrow together, and Cambridge, and we've been close friends since those days, for donkey's years. Frank's with the Secret Intelligence Service--MI6--but he's not an agent out in the field. He has a desk job. He sent me a note this morning, asking me to come and see him.

I did, and he told me that Anne's son had been killed."

"Oh God, what are you saying?" Anne looked at him frantically.

"MI6. Agents. Intelligence. Was Charles involved in something dangerous?"

"Frank didn't go into too many details," Philip responded quietly, wondering how he was going to help her get through this new ordeal.

"You just said killed." Nicky stared at Philip. "So he didn't die of natural causes. Nor in an accident, presumably. Are you saying he was murdered?"

Philip nodded. He put his arm around Anne as she let out a strangled cry. She began to tremble.

"When was Charles killed?" Nicky demanded.

"Late last week," Philip said.

"Where?" Nicky clasped her hands together, hardly breathing.

"In Madrid. He was in a plane that blew up at Madrid airport, a small private plane, a Falcon."

"Oh my God!" Anne pressed her hands to her mouth. "My son!

Charles!" She turned to Philip, pleaded, "Please tell me what this is all about, Philip. Please tell me. I don't understand."

Nicky cut in, "Was his body recovered?"

Philip paused, then said in a low voice, "It was a very bad explosion

.

" Anne was sobbing quietly, leaning against Philip's shoulder. He held her closer, desperately trying to comfort her. "You said the information came to you through your old friend with

MI6," Nicky continued. "That implies Charles was an operative, working in the covert world of intelligence. And if he was, then he was probably killed by foreign agents. Is that the case?"

"I think so, Nicky." "You're not sure?"

"Frank gave me the barest details, he's not supposed to tell me anything. But he knows Anne, is aware we're going to be married, and he wanted me to have the information. He stuck his neck out for me.

But he certainly wasn't going to breach security. That's more than his job's worth."

Leaning forward, Nicky said, "But didn't he vive you any clue at all about the killer, or killers?"

Philip hesitated. "I got the impression they might have been Israeli agents."

"Mossad!" Nicky was startled. "Why would Mossad want to kill Charles Devereaux? From what you've just told us, it sounds as if he was a British agent. The British and the Israelis don't bump each other off.

They're on the same side."

Philip said nothing.

"He was working for British intelligence, wasn't he?" Nicky probed, all of her journalistic training coming out.

Philip shook his head. "Perhaps not. Frank told me--" He broke off, and changing his mind, he finished, "I think that perhaps I ought not to say anything else. Not that I know much more than I've already told you."

"Just one thing," Nicky pressed. "If Charles wasn't working for the

British, he must have been working for someone else. Who?"

"Frank didn't actually say, Nicky. However, he implied Charles was involved with an organization based in the Middle East."

Nicky gaped at him. "A terrorist organization? Is that what you're saying?"

Philip nodded.

"Do you mean he was a terrorist?"

"It's possible," Philip said.

"Did he work for the PLO? Abu Nidal? The PFLP-GC? Who?"

"Frank didn't mention any of those groups, but he did indicate that

Charles was working for the Palestinians."

"I don't believe it!" Nicky exclaimed incredulously. "I don't!"

"The Palestinians," Anne repeated, suddenly pulling away from Philip, sitting up straighter on the sofa. She looked from Philip to Nicky and back to Philip, as if bewildered. "Did you say Charles was working for the Palestinians?"

"That is what Frank implied, yes."

Anne's face went as white as chalk. Her eyes glazed over, were suddenly devoid of all expression. She sat staring ahead, appeared to be gazing into some far distant place, it was as if she saw something Nicky and Philip could not see. There was an extraordinary remoteness about her, and she was silent, utterly still, as if she had fallen into a trance.

Philip glanced at Nicky worriedly.

Nicky nodded, then looked across at Anne. Drawing on the information she had been given by Charles in Madrid, she said slowly, "Perhaps Charles wasn't a traitor to the British. Maybe he was amok A British agent who had assumed a new identity and gone undercover."

"I don't know," Philip replied. "But it's possible, of course.

Sometimes these things are done at a very high level. Often others in an agency don't even know, for security reasons. Maybe Frank doesn't have all the information."

"Exactly," Nicky exclaimed. "And if Charles was a mole, that would make him a counterfeit traitor, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Philip agreed, and glanced at Anne, hoping she had heard what Nicky had just said. And it was a possibility. A very strong possibility. Certainly Nicky's theory made sense.

Nicky sat back in the chair, rapidly turning over in her mind all the facts she had and suddenly she found herself thinking, Is Charles really dead? Or has he faked his own death a second time?

He just didn't trust me not to betray him, she thought. He was afraid--afraid I would put him in jeopardy. Yes, that's got to be it.

Somehow he's faked his death a second time, in order to continue to work as a mole for the British!

