"This is different." She explained, looking as though what she said made sense. "These are dancers."

"Do they eat differently than everyone else?"

"Don't be silly." He wasn't silly. He was just tired of the endless aggravation. "I'll call you tonight when I get home."

"Don't bother." He walked out of the bathroom, picked up a cigarette on his dresser, and lit it. He rarely smoked, but when she upset him particularly, it seemed to ease the tension, or add to it, he was never quite sure which, but it did something.

"John," she said, smiling angelically at him as she brushed her hair with his hairbrush, "don't be childish. I'd take you along, but they're all dancers. No one brings outsiders to these events. You know"-she smiled and for the first time he saw something vengeful in her eyes-"kind of like when you visit your family in Boston." So that was it. Or part of it anyway. Well, to h.e.l.l with her games, and her dancers. "Will I see you tomorrow night?" She hesitated doe-like in the bedroom.

"Possibly. I have a lot of work to do on Monday."

She walked over to him with her firm, lithe body straining against his and kissed him hard on the lips which visibly aroused him. He was standing naked in his bedroom doorway. "I love you." She had a way of taunting him that he half loved and half hated, and before he could say anything to her, she was gone, and he wanted to scream in frustration.

For lack of anything better to do, he called his younger brother, and spent the day in Greenwich with them, playing doubles with Pattie and Philip and their son, and swimming in the pool with their daughter. It was a relaxed, easy day, and he was always embarra.s.sed to admit to himself, as he did on the drive home, how intensely they bored him. But they were decent people, and they were family after all, and it had been a pleasant escape from New York and the reminders of Sasha.

The phone was ringing when he got home, but he didn't answer it. He didn't want to hear about Dominique and Pascal and Pierre and Andre and Josef and Ivan or any of the others. He was sick to death of them all, and even a little bit of Sasha. And the next morning, he went to Arthur's law firm and went through the files of George Gorham's estate himself after Arthur gave him carte blanche, and he found exactly what he had wanted. Arthur could have found it himself, years before, if he had looked. The last contact they had had with Margaret Millington Gorham was in 1962, at which time she was already the Comtesse de Borne and living on the rue de Varenne in Paris. There had been no contact since then, but she couldn't be too hard to find. And a search of the Paris telephone directory that afternoon showed her still living at the same address, listed as Borne, P. de, and the address was the same one. Now if she was only still alive and could tell him where Alexandra was, he'd be in business.

Chapter 19.

"Not again!" Sasha looked outraged, but he was unmoved this time. Business was business. "What did you do, get a job with the airlines?" She was incensed. This was his third trip in as many weeks.

"I won't be gone long." Things were a little cooler between them than they had been.

"Where to this time?"

He smiled. Jacksonville it wasn't. "Paris. At least my working conditions are pleasant." She didn't answer him at first and then she shrugged. For all she knew he was lying and flying all over with a.s.sorted girlfriends. He had certainly never done all this traveling before. It seemed odd that he was suddenly doing "the legwork" himself, as he'd told her. "I should be back by Friday. Monday at the latest."

"Have you forgotten? I go out on tour next week for three weeks. I won't see you till I get back. Unless you want to fly in to see me one night." But he knew what that was like, a whole troupe of dancers completely hysterical and on edge, and Sasha barely coherent enough to acknowledge his existence.

"That's all right, I'm going to be busy too." But they wouldn't see each other for a month. A year ago that would have worried him. Now he thought it might be a relief, for him at least. Her obsession with her work was beginning to oppress him.

They slept side by side that night, without making love, and he dropped her off at her apartment the next morning on his way to the airport.

"I'll see you when you get back." He kissed her on the mouth, and she smiled up at him looking very innocent and pure.

"Have a good trip. I'll miss you." Unusually kind words for her, ordinarily she would have been predicting the weather from the pain in her feet. And her sudden gentleness made him sorry to see her go. The problem with her was that she really had no idea how totally egocentric she was. To her, it seemed perfectly normal.

