fter helping her into the back of the car, the driver gave her an envelope. Sitting comfortably against the leather seat, Tessa looked at the envelope on which Jean-Claude had written: Madame Tessa Fairley.

She gazed for a moment at the handwriting, admiring it. His penmanship was beautiful, she thought–bold and flowing. Opening it, she took out the note. Dear Tessa: he had written, The chauffeur will take you to my home. If I am a few minutes late my houseman Hakim will serve you refreshment. JCD.

After reading the note again, she put it in her handbag and glanced out of the window, wondering where he lived. But the driver had not volunteered any information and she decided not to ask. There had been many questions on the tip of her tongue this morning, when she had had breakfast with Lorne, but she had resisted asking them. She wanted to find out about this man herself; the opinions of others were not important, not even Lorne’s. In any case, she knew her brother would not say anything about the writer that was not laudatory because he was an old friend, a man Lorne much admired.

Tessa straightened the black linen tunic she was wearing over matching narrow trousers, and settled herself comfortably in the corner of the car seat. Uncertain of where they would be going to lunch, she had chosen this simple tailored outfit because it could go anywhere–to a bistro or a much more elegant restaurant. A pair of pearl studs and a pearl-and-gold flower pin on the shoulder added a certain chic, and yet all could be removed and put in her bag if it was necessary to play down the outfit.

The heat had hit her when she had come out of the hotel, and now she was glad she was wearing the sleeveless linen top and strappy sandals on her bare feet. It was obviously going to be a sizzler, this last day of August, and the black linen was cool and comfortable.

As the car pushed through the traffic, Tessa began to realize that they were more than likely heading to her favourite part of Paris, the seventh arrondissement, and sure enough it was not very long before the driver was turning onto the rue de Babylone. He eventually came to a stop in front of an old, turn-of-the-century building with a massive porte-cochère, those huge wooden doors where horse-drawn carriages used to pass through into the courtyard in days gone by.

After helping her out of the car, the driver indicated the small door cut into one side of the porte-cochère, and bid her goodbye. She smiled, thanked him and went through the door into the cobbled courtyard of the building, which obviously had once been a hôtel particulier, a grand house in the past before it became apartments.

The concierge of the building immediately stepped out of his small office, greeted her pleasantly and asked how he could help her. She told him that Monsieur Deléon was expecting her, and he nodded, led her into the apartment building and showed her to a pair of double-mahogany doors to the right of the small cage-like lift that went up to apartments on other floors.

Thanking him, she walked over to the doors, rang the bell and waited; a moment later one side of the double doors was opened by a smiling middle-aged man in a white butler’s jacket. From his olive skin and dark hair she thought that he was probably North African.

‘Madame, bonjour,’ he said at once, opening the door wider, ushering her into the apartment. ‘I am Hakim,’ he added in accented English.

‘Bonjour, Hakim,’ Tessa replied, her high heels clicking rat-a-tat as she followed him across the marble floor of the entrance foyer.

Showing her into a large room that was obviously a library, Hakim said, ‘Madame…un apéritif?’ and added, by way of explanation, ‘Monsieur sera de retour dans dix minutes.’

‘Un verre d’eau, s’il vous plaît,’ Tessa murmured.

Left alone, Tessa surveyed the library from the doorway, not moving for a moment, taking everything in eagerly, wanting to know as much as possible about Jean-Claude Deléon, and his home would certainly tell her much, she knew that.

The library was unlike any room she had ever seen, and quite extraordinary, very beautiful in an understated, rather masculine way. It had enormous elegance and bespoke great taste, especially evident in the antiques, which looked like museum pieces to her.

Basically, it was a monochromatic room based on a play of soft creams and beiges, and this mix of pale colours made a subtle background for the ripe and mellow wood tones of the various antique pieces.

The creamy walls matched the full-length cream-wool draperies at the windows and the cream-and-beige upholstered sofas and chairs, while the highly polished wood floor shone like glass and was totally devoid of rugs, which added to the lustre of the room, not to mention its elegance.

From where she was standing in the entrance Tessa faced two tall windows at the far end. A large mahogany antique desk stood in front of the windows and it was partnered with a mahogany chair which she thought was from the French Empire period. On the desk were a pair of gilded-wood column lamps with square black shades, and various other things she couldn’t quite make out from this distance, except for the back of a tall clock.