Her heart tightened. What, really, was she to think? Was he dead this time? If he was, then had Mossad killed the wrong man? Had they assassinated a British agent?

There was no noise in Clee's apartment. Everything was perfectly still, not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the silence. It was late, almost midnight. Nicky was alone, Clee was still in Brussels on assignment for Paris Match. She had spoken to him on the phone earlier, and had managed to limit discussion about her day in London.

Now she sat in the living room, finishing a bowl of soup and reflecting on the events of the day.

Philip's extraordinary revelations had not startled her as much as they had Anne--for obvious reasons. After all, she had seen Charles ten days ago, had heard his story, and it was a story she fully believed.

She also believed he was still alive. The Charles Devereaux she had known, been engaged to, had always been exceedingly clever, a brilliant man. And so it was reasonable to assume that he was a superlative agent and the best mole in the business. Therefore, he had not been blown up in that plane at the airport in Madrid. Somehow he had managed to make it look as though he had, because he wanted her and everyone else to think he was dead. She was certain another man had been in the Falcon in his place.

But whether he was alive or dead, she was positive that he had not worked for the Palestinian cause, he had simply infiltrated a terrorist organization as a mole. Deep within herself she wished she could have told Anne what she knew, if only to make her feel better about her son.

But for Charles's sake, just in case he was alive, she had not dared to do this.

Eventually Anne had roused herself from her trancelike state, and Nicky had had the opportunity to repeat her theory that Charles was a counterfeit traitor, a double agent, a mole. And she had expounded on the idea that Frank Littleton, Philip's friend, did not have all of the facts at his disposal.

All of this had seemed to give Anne a measure of comfort, and after a while she had excused herself and retired to her bedroom, explaining that she needed to be alone.

Nicky and Philip had talked for another hour, before she left for Heathrow and her plane back to Paris. At one moment he had started to worry out loud that he had made a terrible mistake.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have told Anne anything at all, Nicky," he had said. "I ought to have kept it to myself, don't you think?"

Nicky had reassured him that he had done the right thing, and he had appeared to be heartened when he heard this. Then he had confided, "I love her very much, Nicky, I've loved her for years.

I couldn't believe my good fortune when she finally agreed to marry me.

And I told her about Charles because I respect her, and because there's never been anything but honesty and truth between us. She and I have never dealt in lies. Anne's a mature, intelligent woman, and I thought she was entitled to know absolutely everything that I knew about her son, to know what Frank had told me out of friendship. And I thought you should know the truth, too, Nicky."

If it's really the truth, Nicky had thought at the time, but she had said, "Yes, you're right, Philip, and you really did do the best thing.

No woman wants to be treated like an imbecile by a man."

Marie Therese said, "Ah, Nicky, ma petite, you are being evasive.

How can you say you don't know if you are going to marry this Clee of yours--you must have some idea what you intend to do ."

"But I don't," Nicky protested. "He only asked me on Sunday morning--" "But it's Thursday today!" Marie Therese exclaimed, laughing. "You should know how you feel by now. Anyway, I think he will expect an answer when he returns to Paris tomorrow. N'est-ce pas? In my opinion, you must say yes, che'ne. What else is there to say?"

Nicky smiled at the Frenchwoman, her dear old friend from childhood.

"Ah, Marie Therese, you are an incurable romantic. I could say no, you know."

"Mmmm, that's true. On the other hand, why would you want to do that when you are so very much in love with your Clee."

"And what makes you say that?"

"I see it in your eyes, ma petite, and when you speak about him your face glows with love."

Nicky sighed. "We'll see. I guess I'll make up my mind in Provence--I haven't had time to think straight in the last few days." Glancing at her watch, Nicky exclaimed, "I've got to go! I promised Yoyo I would have dinner with him tonight, and I've so much to do this afternoon.

Thanks for another delicious lunch.

Hopefully, you'll have your cast offby the time I get back from

Provence, and then I'll take you for that fancy lunch at the Relais

Plaza."

"With Clee, I hope."

Nicky nodded. "With Clee."

"And if we can't have lunch, you will phone me before you go back to the States at the end of September, won't you, Nicky?"

"Of course I will--but don't worry, we'll be having our lunch, I promise." Bending forward, Nicky kissed Marie Therese on the cheek.

"Don't get up, I can let myself out."

"Au revoir, cherie."

"Au revoir, and take care."

Nicky closed the door of the apartment behind her and ran down the steep flight of stairs. Dashing out of the front door and into the street, she turned right, hoping to find a taxi--and ran into a group of men leaving the restaurant next door to Marie Therese's apartment building.

"Oh, pardon!" she exclaimed as she bumped into one of them.

"De rien, mademoiselle, " the man said, and swung around, smiled Nicky's jaw dropped, she was staring at Charles Devereaux.

"Oh my God!"