He waved at her from the cab, and promised to call from Paris as they rounded the corner, and a moment later, he sat lost in thought, wondering what he was going to find in Paris. Surely not a life like Hilary's if Margaret Gorham had married a French count. At least he hoped not.

At Arthur's request, he flew first cla.s.s, and his flight landed in Paris at midnight, local time. He went directly to the Hotel Bristol after clearing customs, and was in bed by two o'clock, but he was too tired to sleep, and it was five A.M. A.M. before he fell asleep, and he was horrified to discover that it was eleven o'clock when he woke up the next morning. He instantly jumped out of bed, ordered coffee and croissants, and dialed Margaret's number, before taking his shower. before he fell asleep, and he was horrified to discover that it was eleven o'clock when he woke up the next morning. He instantly jumped out of bed, ordered coffee and croissants, and dialed Margaret's number, before taking his shower.

He asked for the Comtesse de Borne when the phone was answered by a male voice, speaking French, and stumbled in his limited French when the butler asked him "De la part de qui, monsieur?" He gave him his name but was unable to translate the words but she doesn't know me. but she doesn't know me. But whatever was said at her end, she was on the phone with him a moment later. But whatever was said at her end, she was on the phone with him a moment later.

"Monsieur Chapote?" she said in French with a heavy American accent, sounding puzzled.

"Sorry." He smiled. He liked her voice. "John Chapman, from New York."

"Good G.o.d. Andre can never get American names. Do I know you?" She was blunt and direct, and there was something in her voice that suggested quick laughter.

"No, ma'am. I'm here on a business matter I'd like to discuss with you at your earliest convenience." He had no intention of telling her over the phone though.

"Oh." She sounded a little startled. "All my business matters are handled in New York." She told him the name of the firm. "Except my husband's of course. Is this about an investment?"

"No." He didn't want to frighten her, but he had to tell her something. "Actually, it's a little more personal than that. It's about an investigation I'm conducting for a partner of your late husband's."

"Pierre? But he didn't have any partners." It was a very confusing conversation.

"I'm sorry. I meant Mr. Gorham."

"Oh poor George ... but that was so long ago. He died in 1958 ... that was thirty years ago, Mr.... er ... Chapman."

"I understand that, and this goes back an awfully long time."

"Was there anything wrong?" She sounded worried.

"Not at all. We were just hoping you could help us find someone. It would be a great help to us if you could. But I'd rather not go into the entire matter over the phone. If you could spare me a few moments, I would like very much to see you. ..."

"All right." But she sounded uncertain. She wished she could ask Pierre, or someone, if they thought she should see this man. What if he were a charlatan, or a criminal of some kind ... not that he sounded like it. "Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Chapman? And the name of your firm in New York?"

He smiled. She was right to check him out. "Chapman a.s.sociates on Fifty-seventh Street. My name is John Chapman. What time would you like to meet?"

"Eleven o'clock?" She wanted to get this meeting out of the way. He was beginning to make her nervous. But when she checked him out with her attorneys in New York, they knew the firm, and her attorney was even personally acquainted with John Chapman, and he a.s.sured her that he was entirely aboveboard. He just couldn't imagine what Chapman was doing, speaking to Margaret de Borne in Paris.

He arrived punctually the next morning, and the elderly butler let him in with a subdued bow, and then led him upstairs to wait in the countess's formal study. It was a room filled with beautiful Louis XV furniture, and a tiny Russian chandelier with what looked like a million crystals that caught the sunlight shining into the room and cast it into a myriad of rainbows against the walls. It was the prettiest thing John had ever seen, and he didn't even hear her come in, as he stared at the beautiful lights, and the lovely garden in the distance.

"Mr. Chapman?" She was tall and elegant, with a firm handshake and a strong voice, and the look in her eyes was warm and friendly. She was wearing a yellow Chanel suit, and their cla.s.sic shoes, and a beautiful pair of yellow diamond earrings that had been a gift from her late husband. She smiled warmly at John and waved at one of the room's larger chairs. Most of them were extremely small and not very inviting, which always made her smile. She laughed as they both sat down. "I'm afraid none of these pieces were designed for people of our proportions. I don't use this room very often. It was designed as a 'lady's study,' and I've never quite gotten the hang of it. My six-year-old granddaughter is the only person I know who looks comfortable here. My apologies."

