Diane gave him a long, pa.s.sionate kiss.

PARIS WAS A wonderland. Their first stop was at Givenchy, to buy outfits for both of them, then over to Louis Vuitton, to get luggage for all their new clothes.

They took a leisurely walk down the Champs-Elysees to the Place de la Concorde, and saw the storied Arc de Triomphe, and the Palais-Bourbon, and la Madeleine. They strolled along la Place Vendome, and spent a day at the Musee du Louvre. They wandered through the sculpture garden of the Musee Rodin and had romantic dinners at Auberge de Trois Bonheurs, and Au Pet.i.t Chez Soi, and D'Chez Eux.

The ONLY THING that seemed odd to Diane was the telephone calls Richard received at peculiar hours.

'Who was that?' Diane asked once, at 3 a.m., as Richard finished a phone conversation.

'Just routine business.'

In the middle of the night? Diane wondered.

'Diane! Diane!'

She was shaken out of her reverie. Carolyn Ter was standing over her. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm-I'm fine.'

Carolyn put her arms around Diane. 'You just need time. It's only been a few days.' She hesitated. 'By the way, have you made arrangements for the funeral?'

Funeral. The saddest word in the English language. It carried the sound of death, an echo of despair.

'I-I haven't-been able to-'

'Let me help you with it. I'll pick out a casket and-'

'No!' The word came out harsher than Diane had intended.

Carolyn was looking at her, puzzled.

When Diane spoke again, her voice was shaky. 'Don't you see? This is-this is the last thing I can ever do for Richard. I want to make his funeral special. He'll want all his friends there, to say goodbye.' Tears were running down her cheeks.

'Diane-'

'I have to pick out Richard's casket to make sure he-he sleeps comfortably.'

There was nothing more Carolyn could say.

That afternoon, Detective Earl Greenburg was in his office when the call came.

'Diane Stevens is on the phone for you.'

Oh, no. Greenburg remembered the slap in the face the last time he had seen her. What now? She probably has some new beef. He picked up the phone. 'Detective Greenburg.'

'This is Diane Stevens. I'm calling for two reasons. The first is to apologize. I behaved very badly, and I'm truly sorry.'

He was taken aback. 'You don't have to apologize, Mrs. Stevens. I understood what you were going through.'

He waited. There was a silence.

'You said you had two reasons for calling.'

'Yes. My husband's-' Her voice broke. 'My husband's body is being held somewhere by the police. How do I get Richard back? I'm arranging for his-his funeral at the Dalton Mortuary.'

The despair in her voice made him wince. 'Mrs. Stevens, I'm afraid that some red tape is involved. First, the coroner's office has to file a report on the autopsy and then it's necessary to notify the various-' He was thoughtful for a moment, then made his decision. Look-you have enough on your mind. I'll make the arrangements for you. Everything will be set within two days.'

'Oh. I-I thank you. Thank you very-' Her voice choked up and the connection was broken.

Earl Greenburg sat there a long time, thinking about Diane Stevens and the anguish she was going through. Then he went to work cutting red tape.

The Dalton Mortuary was located on the east side of Madison Avenue. It was an impressive two-story building with the facade of a southern mansion. Inside, the decor was tasteful and understated, with soft lighting and whispers of pale curtains and drapes.

Diane said to the receptionist, 'I have an appointment with Mr. Jones. Diane Stevens.'

'Thank you.'

The receptionist spoke into a phone, and moments later the manager, a gray-haired, pleasant-faced man, came out to greet Diane.

'I'm Ron Jones. We spoke on the phone. I know how difficult everything is at a time like this, Mrs. Stevens, and our job is to take the burden off you. Just tell me what you want and we will see that your wishes are carried out.'

Diane said uncertainly, 'I-I'm not even sure what to ask.'

Jones nodded. 'Let me explain. Our services include a casket, a memorial service for your friends, a cemetery plot, and the burial.' He hesitated. 'From what I read of your husband's death in the newspapers, Mrs. Stevens, you'll probably want a closed casket for the memorial service, so-'

'No!'

Jones looked at her in surprise. 'But-'

'I want it open. I want Richard to-to be able to see all his friends, before he . . .' Her voice trailed off.

Jones was studying her sympathetically. 'I see. Then if I may make a suggestion, we have a cosmetician who does excellent work where'-he said tactfully-'it's needed. Will that be all right?'

Richard would hate it, but-'Yes.'

'There's just one thing more. We'll need the clothes you want your husband to be buried in.'

She looked at him in shock. 'The-' Diane could feel the cold hands of a stranger violating Richard's naked body, and she shivered.

'Mrs. Stevens?'

I should dress Richard myself. But I couldn't bear to see him the way he is. I want to remember- 'Mrs. Stevens?'