Glancing to her left, Tessa saw that this wall was dominated by an imposing white marble fireplace over which hung a trumeau, an antique mirror. The main seating arrangement was grouped in front of the fireplace and was composed of four Louis XV bergères and two matching sofas. They surrounded a glass coffee table, which did not seem out of place to her at all amongst the antique furniture.

On the opposite wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases made of dark polished wood; these ran the entire length of the room, and were filled to overflowing with hundreds and hundreds of volumes. Just in front of the bookshelves was a lovely eighteenth-century library table, and in one corner, to her right, stood a guéridon, an antique pedestal table, and next to it a straight-backed chair and a standing lamp.

At this moment Hakim reappeared, arriving on silent feet with her glass of water, and after taking it and thanking him she walked down to the windows and stood looking out.

Much to her surprise there was a wide terrace immediately outside the windows, and, beyond, a lawn and flower beds filled with white flowers; growing against a high stone wall were a variety of large trees, shrubs and bushes, all creating a lovely green bower, welcome shade on a hot day like this. Underneath the trees were several metal garden chairs, and she couldn’t help thinking what a lovely spot this was in the very heart of Paris. Such a luxury, a garden in the city.

Hakim now came out onto the terrace and began to set the table, and she suddenly understood that she and Jean-Claude were going to have lunch here and not in a restaurant, and this pleased her.

Turning around she glanced at the desk. The antique clock was by the famous Paris clockmaker, Le Roy et Fils; there was an elaborate gilded-bronze box close to it, two crystal paper knives with bronze-filigree decoration on the handles, and a black leather desk blotter with white blotting paper untouched by ink. And that was it. There was a paucity of clutter on the desk, which looked elegant and masculine in its pristine state.

Walking down the room, she went to look at the books on the shelves. So many philosophers…Descartes, Aristotle, Plato, Sophocles; books by such French writers as Victor Hugo, Celine, André Malraux, Jean-Paul Sartre, Emile Zola and Colette; volumes of French, English and American history; some of her own favourite novels by Dickens, the Brontë sisters and Jane Austen. Politics were covered from all aspects, as the different books by Charles de Gaulle, Winston Churchill, and others attested. There were a variety of political biographies about Churchill, John Major, De Gaulle, John Kennedy, Ronald Reagan and Roosevelt, and histories of Napoleon, Talleyrand, Nelson, the Duke of Marlborough, and Cromwell, as well as Elizabeth Tudor and Charles II. And, she noticed, a collection of Churchill’s famous rhetorical speeches from the Second World War years, plus his History of the English Speaking Peoples in its many volumes.

Every religion was represented, with books on Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism and Islam. In fact, she realized there were a lot of volumes on Islam lined up alongside a collection of newer books on terrorism. Next to these were volume after volume covering the hundreds of wars which had been fought over the centuries. Conversely, on yet another shelf, there were many novels which had been published recently, and she recognized a number of English titles with colourful jackets by well-known British authors.

Stepping further along, she stared at a number of art books stacked on a shelf, which featured the work of Renoir, Picasso, Manet, Monet, Degas, Gauguin, Turner, Constable, Gainsborough, Bernard Buffet, and Rodin. Resting on another shelf were books on the music of Massenet, Bizet, Ravel, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Puccini, and the operas of Wagner.

She couldn’t help wondering if he had read all of these books and decided it was more than likely that he had. She could not fail to understand that he had wide-ranging tastes as well as an interest in art and music.

Having sipped most of the water, Tessa looked about and finally went and put the half-empty tumbler on the glass coffee table, deeming it to be the safest place in a room full of valuable antiques.

Now she began to wander around, looking at the art on the walls. An arresting portrait of Napoleon, and another of Napoleon and Josephine together, were hanging side by side to the right of the mirror over the fireplace, and on the other side there was a lovely painting of an elegant woman in a blue dress that appeared to be very old, and she wondered if it was by Ingres. It looked as if it might be. On either side of the door leading to the foyer were framed antique panels, each one of a man and a woman in seventeenth-century clothing, depicting autumn and winter, she thought. Old, and unusual, in the style of Fragonard.

