EGGIE HEARD the horn toot from outside. She checked her watch. She was running late. She peered out her window and looked down on the street below. Shaw was sitting on his Vespa near her front door. He was dressed in khaki pants and a white cotton shirt he wore untucked. Loafers minus socks were on his feet. She tapped on the window, got his attention, and held up two fingers.

She hurriedly finished dressing and clipped on her earrings. Next she tidied her hair in the mirror, though it wouldn’t make much difference after the ride on the scooter. She smoothed down the front of her dress. She’d chosen a formfitting one because of their mode of transportation. She didn’t need a skirt billowing over her head as they raced along the rural roads of southern France.

Finishing with her lipstick, she hurried down the stairs. She locked the front door and waved to Shaw.

“You look terrific,” he said.

“That was the goal,” she shot back. “You look very handsome in a carefree sort of way. So unlike a lobbyist. I’m duly impressed.”

“Good, because that was my goal.”

She climbed on the back and took the helmet he handed her, strapping it on.

“Pretty scooter,” she said, stroking the pale blue metal.

“Best way to get around here. Hold on.”

She gripped him around the waist and leaned into his back. With her hands around his middle Shaw felt a burst of electricity rush down his spine. He even jerked a bit, it was so visceral.

“You okay?” she said.

“Fine. Just sore from all that paddling.” He hit the throttle and they sped off going about twenty kilometers an hour. When they reached the main road he accelerated to double that.

“Okay, where to?” he called over his shoulder.

“I’ll tap your back left or right,” she answered. He nodded to show he got that.

Fifteen minutes later they were chugging up a steep hill, the Vespa’s 125cc engine whining in protest. Shaw found a parking space and they lifted off their helmets and Shaw attached them to the bike. They walked up to the restaurant, which was only a half block away, and sat outside on a terrace overlooking the valley.

“Nice pick,” said Shaw as they eyed the vistas.

“The food is wonderful too,” she said.

They placed their orders and, from habit, each took a few moments to observe the tables around them. When they’d finished, their gazes settled on each other.

“So you’re divorced with two kids? Are they with their mother?”

“For now, but we share custody.”

Shaw broke off a bit of bread, soaked it in fresh olive oil, and then drank some of his wine. “How about you? All I know is you’re rich.”

She wrinkled up her nose. “That’s pretty much it. I’m involved in a few charities. Mostly I travel, looking for something, I guess. Just not sure what.” She took a sip of wine and tugged her hair behind her ear. She didn’t look at Shaw—her gaze eased past him. For some reason Reggie was having a hard time staying in character.

He said, “You look like you’re thinking way too hard. Just chill. You’re on holiday.”

She ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “So who do you think the people are renting the villa next to me?”

He shrugged. “I have an idea.”

She sat slightly forward, looking at him expectantly.

He noticed this and grinned. “Hey, no grand revelations, okay? I did check with the real estate office in town, but they don’t handle that listing and didn’t know anything.” Shaw wasn’t about to admit that he’d talked to the agent controlling the listing or that he knew she had too.

“Okay,” Reggie prompted. “And?”

“And I think it might be some political type. You know. They have an entourage. They send in security ahead of time. Stuff like that. I saw it all the time in D.C.”

Reggie sat back, trying not to look disappointed. “Or it might be somebody quite rich, even richer than me.”

“Right, right. Like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.”

“Or a mobster. You said the one guy looked really tough.”

“Well, even Bill Gates probably doesn’t hire wimpy-looking security. You want to look tough as a deterrent. Goes with the job.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see who shows up.”

Their food came and as they ate, the conversation turned to other subjects. They drove back to Gordes two hours later when the daylight was just beginning to run out completely. When Shaw turned onto the small side street leading to Reggie’s villa, a man dressed in a black suit and a white T-shirt stepped in front of them, blocking the way. Shaw had to stop so abruptly that Reggie bumped against him and almost slid off the scooter before righting herself.

Shaw lifted his visor and eyed the guy. He was only a couple of inches taller than Janie, but even through the suit Shaw could see the guy was wiry, not a gram of fat. The hair was curly, the chin jutting, the eyes focused and missing nothing, the hands strong and nimble-looking. Shaw knew he was right-handed because the shoulder holster was on the left side under a little bump-out built into his jacket just for that purpose.

“Where you folks going?” Pascal asked pleasantly.

“I’m taking this lady home,” said Shaw. “And since this is a public street, I’m not sure why we’re even having this discussion.”

Behind him Shaw could see Reggie squirming slightly. He felt one of her fingernails digging into his side.

Pascal turned around and stared at the two villas. “Ma’am, are you the one leasing that villa?” He pointed to the one on the right.

Reggie didn’t lift her visor. “Yes.”

The man gazed at her, his eyes running up and down, from the helmet to her long bare legs.

“So you’re Jane Collins?”

Now Reggie snapped up her visor. “How did you know that?”

“The real estate agent was very helpful.”

“That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“No,” Pascal said calmly. “It’s just part of my job.”

“What job would that be?” asked Shaw.

“Let’s just say I’m in safety management.”

“Can we go now?” asked Reggie.

“Sure, I’ll just follow you on up and make sure you get in okay.”

“I don’t think the lady needs any help,” said Shaw.

Reggie said hastily, “No, it’s all right.”

Shaw puttered up to the villa, the Vespa’s single headlight illuminating the way, while the man followed behind. They could see that not only was the Citroën van back but there were also two large SUVs that had somehow made their way up the narrow streets off the main road heading into Gordes without shearing off their side mirrors. The villa also had all the lights on inside. Shaw could see shadows pass back and forth in front of one window.

They slipped off the Vespa and Reggie opened the door. The beep-beep of the security system sounded.

Pascal had stopped near the scooter and he nodded appreciatively. “Good thinking, ma’am, using your security system. Can never be too safe.”

“Do you want me to come in, Janie?” Shaw asked as Pascal stood there watching.

She hesitated before eyeing the other man. “No, that’s okay. I’m tired. Thanks for dinner.”

She closed the door and Shaw got back on the scooter.

“Foxy woman,” said Pascal.

Shaw had known men in special forces units around the world who looked just like this guy. They could run circles around the tall, bench-press-muscled jocks. In that line of work the essential wasn’t strength or even speed, it was endurance. The tortoise definitely won in that world. These guys could kick ass with the best, shoot the wings off bees at four hundred yards, change plans in midstream, read complicated maps on the fly, employ stealth when it was called for, and steamroll the other side when stealth was all played out. But in the end it was all about survival. That’s why Shaw had never lifted many weights but had instead run the soles off his sneakers up one side of a mountain and down the other. That and a good, true aim and stout nerves made all the difference between going home safe or getting wedged in a box for all eternity.

He broke free from these thoughts when Pascal stepped next to him and said, “You need anything else? If not, I’d appreciate you moving on so I can secure this area.”

No overt threat, very professional, Shaw thought. The guy was good. But then a man like Waller could afford the best. Shaw rode back to his room and phoned Frank.

“Okay,” Frank said after Shaw briefed him. “Game on. Keep me posted.”

Shaw changed his clothes, waited another three hours, and then headed back out again on foot, after retrieving his night optics—which looked like an ordinary camera—from the hotel’s safe deposit room. He slipped through the dark streets of Gordes. Normally he would be pleased that the target was in town and on schedule. Even though the villa had been rented and the private tour at Les Baux arranged, plans changed and there was never any guarantee that Waller would actually show up in Provence. Yet Shaw was not pleased. The target was here, but so was Janie Collins. Shaw suspected nothing good could come out of that.