Diane swallowed. 'I hadn't thought about-' Her voice was strangled. 'I'm sorry.' She was unable to go on.

He watched her stumble outside and hail a taxi.

When Diane returned to her apartment, she walked into Richard's closet. There were two racks filled with his suits. Each outfit held a treasured memory. There was the tan suit Richard had been wearing the night they met at the art gallery. I like your curves. They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet. Could she let go of that suit? No.

Her fingers touched the next one. It was the light gray sport jacket Richard had worn to the picnic, when they had been caught in the rain.

Your place or mine?

This isn't just a one-night stand.

I know.

How could she not keep it?

The pinstriped suit was next. You like French food. I know a great French restaurant....

The navy blazer . . . the suede jacket. . . Diane wrapped the arms of a blue suit around herself and hugged it. I could never let any of these go. Each of them was a cherished remembrance. 'I can't.' Sobbing, she grabbed a suit at random and fled.

The following afternoon, there was a message on Diane's voice mail: 'Mrs. Stevens, this is Detective Greenburg. I wanted to let you know that everything here has been cleared. I've talked to the Dalton Mortuary. You're free to go ahead with whatever plans you want to make. . . .' There was a slight pause. 'I wish you well. . . . Good-bye.'

Diane called Ron Jones at the mortuary. 'I understand that my husband's body has arrived there.'

'Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I already have someone taking care of the cosmetics, and we've received the clothes you sent. Thank you.'

'I thought-would this coming Friday be all right for the funeral?'

'Friday will be fine. By then we will have taken care of all the necessary details. I would suggest eleven a.m.'

In three days, Richard and I will be parted forever. Or until I join him.

On Thursday morning, Diane was busily preparing the final details of the funeral, verifying the long list of invitees and the pallbearers, when the telephone call came.

'Mrs. Stevens?'

'Yes.'

'This is Ron Jones. I just wanted to let you know that I received your paperwork and the change was made, just as you requested.'

Diane was puzzled. 'Paperwork-?'

'Yes. The courier brought it yesterday, with your letter.'

'I didn't send any-'

'Frankly, I was a little surprised, but, of course, it was your decision.'

'My decision-?'

'We cremated your husband's body one hour ago.'

CHAPTER 6.Paris, France KELLY HARRIS WAS a roman candle that had exploded into the world of fashion. She was in her late twenties, an African-American with skin the colour of melted honey and a face that was a photographer's dream. She had intelligent soft brown eyes, sensual full lips, lovely long legs, and a figure filled with erotic promise. Her dark hair was cut short in deliberate dishabille, with a few strands sprawling across her forehead. Earlier that year, the readers of Elle and Mademoiselle magazines had voted Kelly the Most Beautiful Model in the World.

As she finished dressing, Kelly looked around the penthouse, feeling, as always, a sense of wonder. The apartment was spectacular. It was on the exclusive Rue St.-Louis-en-Elle, in the Fourth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt of Paris. The apartment had a double-door entry that opened into an elegant hall with high ceilings and soft yellow wall panels, and the living room was furnished with an eclectic mixture of French and Regency furniture. From the terrace, across the Seine, was a view of Notre-Dame.

Kelly was looking forward to the coming weekend. Mark was going to take her out for one of his surprise treats.

I want you to get all dressed up, honey. You 're going to love where we're going.

Kelly smiled to herself. Her husband was the most wonderful man in the world. Kelly glanced at her wrist.w.a.tch and sighed. I had better get moving, she thought. The show starts in half an hour. A few moments later, she left the apartment, heading down the hallway toward the elevator. As she did so, the door of a neighbouring apartment opened and Madame Josette Lapointe came out into the corridor. A small b.u.t.terball of a woman, she always had a friendly word for Kelly.

'Good afternoon, Madame Harris.'

Kelly smiled. 'Good afternoon, Madame Lapointe.'

'You're looking beautiful, as always.'

'Thank you.' Kelly pressed the b.u.t.ton for the elevator.

A dozen feet away, a burly man in work clothes was adjusting a wall fixture. He glanced at the two women, then quickly turned his head.

'How is the modelling going?' Madame Lapointe asked.

'Very well, thank you.'

'I must come and see you in one of your fashion shows soon.'

'I'll be happy to arrange it anytime.'

The elevator arrived, and Kelly and Madame Lapointe stepped inside. The man in work clothes pulled out a small walkie-talkie, spoke hurriedly into it, and rapidly walked away.

As the elevator door started to close, Kelly heard the telephone ring in her apartment. She hesitated. She was in a hurry, but it could be Mark calling.

'You go ahead,' she said to Madame Lapointe.

Kelly stepped out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, found it, and ran back into her apartment. She raced to the ringing telephone and picked it up. 'Mark?'

A strange voice said, 'Nanette?'