Stepping forward, Charles took hold of her arm and propelled her into the car waiting on the curb. "Au revoir, Bernard, Haji," Charles said as he got in behind her.

"What's happening, where are you taking me, Char--" "Be quiet," he hissed, cutting her off. "Don't say another word.

" T lhey stood facing each other in the living room of the drab apartment to which he had just brought her.

"What in God's name were you doing in a disreputable district like Belleville?" Charles asked. "I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you. What were you doing there?"

"Before I answer any questions," Nicky cried, "I'd like to pose a couple myself."

He nodded. "All right. I'll respond if I can."

"First of all, you bundle me into a car, which shoots across Paris and turns into a side street, the name of which I don't see, then you drag me out and into this building. I haven't the slightest idea where I am. Where are we, I'd like to know!"

"This apartment is on the rue Georges Berger, northeast of the Arc de Triomphe, behind the Parc de Monceau, just off the boulevard de Courcelles."

"Why did you push me into the car?"

"I didn't know what you were going to say, what you would blurt out.

It was much easier to come here. Now, tell me why you were in that area. Belleville is not a pretty place. Are you on to some sort of story there? Interviewing people in Belleville?"

"No, but what do you mean? Is there a story in Belleville?"

He shrugged. "How should I know."

"But you just brought it up!"

"I can't imagine why you would be there, that's all. It's the Arab area--a lot of North African immigrants live there. But surely you knew that."

"I was visiting Marie Therese Bouret, the Frenchwoman who was a sort of nanny to me when I was little. I'm sure I told you about her, once."

"Yes, I think you did."

"She moved to Belleville because her boyfriend lives there. She's moved in with him."

"Is he Moroccan, Tunisian, Algerian?"

"I don't know--I've never met him." Immediately Nicky remembered the couscous Marie Therese had ordered for lunch the previous week, and the name of the restaurant, Cafe Tangier. She exclaimed, "That restaurant you were leaving--it's North African, isn't it?"

"Moroccan ." Nicky went on, "Why did you bring me here?"

"I didn't want to talk to you in the middle of the street."

"Do we have anything to say to each other?" She paused, looked at him closely, and added, "You could've trusted me. I wouldn't have betrayed you. I gave you my word of honor in Madrid. So you see there was no need for you to fake your death a second time."

"I didn't! And I did trust you--do trust you--Nicky."

"You were thought to be in that private jet, that Falcon, that blew up in Madrid late last week. I was told you'd been killed in the explosion."

He was startled by this statement, and threw her a keen look.

"Who told you about the plane?"

"Philip Rawlings."

His eyes fastened on hers intently. "Did you see Philip?"

"Yes. I went to London earlier this week, on Monday. I went to visit your mother, she was depressed, upset. And she was wavering in her belief that you had committed suicide three years ago. I met her at her apartment for lunch. I wanted to convince her that you were dead--" "Why did she have a change of heart?"

"The photographs--of the man in the newscast. Of you."

"Yes, I understand. Go on."

"I talked to your mother for about an hour, and I succeeded, I brought her back to believing you were dead. Then Philip arrived.

He broke the news of your death, and explained to your mother that I had been right all along." Nicky now repeated everything Philip had told them, although she omitted Frank Littleton's name.

When she had finished, Charles nodded, his eyes reflective. "I suppose Philip learned about the plane in Madrid from an old friend in intelligence. I know all about the British Establishment and the old-school-tie network." Now he motioned to a group of chairs and said, "Let's sit, shall we? I think we will be more comfortable."

Once they were settled, Charles continued, "Contrary to what you believe, I didn't fake my death by having that plane blown up. In fact, I would have been on it, if not for a last-minute change in plans. I had to stay on in Madrid unexpectedly--an assignment.

Because there was an extra seat available--my seat-Javier took it. The destination of the plane was Gibraltar, where his sister lives. He was going for a weekend visit."

"Are you implying the plane was sabotaged? That someone was trying to assassinate you?"

"I'm not implying it, I'm telling you."

"Who?"

"I'm not exactly sure--although I do have a few suspects and a few theories."

"Mossad?"

Charles frowned at her. "Why do you mention Israeli intelligence?"

"Philip suggested that the Falcon might have been blown up by them--that they could have been after you."

He was silent.

"I didn't say anything to your mother or Philip, Charles. I never mentioned our meeting in Madrid. I was also extremely careful in my reaction to Philip's news." She took a deep breath. "You see, I thought you were alive all along. I believed you were. I just knew you weren't dead, and so there was no way I would have put you in jeopardy. Put your life at risk."

Still he said nothing.

Nicky hurried on, "Philip told me something very odd, Charles."

"What was that?" he asked, raising a brow.

"He said the person who gave him the information on Monday morning--about your death in Madrid--also implied that you were a terrorist."

Charles sat perfectly still in the chair, a thoughtful expression settling on his face again. Finally, he gave her a very direct look and said, "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

Nicky shook her head. "Sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at."

