She nodded, although she didn’t understand at all. Why was he talking about this now? But his voice was so loving, and the old fantasies rose up inside her. Her eyes drifted shut. Her father had seen her, and after all these years, he finally wanted her.

“You remind me of that car,” he whispered. “Except you are not pur sang, are you?”

At first she thought she felt his finger on her mouth. Then she realized it was his lips. Her father was kissing her.

“Alexi!” The shriek of a wounded animal penetrated the room. Fleur’s eyes flew open.

Belinda stood at the door, her face twisted with anguish. “Get your hands off her! I’ll kill you if you touch her again! Get away from him, Fleur. You mustn’t ever let him touch you!”

Fleur rose awkwardly from the chair. Her faltering words were unplanned. “But…He’s…He’s my father…”

Belinda looked as if she’d been slapped. Fleur felt sick. She rushed to her mother. “It’s all right. I’m sorry!”

“How could you?” Belinda’s voice was almost a whisper. “Does one meeting with him make you forget everything?”

Fleur shook her head miserably. “No. No, I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Come upstairs with me,” Belinda said stonily. “Now.”

“Go with your mother, chérie.” His voice slid between them like silk. “We will have time to talk after the funeral tomorrow and make plans for your future.”

His words gave her a sweet, fluttery sensation that felt like a betrayal.

Belinda stood at her bedroom window looking through the trees at the headlights flickering past on the Rue de la Bienfaisance. Muddy mascara tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the lapels of her ice-blue robe. In the next room, Fleur slept. Flynn had died without ever knowing about her.

Belinda was only thirty-five, but she felt like an old woman. She wouldn’t let Alexi steal her beautiful baby away. No matter what she had to do. She stumbled over to the stereo. An hour ago, she’d made a phone call. She couldn’t think what else to do. As she looked around for her drink, she knew that, after tonight, there couldn’t be any more.

Her glass sat on the floor next to the pile of record albums. She crouched in the midst of them and picked up the album that lay on top. The soundtrack from the Western Devil Slaughter. She stared at the picture on the cover.

Jake Koranda. Actor and playwright. Devil Slaughter was the second of his Bird Dog Caliber movies. She loved them both, even if the critics didn’t. They said Jake was prostituting his talent by appearing in junk, but she didn’t feel that way.

The cover photo depicted the movie’s opening scene. Jake, as Bird Dog Caliber, stared into the camera, his face dirt-creased and weary; his soft, sulky mouth slack, almost ugly. Pearl-handled Colt revolvers gleamed at his sides. She leaned back, shut her eyes, and reached for the fantasies that made her feel better. Gradually the sounds of the distant cars slipped away until she could only hear his breathing and feel his hands on her breasts.

Yes, Jake. Oh yes. Oh yes, my darling, Jimmy.

The record album slipped from her fingers, jarring her back to reality. She reached for her crumpled pack of cigarettes, but it was empty. She’d meant to send someone out after dinner, but she’d forgotten. Everything was slipping away from her. Everything except the daughter she’d never let go.

She heard the sound she’d been waiting for, Alexi’s footsteps on the stairs. She splashed more scotch in her glass and carried it out into the hallway. Alexi’s face looked drawn. His newest teenage mistress must have worn him out. She walked toward him, her robe slipping over one naked shoulder.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Just a little.” An ice cube clinked dully against the side of her glass. “Just enough so I can talk to you.”

“Go to bed, Belinda. I’m too tired to satisfy you tonight.”

“I only want a cigarette.”

Watching her carefully, he drew out his silver case and opened it. She took her time pulling one out, then stepped past him into his bedroom. Alexi followed her. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Pardon me for entering kiddieland,” she retorted.

“Go away, Belinda. Unlike my mistresses, you’re old and ugly. You’ve become a desperate woman who knows she has nothing fresh to bargain with.”

She couldn’t let his words hurt her. She had to concentrate on the awful obscenity of his mouth covering Fleur’s lips. “I won’t let you have my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” He took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “Don’t you mean our daughter?”

“I’ll kill you if you touch her.”

“Bon Dieu, chérie. Your drinking has finally driven you over the edge.” His cuff links clanked on the bureau as he discarded them. “For years you have begged me to include her in our family.”

Even though he had no way of knowing about the phone call she’d made, she had to fight to sound calm. “I wouldn’t be too confident. Now that Fleur’s older, you don’t have many holds left on me.”

His fingers paused on his shirt studs.

She forced herself to go on. “I have plans for her, and I don’t care any longer who knows that you’ve been raising another man’s daughter.” It wasn’t true. She did care. She couldn’t bear the idea of her daughter’s love turning to hatred. If Fleur discovered Alexi wasn’t her father, she wouldn’t understand how Belinda could have lied to her. Even worse, she wouldn’t understand why Belinda had stayed with him.

Alexi seemed amused. “Is this blackmail, chérie? Have you forgotten how much you love your luxuries? If anyone learns the truth about Fleur, I’ll cut you off without a penny, and you know you can’t survive without money. How would you keep yourself in scotch?”

Belinda walked slowly toward him. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Oh, I know you, chérie.” His fingers trailed a path down her arm. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

She gazed into his face, searching for some softness there. But she could only see the mouth that had crushed her daughter’s lips.

The morning after Solange’s funeral, Fleur woke up before dawn to the sound of someone in her room. As she eased her eyes open, she saw Belinda throwing clothes in her suitcase. “Get up, baby,” she whispered. “I have your things all packed. Don’t make any noise.”