Finally, she returned to the fireplace and allowed her eyes to roam, assessing the overall effects as they ranged around the entire room. Taking in everything once more, she acknowledged that this library was a room not only of taste and refinement, but a reflection of the extraordinary man who occupied it. A brilliant man who was highly educated, cultured, an intellectual and a philosopher, a man of immense accomplishment.

Suddenly she heard his footsteps coming across the foyer. A second later he was standing in the doorway, regarding her. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt, and as he stood there looking at her so intently he struggled with his tie, loosened it, as if it were too tight for him. And then he walked towards her.

An unexpected attack of nerves made her tremble inside, and she was frozen to the spot, unable to move. She was taken by surprise when she realized she was curiously intimidated.

He came to a standstill in front of her and stretched out his hand. She took it. He brought her hand up to his mouth, barely brushed his lips against it, and let it go.

‘My apologies. I kept you waiting,’ he said.

‘That’s all right,’ she answered, swallowing, wondering why her mouth was so dry.

Jean-Claude stepped away from her, explaining, as he did, ‘Would you excuse me, please. I want to put on different clothes…more comfortable. Je reviens tout de suite.’

And then he was gone again, and she was alone once more, and she sat down heavily on one of the bergères, feeling slightly weak at the knees as she waited for him to return.

Jean-Claude moved rapidly across the foyer, went up the staircase to the next floor, taking the steps two at a time, and hurried into his bedroom. After quickly shedding his clothes, he put on a clean white cotton shirt, rolled up the sleeves, went into a walk-in closet and found a pair of beige cotton trousers. Once he was dressed, he slipped his bare feet into a pair of brown loafers, feeling much better already. The attire he had worn for the meeting at the presidential palace had been stifling on this hot morning, and he was glad to be rid of it.

Walking across his bedroom, he picked up the phone and dialled Lorne Fairley on his cell-phone number.

Lorne answered it almost immediately with a brisk, ‘Hello?’

‘C’est moi,’ Jean-Claude said. ‘I am now at my home. Tessa is here, and we shall take lunch in the garden.’

‘That’s a good idea, Jean-Claude, I don’t think it would be wise for her to be seen in Paris with another man, although I’m sure two Englishmen wouldn’t stray into your world, but you never know.’

‘I have a question. I forgot to ask you earlier.’

‘Ask me now.’

‘Is the presence of her husband a coincidence? Or is he stalking her, perhaps? Should I get security for Tessa, to be sure she is safe?’

‘That’s not necessary, but thanks for thinking of it. I’m pretty certain Mark Longden’s in Paris to report in. Actually, he’s probably been summoned by Ainsley.’

‘Bien. I understand. And be relaxed, Lorne, she is safe with me. I will stay in touch with you…and you must do the same.’

‘I will, and thanks, Jean-Claude. Remember, don’t say a thing to Tessa. If she knows Longden’s in Paris she’ll be upset.’

‘Not a single word. Au revoir, mon ami.’ Once he had hung up Jean-Claude crossed to the chair where he had thrown his jacket, retrieved his cell-phone, and slipped it into his trousers’ pocket, then proceeded into the bathroom.

After washing his hands, he slapped cold water onto his face, patted it dry, added cologne, and ran a comb through his hair. Once he had refreshed himself he turned away from the basin, but instantly turned back, stared at himself in the mirror. It struck him that he looked tired, a little weary today.

Am I too old for her? he asked himself, pausing to ponder this for a moment, seeing Tessa Fairley in his mind’s eye. He sighed deeply. He had long understood that the question of age did not play in matters like this–matters of the heart.

He felt as if his life had been turned upside down since meeting her last night. Nothing was the same anymore. Even though he had been very concentrated at the meeting at the Élysées Palace earlier, there had been a moment when his thoughts had strayed to her and, embarrassed, he had had to pull himself up short.

What to do about her? How to handle this whole situation? He who was always so adept at handling every kind of problem was suddenly at a total loss.

I will let it handle itself…I will simply let it come at me like a speeding train. What else is there to do?

Striding through the bedroom he did not pause, but went into the corridor and down the stairs. And as he walked back into the library a moment later he acknowledged that matters were out of his hands. He was a man and she was a woman and something intimate, profound and deeply moving had passed between them last night…He must let things take their course.