"It depends on your point of view, doesn't it?"

"That's what I thought you meant." She stared at him for the longest moment, and then said, "Are you telling me you are a terrorist?"

"Of course I'm not a terrorist!"

With a smile of relief she exclaimed, "No, you're a British agent who has gone undercover. You're a British mole who has inJiltrated a terrorist organization based in the Middle East. Right?"

"No, I'm not."

"You're not a British agent?"

"No, and I never have been. Nor am I a mole."

"You lied to me in Madrid?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to tell you the truth."

"What is the truth?"

"I am involved with a Middle East organization, Nicky."

"What is it called?"

"Al Awad--it means The Return."

"I know what it means," she cried, shifting in the chair, staring at him aghast. "It means the return to the homeland--Palestine."

She leaned forward and added with intensity, "And it is a terrorist organization. A Palestinian terrorist organization, to be exact. I've heard of it, even though it's not quite as high-profile as Abu Nidal and some of the other groups."

"It's not a terrorist organization," he snapped.

"Oh, come off it! And what do you do for them?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Kill little children and women, innocent people?" Charles said, "I told you, I'm not a terrorist. I handle the money, the financial matters."

She glared at him, and cried, "You may not tote a Kalashnikov or a Beretta, but you're still a terrorist. The money you handle finances barbaric acts, terrorism!"

"Nicky, Nicky, do you think the British Secret Intelligence Service, the CIA, Mossad, or the French DST are any different? They're all the same the world over. Everyone lies, cheats, kills, dies, and for what? Patriotism, they say. The Palestine freedom fighters are also patriotic."

"Oh boy, do you have your rhetoric down pat!" she exploded angrily, scarcely believing what she was hearing. Charles Devereaux involved with Palestinians was the most unlikely thing she had ever heard. Now she took total control of herself, realizing that she must not let her past relationship with Charles or her feelings of anger and outrage get in the way.

Emotion must not cloud judgment. Think with your head, she cautioned herself, and ask a few more leading questions, get to the bottom of this. Solve the enigma of Charles Devereaux once and for all.

She said, "And why are you doing this--for money? Or what?"

He recoiled, a look of contempt on his face, and he said bitingly, "How little you know me, Nicky, if you think I can be bought. I work for he group because I believe in it, and in its aims."

"You believe in its aims!" Nicky's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Are you saying that you believe in its ideology? Is that it?"

"Yes, I am saying that."

"Why? Whyyou ? An Englishman, an aristocrat. I just don't get it.

"Do you really want to know?"

"That's a pretty stupid question--of course I do."

Charles leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs and stared at her.

Nicky suddenly realized he was wearing the brown contact lenses.

They did make a difference, added to the change in his appearance. He suddenly seemed less than ever like the Charles she had once loved.

After a few seconds of contemplation, he said, "It was a man I loved--" "A man ! " "Ah, no, Nicky, it's not what you think." With a faint smile he murmured, "To continue, it was a man I loved, and the love that that man felt for me, which brought me to Al Awad and the Palestinian cause. His love, his influence over me, his greatness as a man, all of those things induced me to adopt his beliefs, and follow in his footsteps."

"He's a Palestinian, correct?"

"He was."

"He's dead?"

"Sadly, yes."

"Who was he?"

There was only the merest hesitation on his part before he said, "My father. He was my father."

Nicky was thunderstruck. After a second, she managed to say, "Are you telling me that Henry Devereaux was not your father?"

"I am."

"Did Anne adopt you?"

"No, she didn't. Anne is my mother."

"Your biolo,ical mother?"

"Yes. Just as Nayef Al Kabil was my biological father."

"Anne Devereaux had an affair with a Palestinian?" Nicky's voice echoed with incredulity.

"Yes, she did. But that's my mother's story, not mine, and I'm not going to tell it. If you want to know more, you must ask her."

"But you were born and brought up in England, educated in England, at

Eton and Oxford. How did all this come about? How did you become involved--become involved with your father?"

"My mother thought I should know him."

"When did you meet him?"

"When I was a little boy--six years old, actually."

"And is that when your indoctrination started?"

"No, later, when I was older, when I could understand everything properly. But I wouldn't call it indoctrination. It was his legacy to me. I have his blood in my veins! I am his son!"

"Your father's bloodline is more important to you than your mother's?

Is that what you're telling me?"

"I am more of an Al Kabil than a Clifford, I suppose. That's what it comes down to in the end. I am my father's son."

"When did your father die?"

"He was killed in 1981. In southern Lebanon, during the hostilities there."

"Is that when you became involved with his cause?"

"No, about two years before that, in 1979. That was when he asked me to help with the group's finances. He had started Al Awad in 1958, and for what it's worth, he was a moderate. He believed in moderation, violence was not his way, Nicky. He believed in the conference table."