Belinda wouldn’t explain where they were going until they’d reached the outskirts of Paris. “We’re staying with Bunny Duverge for a while at her estate in Fontainebleau.” Her eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror, and lines of strain pulled at the corners of her mouth. “You met her when we were on Mykonos this summer, remember? The woman who kept taking your picture.”

“I asked her not to. I hate having my picture taken.” Fleur couldn’t smell any liquor, but she wondered if Belinda had been drinking. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. The idea upset her nearly as much as being awakened at dawn and dragged away from the house without an explanation.

“Fortunately Bunny ignored you.” Once again, Belinda’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “She called me a couple of times after I got back to Paris. She thought you were my niece, remember? All she could talk about was how striking you were and how you should be a model. She wanted your phone number.”

“A model!” Fleur leaned forward in her seat and stared at Belinda. “That’s crazy.”

“She says you have exactly the face and body designers want.”

“I’m six feet tall!”

“Bunny used to be a famous model, so she should know.” Belinda dug into her purse with one hand and pulled out her cigarette case. “When she saw that photo of you in Le Monde after the fire, she realized you weren’t my niece. At first she was angry, but two days ago she called and admitted she’d sent the Mykonos pictures to Gretchen Casimir, the woman who owns one of the most exclusive modeling agencies in New York.”

“Modeling agency! Why?”

“Gretchen loved the photos, and she wants Bunny to get some proper test shots of you.”

“I don’t believe it. She’s putting you on.”

“I told her the truth. That Alexi would never permit you to model.” She pulled the cigarette lighter from the dashboard. “But after what’s happened…” She filled her lungs with smoke. “We have to be able to support ourselves. And we need to get as far away from him as we can, which means New York. This is going to be our ticket out, baby. I just know it.”

“I can’t be a model! I don’t look anything like one.” She planted her loafers against the dash and drew her knees to her chest, hoping the pressure would ease the knots in her stomach. “I-I don’t understand why we have to go right now. I need to finish school.” She clasped her knees tighter. “And…Alexi doesn’t…He doesn’t seem to hate me so much anymore.”

Belinda’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel, and Fleur knew she’d said the wrong thing. “I only mean-”

“He’s a snake. You’ve been begging me for years to leave him. Now I’ve finally done it, and I don’t want to hear another word. If those test shots are good, you’ll make more than enough to support us.”

Fleur had always intended to support them, but not like this. She wanted to use her math and language skills in business, or maybe be a translator at NATO. Belinda’s plan was a fantasy. Fashion models were beautiful women, not clumsy, too-tall sixteen-year-olds.

She rested her chin on her knees. Why did they have to leave now? Why did they have to leave just when her father had started to like her?

Bunny Duverge lectured Fleur on makeup, on how to walk, on who was who in New York fashion, as if Fleur cared about any of it. She clucked over Fleur’s ragged fingernails, her lack of interest in clothes, and her habit of bumping into furniture.

“I can’t help it,” Fleur said at the end of her first miserable week at the Duverge Fontainebleau estate. “I’m a lot more graceful on a horse.”

Bunny rolled her eyes and complained to Belinda about Fleur’s American accent. “A French accent is so much more appealing.”

But despite all that, Bunny swore to Belinda that Fleur had it. When Fleur asked what it was, Bunny waved her hands and said it was elusive. “One simply knows.”

For all her faults, Bunny knew how to keep a secret, and she was as determined as Belinda to prevent Alexi from finding them. Instead of choosing a Parisian coiffeur, Bunny flew in a famous London hairdresser who began snipping at Fleur’s hair, a quarter of an inch here, a half inch there. When he was done, Fleur thought her hair looked pretty much the same, but Bunny had tears in her eyes and called him “maestro.”

One good thing happened. Belinda stopped drinking. Fleur was glad, even though it made her mother a lot jumpier. “If Alexi finds out about Casimir, he’ll put a stop to it. You don’t know him like I do, baby. We have to be established in New York before he finds us. If this goes wrong, he’ll come up with a way to separate us forever.”

Knowing Belinda was resting all her hopes on this made Fleur sick at her stomach. She tried to pay attention to everything Bunny told her. She practiced her walk. Though the halls. Up and down the stairs. Across the lawn. Sometimes Bunny made her walk with her hips leading. Other times with what Bunny called a “New York street stride.” Fleur worked on makeup and posture. She struck poses and practiced different facial expressions.

Finally Bunny called in her favorite fashion photographer.

Gretchen Casimir’s pampered pedicured toes curled in her pumps as she pulled the latest photos Bunny had sent from the envelope. She owed Bunny for this one. God, did she ever. The girl was breathtaking. Hers was the kind of face that appeared once every ten years, like Suzy Parker’s, or Jean Shrimpton’s, or Twiggy’s. She reminded Gretchen of both Shrimpton and the great Verushka. This girl’s face would shape the look of a decade.

She stared into the camera, her bold, almost masculine features surrounded by that great mane of streaky blond hair. Every woman in the world would want to look like this. In Gretchen’s favorite shot, Fleur stood barefoot, her hair in a single braid like a mountain girl, her big hands hanging slack at her sides. She wore a water-soaked cotton shift. The hem hung heavy and uneven around her knees. Her nipples were erect, and the wet material defined the endless line of hip and leg more clearly than if she’d been nude. Vogue would be in raptures.

Gretchen Casimir had built Casimir Models from a one-room office into an organization nearly as prestigious as the powerful Ford agency. But “nearly” wasn’t good enough. It was time to make Eileen Ford eat her dust.