"Not at all, Countess. It's lovely." It seemed odd to be calling her that, particularly with her easy smile and happy laughter, but he thought she might have expected the formality, and he wanted her as his ally. "I'm afraid I'm here on a rather sensitive matter. I've been hired by Arthur Patterson." He waited for the name to have an effect on her, but she didn't look as though she knew it. "He was a partner of Mr. Gorham's many years ago, and he was instrumental in bringing Alexandra Walker to you for adoption." He watched her eyes, and she suddenly looked as though she were going to faint. Her face went pale as she watched him. She waited for him to go on without saying a word. But it was obvious that she now remembered Arthur.

"He is very ill now, and for whatever reasons, all of them personal, I a.s.sume, he is anxious to find all three Walker girls. Their parents were close friends of his, and he feels an obligation to know that they're all right, before he ..." As he groped for the right word, she interrupted.

"Isn't it a little late, Mr. Chapman? They're certainly no longer children."

"I agree. But he seems to have let it go until the eleventh hour, and now he wants the rea.s.surance that they've had a good life."

"At whose expense?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She looked angry. And she stood up and began to pace the room, walking through the shower of rainbows. "At whose expense does he want that rea.s.surance? Surely those young women no longer care about Arthur Patterson, if they even knew him. And if they did, they won't remember him now. They were all very young children." Chapman's heart sank at the look in her eyes. It was obvious that she was prepared to do anything to keep him from her daughter. "What on G.o.d's earth does it matter? They're all grown up. They don't know him. They don't even know each other."

John Chapman sighed. In a way she was right. But he was working for Arthur. "That is part of the reason for my investigation." He spoke in a gentle voice, anxious to calm her down and show her that she could trust him. "Mr. Patterson wants to bring the sisters back together."

"Oh, my G.o.d." She sat down hard again, in one of the uncomfortable small Louis XV chairs. And then, with intransigence, "I won't allow it. What need is there to torture them? My daughter is thirty-five years old, G.o.d only knows how old the others are. Why would they want to discover two unknown sisters? It can only be an embarra.s.sment to them, not to mention painful. Do you know what the circ.u.mstances of their parents' deaths were, Mr. Chapman?" He nodded, and she went on, "So do I. But my daughter does not, and there is no need for her to know it. George and I loved her very much, like our own, and the count took her in as his own daughter. She has grown up as our child, with every advantage that could be given her, she has a happy life with a husband and children of her own. She does not need this heartache." Not to mention how she would keep it from her husband. The very thought terrified Margaret. Not only was she adopted but her real father had murdered murdered her mother. her mother.

"I understand that, but maybe she would like to meet her sisters ... it's possible ... maybe she has a right to make that choice herself. Does she know she's adopted?"

Margaret hesitated thoughtfully. "Yes. And no. We told her ... a long time ago ... but I'm not sure she remembers. It's no longer of any importance. To anyone, Mr. Chapman. I will not tell her about your visit."

"That's not fair to her." He spoke in a quiet voice. "And if you force me to, I'll find her. I would prefer it if you spoke to her, and explained the reason for my visit. I think that would be a lot easier for her."

Margaret de Borne's eyes filled with tears of anger. "That's blackmail. You're forcing me to tell her something that will make her very unhappy."

"If she doesn't wish to see them, she doesn't have to. She has a right to refuse to see them herself. No one can force her. But she has the right to choose. Maybe she'd like to see them."

"Why? Why after thirty years? What kind of people are they now? What does she have in common with them? Nothing." It was certainly true in the case of Hilary, but he didn't yet know about Megan. While Hilary was being kicked around and raped by her uncle and living in nightmarish foster homes, her sister was riding ponies in Paris. It seemed an unfair turn of fate, but at least one of them had been blessed, from all appearances, but it only made him ache more for Hilary. Life had not been kind to her for a single moment.

"Countess ... please ... help me make it easy for her. She has a right to know. And I have an obligation to tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"That she has two sisters somewhere in the world, and perhaps they want to see her."