Nicky ignored these comments. She said, "So you were part of the group when we met?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you ever get involved with me in the first place?" she demanded, staring hard at him.

There was a hesitation, and then he said quietly, "It was a sexual attraction at first. I wanted you--I wanted to have an affair with you. But I made the same mistake as my father."

"What does that mean?"

"He fell in love with a beautiful Englishwoman. I fell in love with a beautiful American. I hadn't intended our relationship to go that far, Nicky. Then when I did get emotionally entangled with you, I thought I could handle it, handle you, and my involvement with my father's group, and our marriage as well."

"And you changed your mind?"

"No, not really."

"Then why did you decide to vanish into thin air three years ago?"

"Not actually because of you, although you were starting to become something of a problem. I thought certain foreign intelligence agencies were on my trail, were about to take me out."

"Which ones?"

"The CIA. And Mossad."

"Why was I becoming a problem?"

"As I told you, my father was killed in 1981. His second in command, who took over after his death, relied on me rather heavily, more than my father had, in some ways. I was getting really sucked in, and more so than I had intended, although I did believe in my father's cause.

Nevertheless--" "You wanted to lead your life in London as well, isn't that so?"

He nodded. "Yes. By 1986, just after we became engaged, I realized that it wasn't going to work. That you were a problem after all. I also realized that I wasn't being fair to you, I didn't want to put you in any kind of danger. And that, combined with my worry that agents were tracking me, convinced me I should disappear. So I did."

"And your mother never knew anything?"

"Never. My father didn't want her to know, and neither did I."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because there's no reason you shouldn't know."

"Are you going to have me killed?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Nicky!"

"I could expose you."

"It wouldn't matter if you did. Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"I'm leaving today for the Middle East. I won't be returning to

Europe. I shall live there for the rest of my life."

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous for me here now. And there are other reasons, which I can't go into."

"Are you going to Lebanon?"

"I can't tell you where I'm going, surely you know that."

There was a sudden knock on the door. Charles looked toward it and said, "Come in."

Pierre, the man who had searched her suite in Madrid, was standing there. "The car is downstairs," he said. Charles nodded and stood up. Turning to Nicky, he said, "I have to go.

I have a plane waiting at Le Bourget."

Nicky also stood. "I won't tell your mother anything or mention our meeting today, you know."

He nodded. "No, it would only hurt her even more."

Nicky glared at him, the anger so close to the surface flaring for a split second, and then she bit it back to take hold of herself. "She wept bitter tears for you the other day," she said.

"I love hen-but . . ." He left his sentence unfinished, picked up his briefcase and went out into the hallway. Nicky followed him.

Opening the front door, Pierre lifted the two suitcases standing there and hurried down the short flight of stairs out into the street.

When Nicky and Charles reached the bottom of the staircase, he turned to her in the little vestibule and said, "This is finally good-bye,

Nicky."

She nodded. "In case you think I was doing a story on you, I wasn't

.

" "I know. You love my mother far too much, you'd never hurt her in that way."

They were outside on the pavement. "Small world, isn't it?"

Charles said suddenly. "The way you ran into me today in Belleville

.

" "Yes."

"Can I give you a lift?"

"No, thanks, I prefer to walk," she said.

He smiled at her faintly. "Good-bye, Nicky."

"Good-bye, Charles."

Pierre had stowed the luggage, and after Charles got into the backseat he went and sat next to the driver. The car slid smoothly down the narrow street.

Nicky turned away and began to walk in the direction of the boulevard de Courcelles, with so many thoughts whirling in her mind.

The blast from the explosion was so forceful it threw her forward onto the pavement. For a split second she was dazed and then a strangled cry escaped her throat as she struggled to her knees and turned her head. The car Charles had been traveling in had exploded about eighty feet away. She gaped at it in horror, and pushed herself up onto her feet. The air was filled with smoke and the smell of burning, the street littered with bits of metal, broken glass and shreds of clothing. From the Parc Monceau across the street a policeman who had been on duty and several passersby were rushing toward her.

Still shaking, Nicky leaned against the wall of the building and closed her eyes. There was no chance that he was alive. Not in that inferno.

And it was his car that had exploded. There was no other vehicle on the rue Georges Berger.

T the two women sat on the old stone bench at the top of Sweetheart

Hill. It was Sunday afternoon, sunny and warm, and a light breeze rustled through the trees, sent the white clouds scudding across the arch of the shining blue sky. It was a perfect September day.

Neither woman noticed the weather. They sat with their arms around each other, their blond heads close together, sharing a moment of quiet after a long and frequently painful conversation, one that had lasted well over an hour.

It was Nicky who now pulled slightly away, looked into Anne's eyes and said, "That's it. I've told you the whole truth, and I've left nothing out. Now you know everything, Anne."

