"What of Laure's mother?"
"She was a ... passing fancy. She didn't want to have the baby, but I convinced her to carry it to term. I paid all of her expenses and gave her a large lump sum for her trouble. I don't believe she ever saw Laure. The doctors told her the baby probably would not live, and she left. I brought Laure home with me.
"I wasn't poor. My family was more than comfortable. But it wasn't enough, not if I wanted my baby to live. So I used my entree into the Parisian upper crust to both provide contacts and protect my efforts. Don't look at me with such heartbreak in your eyes, my dear. I'm not gallant or tragic, I'm ruthless and pragmatic. My one true vulnerability is my daughter, and for her I am putty, as you saw. She can be quite ruthless in handling me, a quality she doubtless inherited from me."
"The heartbreak is for her, not you," Niema said tartly. "You made your choice."
"I would make the same choice again, as I told you before. And you might do the same." He eyed her, a cynical smile hovering on his mouth. "You never know what you might do until your child is involved."
She couldn't argue with that, not if she were honest. She wasn't the type of person who could accept, without a fight, her child's death sentence. If possible she would move heaven and earth, and if it wasn't possible she would try anyway. That was what Ronsard had done. Though she didn't agree with his path, his reaction was the same as hers would have been.
He set the glass down with a decisive thunk and got to his feet. He ran his fingers through his loosened hair and worked his shoulders as if loosening tense muscles. "I have a hundred guests waiting for me," he said. "Perhaps I should begin fulfilling my duties as host. But I wanted you to meet Laure, and ... know that part of me. Thank you for taking the time to show her about the makeup. I had no idea."
"How could you?" Niema's heart broke all over again, thinking of the young girl who wanted to look her best when she died.
"I forbid you to cry."
She squared her shoulders. "I'm not crying. But I will if I want to, and you can't stop me."
He held up his hands. "I surrender. Come, let's rejoin the party."
As they left his private wing, a tall, blonde Valkyrie of a woman approached. "I hate to disturb you," she said to Ronsard. Her accent was pure American. "But several details have come up that need your attention."
He nodded. "Niema, this is Cara Smith, my secretary. Cara, Niema Jamieson. Will you excuse me, my dear?" he asked Niema. "Duty calls."
"Certainly." Niema watched him stride off down the stairs, with Cara half a step behind him. She noted the direction in which he went; his office must be on the first floor, then, and in the west wing.
She ached with sympathy for both him and Laure. That would not, however, get in the way of her doing her job.
She walked casually in the same direction, but by the time she crossed the huge central foyer he wasn't in sight. They had disappeared through one of several doors, and it would be too obvious if she walked through the villa opening all the doors.
But at least she now had a general idea of his office's location. She would try to get him to give her a guided tour of the main floor, and surely he would indicate which room was his office.
Tomorrow, John would arrive. If she already had the location, they could possibly plant the bug and copy Ronsard's files tomorrow night.
Anticipation zinged through her. John would be here tomorrow.
Chapter Eighteen
It was ten o'clock at night when John drove up to Ronsard's estate. The grounds were so well-lit that he could see the glow from several miles away. The curving drive led him to a set of double gates, which remained closed as he approached. When he stopped, a uniformed guard came out to shine a flashlight in John's face, ask his name, and see his identity. Silently John reached inside his tuxedo jacket and produced his ID. He didn't give his name verbally, an omission that made the guard glance sharply at him, then step away to speak into the two-way radio he carried.
A moment later, he gave a signal and the gates swung open. The signal, John surmised, meant that the guard on the outside couldn't open the gates himself. He had to give the okay to someone else inside, which eliminated the chance that he could be overpowered and access gained to the estate.
He gave John another hard look as he leaned down to return the identification to him. John returned the look without expression, then drove through the gates.
He stopped the car in front of a massive curving entry and got out. Immediately a pair of red-jacketed valets approached; one got out his luggage, while the other gave him a ticket, got into the car, and drove it away. It would probably receive a thorough search while it was in their possession, John thought. His luggage, too.
Let them search. They wouldn't get any information from it, not even his fingerprints. He had carefully sprayed his fingertips with a clear-coat gel that hardened and provided a smooth finish. It was thin and very nearly undetectable to the touch and would come off when he washed his hands with hot water. A cold-water wash wouldn't disturb the gel.
The spray was a vast improvement over the methods he had used in the past; sometimes he would dip his fingertips into puddles of melted wax, but the wax wasn't very durable. For a brief job or an emergency, however, it would do. Another trick was to paint his fingertips with a thick application of clear fingernail polish, but he had to have time for it to dry or that was useless. Band-Aids wrapped around each finger were a quick and effective method of hiding his prints, but someone with bandages on every finger was noticeable-at least, if that someone was over three years old.