"Have you found them yet?"

He shook his head. "No, but I think we will." He was being optimistic, but he didn't want to share his fears with her.

"Why don't you come back when you've found them."

"I can't afford to waste a moment. I've already told you, Mr. Patterson is dying."

"It's a shame he didn't die before he decided to ruin everyone's life." She sounded bitter and very angry. For years, she had shielded Alexandra from the truth, and now this stranger, this man was coming to hurt her. It made her want to kill him, and John felt sorry for her. She was a nice woman, and it was unfortunate that this was so upsetting for her.

"I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

She looked at him long and hard. "Perhaps you are. Can't you just tell him you couldn't find her?" John shook his head and she sighed.

"I'll have to think about this. It will come as a great shock to her, particularly if I have to tell her about her parents." But at least, John thought to himself, she was old enough to withstand it. She wasn't a young girl, or a child. Maybe it was just as well he had waited. "I'll be seeing her tomorrow for lunch. I'll speak to her about it then, if I find an appropriate moment."

He nodded. He couldn't ask for much more. "I'm at the Bristol. I would like to speak to her myself, after you've told her."

"She may not wish to see you, Mr. Chapman. In fact, I hope she doesn't." Margaret de Borne stood to her full height and did not hold out her hand, as she rang for the butler. "Thank you for your visit. Good day, Mr. Chapman."

"Thank you, Countess."

He was escorted downstairs by Andre, who wore a stern look of disapproval. It was obvious to him by the way the countess had said good-bye that John Chapman was persona non grata, and he treated him accordingly as he closed the door resoundingly behind him.

Chapter 20.

Alexandra found her mother, as usual, in the small flowery sitting room she preferred, but she was not doing needlepoint when she arrived, and most uncharacteristically, her mother was wearing a navy blue dress and very little jewelry.

"You look very serious today, Maman. Did you have a meeting at the bank this morning?" Alexandra kissed her warmly, and Margaret smiled up at her, but the smile looked distracted and halfhearted. She had barely slept the night before, after Chapman's visit that morning.

"No, no, I'm fine." Margaret said distractedly, and looked around the room, as though hoping for an escape. And Alexandra frowned, watching her.

"Is something wrong?" She hadn't seen her that nervous since her father died, and wondered if something had happened to upset her.

"No, just some unpleasant business meetings yesterday." She smiled nervously. "Nothing to worry about, darling. Ah, here's lunch." She looked enormously relieved, and dove into her salad, giving Alexandra the latest gossip she had heard at her hairdresser's, and it was a relief to Alexandra to hear her mother laughing. But it was obvious that she was troubled about something, and as the meal drew to a close, she fell strangely silent.

"Maman." She eyed her mother seriously. "What's bothering you? I can tell, something's wrong. Now what is it?" She hoped it wasn't her health. She was remarkably youthful, but nonetheless. And then suddenly she worried that that was why she had just gone to New York the week before. Perhaps it was to see a doctor, and not go shopping. She had brought back marvelous things for the girls, and a beautiful new Galanos for Alexandra.

But Margaret only looked at her mournfully, wishing she had never heard of John Chapman. She took a deep breath, and waited while Andre poured their coffee, and then discreetly left the room. Not that it mattered, he was terribly deaf, and spoke no English. But nonetheless, Margaret waited.

"I had a rather unpleasant visit yesterday. Sort of a ghost from the past." She looked at her daughter, and her eyes filled with tears, and Alexandra was shocked. She had never seen her mother look so worried.

"What kind of a ghost?"

"Ohhh ..." Margaret dragged her feet, unable to find her footing. And she looked at her daughter and dabbed at her eyes. "I don't know where to begin. It's such a long and confusing story." She blew her nose discreetly in a lace handkerchief she'd had tucked in her sleeve, and held out a hand to Alexandra. Alexandra moved closer to her, and held her mother's hand tightly in her own. It was obvious that whatever the news from this man had been, it had been ghastly. Margaret was looking up at her and fighting back tears as Alexandra gently stroked her hand to rea.s.sure her. "Do you remember a long time ago, a very long time ago, before I married Pierre?"