Anne nodded and squeezed her hand, then she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

"So, my son is dead." She shook her head sorrowfully. "It's funny, you know, I just don't think I can weep any more tears after today.

There are none left. I've grieved for Charles for three years, I don't think I can grieve all over again."

"No, you can't. You must go forward, Anne. You must get on with your life--your life with Philip."

"Yes, darling, you're absolutely right." Anne smiled and continued, "A moment ago you said that I knew everything, and thanks to you, I do.

Butyo don't know everything, Nicky. You don't know my side of the story. I think I should tell you about Nayef Al Kabil, and what happened forty-one years ago."

"Only if you really want to tell me, Anne."

"I'd like to, yes. And I shall tell Philip later. He has a right to know as well."

Anne stared into the distance, her face still, her eyes pensive, and it was a few minutes before she began to speak.

At last, she said, "I remember every moment as if it were only yesterday, each nuance as clear to me now as it was then. My father, Julian Clifford, was a renowned statesman in his day, Nicky. He was frequently associated with that very great man Winston Churchill, especially during the Second World War and at the end of it, they were political allies. My father became involved with the creation of the State of Israel in 1948. He and I were rather close at this time, he was a widower--my mother had died during the war. Anyway, my father took me with him to Palestine, as it still was then, in 1947. He liked to have me with him when he traveled abroad or stayed away for long periods.

In January of 1948

I met Nayef. He was from an old, very good Palestinian family, a prominent family, who came from Gaza. They owned land, orange groves, and were well established in the area, respected. Nayef was only a few years older than I was, and we fell in love."

Unexpectedly Anne fell silent.

Nicky looked at her, squeezed her hand, but said nothing, and she noticed then that the other woman was trying to compose herself.

Anne picked up her story again. "We were very much in love, Nicky. We were the first for each other, and you know what first love is like.

We were blind to everything except ourselves. He was so handsome, a slender young man, not all that tall, but very fair, with the most beautiful light green eyes, so clear and innocent. He was kind to me, very loving and devoted, and we became inseparable. In May of 1948, just after my seventeenth birthday, I discovered I was pregnant."

Anne paused once more, and looked at Nicky pointedly. "Things were very different in those days. There was nothing I could do, even if

I'd wanted to, which I didn't. Naturally, I was distressed and frightened. Nayef and I told my father together, and then Nayef explained how much he loved me, said that he wanted to marry me. And I told my father that I felt the same way about Nayef. My father reacted badly. He was horrified, furious.

He took me home to England immediately. I was heartbroken. And it was seven years before I saw Nayef again."

"Oh, Anne darling, how sad. You were so young, just a child."

"Yes, we both were. And inexperienced in so many ways. As it happened, my father's oldest and dearest friend was Henry Devereaux, the British industrialist. Henry had known me all my life, and loved me. Since he was a widower and childless, he agreed to marry me at my father's request. Our marriage was in September of 1948. Imagine my horror, being torn from Nayef, carrying his child, and marrying a man I hardly knew, except as my father's friend. I was in agony of mind and spirit, but there was nothing I could do except obey my father.

Actually, Henry knew he had Hodgkin's disease, cancer of the lymph nodes, by that time, was aware that he did not have long to live.

Since he had no family, other than a distant cousin, and because he had always cared for me, he was excited about our marriage. It pleased him to have someone to care for, and also to have a young companion for the last few years of his life. I must say he was good to me, and he did love Charles. But I was not happy with him. How could I be?

Our marriage was a mockery. But I suppose, looking back, that I didn't make much of an effort. He seemed like an old man to me.

He was, being a contemporary of my father."

"And naturally you yearned for Nayef," Nicky murmured, reaching out, taking hold of her hand again.

"Oh yes, Nicky, how I yearned for him! But there was nothing I could do. Also, I did have my beautiful child--Charles. Nayef's child. I loved my son to distraction, and he did help to heal the hole in my heart. And eventually I adjusted--one always does, you know. Charles had been born in February of 1949, but it wasn't until he was six years old that I decided he ought to meet Nayef, his real father. Things were much easier for me by then, inasmuch as Henry and my father had both died. So in 1955

I took Charles to the South of France, to Nice, to meet Nayef."

"And from that time on he saw his father on a regular basis over the years. Charles explained that to me in Paris."

Anne nodded. "Very regularly. I'd told him it was a secret, that no one must know about Nayef--I was worried about my brother, Geoffrey, you see. I must say, Charles was very good. He kept the secret. He loved Nayef, and Nayef loved him. Little did I know he was brainwashing our child." She paused, took a deep breath, then added, "But I couldn't have stopped that. Once Charles was eighteen, he came and went as he pleased, and he was always strong-willed, independent.

But to tell you the truth, Nicky, I had no idea how strong the bond was between them, how much the relationship had grown, until you told me today. Charles was very secretive about that--I suppose he had to be."

