Prologue

Angelique Durand huddled on the edge of a cold metal bench in the middle of a holding cell in a Parisian jail. She shivered, even though she wasn’t cold. In fact, the air was heavy and hot, full of the scents of cheap perfume, funky old sweat, and stale cigarette smoke.

The plugged up toilet in the back of the cell didn’t help matters.

Surrounded by hookers, drug dealers, and crack-heads, she was totally out of her element. No place could be further away from the world of high fashion, where she’d lived for the past year and a half. She wrapped her arms around her middle.

She’d thought the other models were her friends. She couldn’t believe they thought she was a thief.

Angelique was done with the fashion scene, which ended up being all flash and glitter, with nothing substantial. Once, if, she got out of this nightmare she swore she would start a brand new life, far, far away from the shiny, glossy designer runways of Paris.

“Mademoiselle Durand, you must come with me,” the police officer said to Angelique as she unlocked the door of the jail cell.

Angelique closed her eyes hoping to quell the dizziness that washed over her. She’d been in this cell in a Parisian maison d’arrêt since her arrest four days ago.

Arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.

She opened her eyes and lifted her chin. Whoever planted the fortune in diamond jewelry in her purse wanted to see Angelique humiliated and she was not going to give that person the satisfaction. As she shuffled to the door of her cell, she held out her wrists for the handcuffs.

“No need for that,” her jailer told her.

Just like that, in the time it would take to snap her fingers, hope flicked on in her breast. The officer led her up the stairs and into an office.

“Here she is, sir. Do you need me for anything else?”

The man seated behind the big desk in the center of the room shook his head. “Non, merci. You may go.”

The other man in the room stood and turned. “Angelique.”

And, le bon Dieu, it was Jacques Leblanc, her brother Lucien’s attorney here in Paris. Her knees buckled and Jacques caught her and led her to a chair and dropped her into it with great care. “Breathe,” he said, his voice soothing and kind.

“We are dropping all charges against you. You’re free to go,” pontificated the man behind the desk.

Angelique shook her head to clear her hearing. “The charges are dropped?”

“Yes. Someone who was in the models’ dressing room and saw someone put the jewels in your bag has come forward.”

Jacques lifted a box that held her things, her Chanel tote and her calfskin Louboutin heels. “May I change my shoes?” The sooner she got the ugly sneakers they’d made her put on when she’d first been arrested, the better.

He handed her the expensive stiletto heels as she toed off the offending footwear. She sighed as she slipped her feet into her own shoes.

“I’ve got orders from your brother to take you to his flat here in town. He’s unable to come right now due to problems with his London restaurant, so he wants you to stay put.”

“For how long?” For once she’d do what Lucien told her. If he wanted her to stay put, that’s exactly what she’d do. She grabbed her tote and hung it over her right shoulder. She fought the urge to make a quick trip to the ladies room to fix her make-up, even though she knew she must look a fright.

“I don’t know. We’ll find out when he calls. He pulled quite a few strings to get this mess smoothed over.”

Of course, he had. Lucien was the King of the String Pullers. Right that moment she wanted a shower, a glass of wine, and a soft bed to sleep in. She hadn’t slept since before her arrest. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Jacques nodded. “I’ve got a car waiting out front.”

Tears welled and prickled against her eyelids as relief flooded through her. Even though her future was uncertain, to say the least, she felt better than she had in a long time.

They walked through the doors to the outside and a burst of sunlight blinded her. She shielded her eyes against the onslaught. She gasped and her knees threatened to crumble underneath her again.

Cameras, there must have been hundreds of them, flashed brighter than a million suns along with clicking and whirring noises. Over it all, reporters and paparazzi shouted her name and waved their hands in the air, trying to get her attention.

Overwhelmed, she hung back as Jacques grabbed her arm and tried to plow through the restless throng. “Please stand aside. Mademoiselle Durand has no comment.”

“Over here, Angelique,” yelled the reporter closest to her. “Give us a smile, cherie!”

“No,” she shook her head and whispered as the world started to swoop and swirl around her.

“Hold on,” Jacque commanded and held her elbow tighter as he pushed his way through the camera-snapping crowd to the waiting limo.

She had to duck and bob to avoid flailing elbows, jutting camera lenses, and feet that threatened to trip her. Police officers jumped into the fray and tried to clear a path to the car.

The photographers wouldn’t stop coming, pushing toward her, all of them trying to get her attention.

Angelique couldn’t speak. She felt like she was the bait in a zombie movie, with the press of bodies against her and Jacques, the grasping hands pounding out a random, heavy beat; the clicks and whirrs of their cameras all made it impossible to think and made it impossible to get away.

A paparazzo stepped on her foot as another pressed against her legs from behind. Her legs, still none too steady, almost gave out as she twisted away from the camera lens in her face.

She wrenched her ankle and cried out as she fell. At the same moment, a camera lens the size of a small elephant crashed into her right cheek.

She raised her arms to protect herself from being crushed as tears exploded out of her eyes in a hot rush. Kicked in the ribs a couple of times, she heard people screaming obscenities and being shoved around.

Then it all stopped. For one terrifying second all she could hear was the clicking of cameras around her and her own weeping. Wetness spattered her face, wetness she assumed was her tears. She cracked her eyes open and found it wasn’t tears after all.

It was blood. Her face was covered in it as it gushed out of her cheek.

She screamed and that was the last thing she remembered.