"Not really, Maman." It was all a distant blur now. She supposed if she tried very hard, she might remember something. "Why? What is it that I'm supposed to remember?"

"Do you remember that I was married to someone before your father? I mean before Pierre ..." It was going to be just as difficult as she expected, and Alexandra narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, and then nodded.

"Yes ... sort of ... I suppose that was my real father ... but to be honest I don't remember him. All I remember is Papa."

Margaret nodded. That's what she had always thought. "Well, I was married before, and that was obvious because I think you might remember that Pierre adopted you right after we got married."

Alexandra smiled at the dim memory. She had almost forgotten, until her mother jogged her memory. But now she vaguely remembered. They had gone to a lawyer's office, and the mairie mairie, and then they had all gone to lunch at Maxim's to celebrate. It had been the happiest day of her life ... and it was odd that in a way she had forgotten. "You know, it's funny. I think I'd almost forgotten I was adopted." And then she blushed. "I suppose I should have told Henri, but I never really thought it was important. And Papa said ..." They both knew what Pierre had told her. And she had instinctively sensed that Henri would be very angry if he knew she were adopted. So she had never told him or allowed herself to remember.

"Your father thought of you that way. You were like his own flesh and blood ... and more ..." she added softly. And then she went on with her painful story. "But you were adopted"-she paused as though trying to gain courage-"not only by Pierre ... but by my previous late husband. We adopted you when you were almost six years old, your parents were both dead, and a partner of George's firm came and spoke to us about you ... and we fell in love with you the first time we saw you." The tears were pouring copiously down her cheeks and dripping on their clasped hands, as Alexandra stared at her. What was she saying? What did she mean? Margaret was not her mother? Suddenly, her arms went around Margaret, and she held her tight, as though afraid to lose her.

"I don't remember that part at all, I thought ... I always thought ... that you were my mother...." How could she have forgotten? ... How was it possible? ... Not that it really changed anything. But who had her parents been, and who was really her mother?

Margaret sniffed and blew her nose again. This was even harder than she had expected. "You were four or so when your parents died ... your mother anyway ... and your father died a few months later. You were left with an aunt, I believe, on your father's side, but she didn't feel able to keep all ... to keep you ..." She stumbled and went on. "So a friend of the family was looking for someone to adopt you. And you made us the happiest people in the world, and six months later George died, and we came to France, and you remember the rest after that." She was glossing over some of it, but Alexandra was still trying to digest the fact that Margaret wasn't her mother.

"How did my parents die?" There was a long silence as their eyes met and held, and Alexandra felt a chill go up her spine. She knew deep in her heart that something terrible had happened. Margaret closed her eyes and then opened them, speaking in a gentle voice.

"There was a terrible argument no one ever understood ... he was a famous actor on Broadway, and they said she was very beautiful ..."

"That's not what I asked you, Maman ..." The tears were pouring down Alexandra's cheeks as she waited. She knew, she already knew, that was the awful part, but now she needed to hear it from Margaret.

"Your father killed her."

Alexandra spoke in a haunted whisper, looking beyond her mother at the garden. "And my father committed suicide. They told me he had killed himself ..." Her hand flew to her lips and a sob escaped her, as Margaret took her in her arms and let her cry. "And I forgot ... I forgot all of it ... how could I forget that? ... and my mother had red hair ... and ... she spoke French, didn't she? Oh, my G.o.d ... but that's all I remember." And then she looked up at Margaret again, the pain of the memories etched on her face ravaged by the tears born of what she suddenly remembered. "Was she French?"

Margaret spoke with obvious pain as she answered. It was terrible beyond words, and she hated John Chapman and Arthur Patterson for visiting this on them so unnecessarily, so many years later. "I think she was French ... probably ..." And she probably had red hair, because Alexandra did, when she wasn't rinsing it blond to please her husband. And little Axelle looked so exactly as Alexandra had at the same age. It was like seeing her again as she had the first time each time Margaret saw her.