"Did you continue your relationship with Nayef?"

"No, I didn't. Well, that's not strictly true. I did for a couple of years, between 1955 and 1957. We picked up where we had left off. But it was never quite the same--it never is--and then it ended by mutual consent.

It wasn't feasible, darling. He was living in Lebanon, and I was here at Pullenbrook, and by then he was starting to become involved in politics, was consumed by his beliefs. I think he was already deeply committed to the cause."

"Charles told me his father was a moderate. Do you believe that?"

"Absolutely. Nayef wasn't a man who would ever condone violence, or resort to it. He always believed that peace could be achieved by other means."

"Did he ever marry? Have other children?"

"No, he didn't marry. Nor did he have children--not to my knowledge, anyway. Perhaps that's one of the reasons why Charles was so important to him. He was his only son, and he claimed him for himself, didn't he?"

Nicky said softly, "Yes, he did. And Charles allowed himself to be claimed. He did have a choice."

Anne sighed heavily and looked at her. She said slowly, "It's all my fault, Nicky--if I had not become involved with Nayef when I was a young girl, none of this would have happened...."

"But you wouldn't have had Charles either."

"That's true." Anne forced a small smile and murmured, "Well, darling, perhaps we'd better go inside for a while. You and Clee will have to leave for the airport soon. Also, Philip and I have something to tell you. And I have something to show you."

The two women stood. In the distance, the great Tudor house gleamed under the brilliant sky, ancient, unchanging, everlasting. Together they walked down the hill toward it, their arms linked.

Philip and Clee were in the library talking when Anne and Nicky came in a few minutes later.

Philip exclaimed, "There you are! I was about to come looking for you.

Inez will be bringing tea shortly. I'm sure you'd both like a cup."

"Thanks, I would," Nicky said.

Anne merely nodded, walked over to the desk and took an envelope out of a drawer.

Nicky looked across at Clee and smiled. It was such a comfort to have him here, and over lunch he had seemed to make everyone feel more relaxed. He was not only warm and understanding, but sane and down-to-earth, and you knew where you stood with him. It pleased Nicky that Anne had responded so well to him, was comfortable around him.

She had been so uptight when they had arrived from Paris late last night.

Clee led Nicky to one of the Chesterfield sofas near the fireplace and they sat down together. Anne handed Nicky the envelope she had taken out of the desk. "I think you should read this, Nicky.

It arrived last Thursday morning."

Nicky took it from her, and when she saw Charles's handwriting she flinched. The letter had arrived at Pullenbrook the day he had died.

Shaking off the sudden chill she felt, she looked more carefully at the envelope. It was postmarked Tuesday, September 5, and it had been mailed in Paris. Slipping the letter out of the envelope, she read it slowly.

Paris Dear Mother.

Monday evening, September 4, 1989

Three years ago I allowed you to believe I had committed suicide. I could not take you into my confidence, because if my suicide was to be effective, you above all had to believe it. This was a cruel thing to do to you, I know, but I was certain my life was in danger. I had to slip off theface of theearth, becomesomeoneelse if I wasgoin.g to live.

I was being sought by intelligence agents from various foreign countries. You see, unbeknownst toyou, I had adopted my father's cause long ago and I had been active in his organization since 1979.

My father, whom I loved very much, was a moderate man, asyou well know.

And so am I. Sadly, there are those in thegroup he founded, The Return, who have not held to those principles. There is a faction within it now that lS embracing violence. I cannot and will not condone that. I have spoken up many times in the pastyear, made my feelings clear. In consequence of this I know that once again my life is in danger--this time from within my own organization. They tried to eliminate me last week by blowing up my plane at Madrid airport.

There has been too much killing in the Middle East over theyears. It must come to an end . Palestinuans and Israelis must learn to live together. And in peace. Terrorism is foul. It must be outlawed, once and for all.

I know my time is limited now, a few weeks, a couple of months at the most.

And before I due there is something I must do to help the innocents in the Mutdle East. Arab and Jew alike. For the past tenyears I have manaed the f nancual affairs of my father's organization, and bnlliantly, if I say so myself. Today thefunds belongin0 to thegroup total three hundred million U. S. dollars. That money is deposited in a numbered account in a bank in Zurich. I want that money used for thegood of the Middle East, notfor killing and mayhem. Only I know the number of the account and which bank it is in. This is the International Bank of Zurich. You will also know the number of my account if you think of my favorite childhood toy. The name of that toy is the number. I want you and Philip to go to Zurich the day you receive this letter. Take the money out of the International Bank of Zurich and deposit it in another Swiss bank, using a numbered accountagain.

Inventyour own number.

I wantyou and Philip to use that money to help the children of the Muddle East, to help ease their sufferin. And it must be used for all children, no matter their race, creed or color.

I know you can never forgive me, Mother, butI do hope you will think more kindly of me one day. I have always loved you.

Charles Nicky held the letter in her hand, and looked across at Anne.

"May Clee read it?"

"Of course, I would like him to."

Clee did so, and then silently handed the letter back to Nicky, who quietly sat holding it. Finally she said, "Did you remember the favorite childhood toy, Anne?"

"Of course I did. His rocking horse. It's still upstairs in the old nursery. Charles called the horse Foxy. If you take the letters that make up the name and give each one a number, working on the principle that the letter A is number one, then you have 6152425."

"Did you go to Zurich?" Nicky asked.

"Oh yes, that very day. I drove up to London immediately. Philip and

I took an afternoon flight, and we visited the bank on Friday morning."

"Was the number correct?" Nicky knew the answer from the look on

Anne's face.

"Yes," Anne said.

Philip now explained, "We withdrew the money from the account, received a cashier's check for the three hundred million U. S. dollars and went to another bank, where we opened an account and deposited the check.

We want to create a fund with it, and we plan to build hospitals, canteens and schools for the children of the Middle East, just as

Charles wanted. Yes, you can be damned sure it's going to be done."

Nicky turned to Anne. "It was an act of redemption on Charles's part, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was, Nicky."

"Can you ever forgive him?"

"I think so . . . perhaps . . . in time."

Later, after tea, Nicky and Clee went upstairs to the lavender-and gray bedroom where they had slept last night.

As she packed the few items of clothing they had brought with them she said to Clee, "Thanks for coming with me. You've been wonderful . "

''you are glad you came now, aren't you, Nick?"

She zipped the bag, lifted it off the bed and took it to the door.

"Yes, I am," she said. "And I'm grateful to you for making me. I almost lost my nerve at the last minute."

He stood up from his chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Nicky Wells lose her nerve. Never!"

She smiled. "But I did. You gave me the courage to face Anne, to tell her that Charles was dead."

"You owed her that, Nicky, in view of the relationship you have with her, all she had meant to you, still means, and the kind of woman she is--a wonderful woman."

And then he added, a little ruefully, "God knows if we'll ever get to Provence at this rate--there's always something preventing us from going down there. Problems at my office, Yoyo arriving, and now all this."

"Oh, don't let's worry about Provence," she murmured, looking into his eyes. "We've got the rest of our lives to go to the farm ." A huge smile spread across his face. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"

"Yes, I'm saying yes."

378 1l 379 He hugged her, then held her away from him. His smile grew bigger, and he exclaimed, "But if you marry me you'll be living in Paris. What about your big career in American television?"

She laughed, and shrugged her shoulders lightly. "I'm going to let Arch worry about that. He'll find a way to work it all out."

Clee bent forward and kissed her. "I promise you I'll be the best husband."

"That means a lot, coming from a man who's a bachelor at heart, like you."

"Not anymore I'm not. Come on, let's go!"

Downstairs, Anne and Philip were waiting for them in the small entrance hall, and Anne said, "Your car just arrived, but you've plenty of time to get to Heathrow, so don't worry, you won't miss your plane."

"Thanks for everything, Anne," Nicky said, embracing her. Against her hair, she murmured, "I'm going to marry Clee."

Anne gently extricated herself from Nicky's arms and looked deep into her bright blue eyes. Her own, so similar in color, filled with sudden tears. She smiled through them and said, "I'm so happy for you, Nicky darling. And it's I who should be thanking you for being such a good friend--" Philip said, "I couldn't help but hear what you said, Nicky.

Congratulations to both of you." He shook Clee's hand, and then opening his arms to Nicky, he said, "Thank you for caring enough to come and tell us everything, Nicky."

"It was the only thing I could do."

The four of them went outside and said their good-byes, and Nicky and Clee got into the car. The driver turned on the ignition and they rolled slowly down the gravel driveway, heading for the huge front gates. When they came to the bend in the corner, Nicky looked back.

Anne and Philip were still standing on the steps, waving, and behind them, glimmering in the fading afternoon light, was Pullenbrook. The first time I came here, Nicky thought, I fell in love with a fascinating man, an extraordinary woman and a great house, which might have been my home one day. I thought my life was going to be here with them. It was not meant to be, and I'll probably never come back. But I'm leaving a little bit of my heart here, and I'll always remember .

. . everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD was born in Leeds, Yorkshire, and was a reporter for The rorkshire Evening Post at sixteen. By the age of twenty she had graduated to London's Fleet Street as both editor and columnist. In 1979 she wrote her first novel, A Woman of Substance, and that enduring best-seller was followed by five others, Voice of the Heart, Hold the Dream, Act of Will, To Be the Best, and The Women in His Life. The first five have been made into television miniseries.

Her novels have been published in eighty-two countries and twenty-four languages, with more than thirty-five million copies in print.

Mrs. Bradford lives in New York City with her husband, film producer Robert Bradford. the end.