“They wouldn’t give a damn. People don’t care about what you do as much as you’d like to believe they do.”

She feigned amusement. “Already lecturing me?”

“Just stating the facts.”

“Go to hell,” she said mildly.

Leaving the door open, she went into the formal parlor. Thomas assumed he was expected to follow and did. For the first time in more than a quarter-century, he really looked at Annette. Time had had its effect, but she was still a striking woman, more regal perhaps, more withdrawn. She’d been so high-spirited and deliberately unconventional as a girl, so adventurous and irrepressible as a young woman. If only she’d been more comfortable with who she was, if she could have applied her energies to building a company sooner. What if she hadn’t been born to money, influence and rigid expectations? She could have founded a company like Winston & Reed, anyway. But perhaps not. Being born a Winston was just an excuse for the mistakes she’d made. As much fun as she’d been in her youth, Annette was selfish and self-absorbed, and one needn’t be rich to have those faults.

Playing the polite hostess, she offered him sherry, but he shook his head. “You’ve turned into the kind of grande dame you always despised.”

She shrugged. “People change. I’ve grown up, Thomas.”

Opting not to go into the office today, she had put on her gardening clothes and supposed she looked like any other frumpy Beacon Hill housewife. What did she care? Thomas knew her accomplishments; she didn’t need to “dress for success” to prove herself to him. I don’t even need to prove myself to him-who the hell’s he? After a sleepless night, she had hoped a morning in the garden would allow her to think. Those damned pictures in The Score and Jean-Paul’s ultimatum had shattered the fragile status quo that had existed in her life-in all their lives-for the past fourteen years. That Thomas Blackburn had chosen now of all times to invade her life wasn’t unexpected; his timing was notorious.

Annette felt his incisive gaze on her as she sat on the edge of a Queen Anne sofa. Knowing her guard was standing in the hall, she said in a normal voice, “Kim-would you bring coffee, please?”

Thomas remained standing, looking rumpled and old. “Why did you let me in?”

She gave him a cool smile. “Would you believe pity?”

“No.”

“Anyone else would. You’re a broken old man, Thomas. You’re right-I shouldn’t worry if anyone saw you outside. People around here don’t talk about you anymore. Most don’t even realize you’re still alive.” She leaned back, wishing she could look as relaxed and unconcerned as he did. Yesterday had been a harrowing day. “No, Thomas, the only reason I let you into my house without a fight was to spare myself the torture of having to listen to whatever threat or promise you cooked up to get me to agree to have this conversation. So go ahead. What’s this all about?”

“Jean-Paul’s in town.”

“Yes, I know.”

Her answer was too abrupt, her voice too cold. Annette didn’t like that because it indicated Gerard’s reappearance had disturbed her. She preferred to show Thomas Blackburn she was absolutely in control and unafraid, that she had the upper hand. Kim entered the room with an elaborate tray of coffee and warm scones, a pot of wild strawberry jam and whipped butter. He set it down on the antique table in front of her and poured two china cups, offering one to her guest first. Thomas accepted. With Annette served, Kim withdrew. As always, she appreciated his absolute discretion and efficiency.

With deliberate nonchalance, she sipped her coffee, set it down and pulled a needlepoint pillow onto her lap. She’d made it herself, painstakingly needlepointing a trailing arbutus-the Massachusetts state flower-in the center, another of those tiresome proper ladies’ hobbies she’d taken up to fill the lonely hours of her semiretirement, when she wasn’t undoing Quentin’s mistakes at Winston & Reed.

Thomas went on, “He wants the Jupiter Stones, doesn’t he?”

“Presumably. That, however, isn’t my problem. I don’t have them. I don’t care whether or not you believe me, Thomas,” she went on, “but I assure you if I had the damned things I’d have given them back to him years ago. They were a stupid bit of revenge for what he did to me. I had no idea he’d hold the grudge for thirty years.”

“You ruined his life,” Thomas pointed out.

“He ruined his own life.”

“I suppose it depends on one’s point of view. It must have come as an enormous shock to you to discover your twenty-four-year-old French lover was a jewel thief. How did you feel about turning him in?”

She ignored his half-sarcastic, half-critical tone. “I did what I had to do.”

“Don’t you always,” Thomas said. “What went through that keen mind of yours when the police didn’t catch him?”

“What do you think? I was afraid-”

“Afraid he’d come back for the Jupiter Stones? Afraid he’d come back for revenge?” Thomas seemed amused. He took just one sip of his coffee before setting it down. “No, Annette, you didn’t consider the possible consequences of your actions-you were simply relieved. With Jean-Paul a fugitive, you wouldn’t have to testify against him and risk having your affair made public. It’s even possible,” he went on, calm and arrogant, “that you helped him elude the police and get out of the country.”

Annette laughed derisively, stretching one arm across the back of the sofa. “You think you’re the only one, Thomas, honorable enough to risk the exposure of unpleasant personal facts. When I discovered Jean-Paul was Le Chat, I did the right thing. Why can’t you give me any credit for that?”

“When one does something because it’s right,” he said, “one doesn’t expect ‘credit.’”

“You goddamned bastard-”

He smiled. “I thought you didn’t care what I thought?”

Letting her stew, he turned to the beautiful marble fireplace and restored his own composure. Dealing with Annette Reed had never offered him much tranquility; she’d set him on edge since she was a little girl. He’d always prayed she would overcome her selfishness and insecurity-her exaggerated fear of making a mistake-and allow her carefree, daring and fun nature to emerge.

A photograph of Benjamin and Quentin on the mantel caught his eye. They’d been such a pair, that particular father and son. Both sensitive, both daring in their dreams, both tentative in life-not like Annette. She thrived on adventure and risk as a mask to her basic insecurity. In her youth, she’d had her affairs. In middle age, her company and her solitary life. What would she have become if Benjamin had lived?

And Quentin. Would his father have recognized his son’s sensitivity and helped him come to terms with the positive aspects of his dreamy nature?

Thomas abruptly turned away from the photograph. What-ifs were among the worst forms of torture an old man suffered, he’d decided. Benjamin Reed had died when his son was ten and had left his young, self-absorbed widow to raise him alone.

It was done. So be it.

“I believe you,” he told Annette, “when you say you don’t have the Jupiter Stones, if for no other reason than if you did, you’d have stuffed them down Jean-Paul’s throat and let him choke on them.”

Annette leaned forward and spread a scone with jam. “You don’t like me because I’m a powerful woman now and no longer give a damn what you think. You don’t like strong women, do you?”

“My dear, if you’d been a man you’d be a powerful, selfish man instead of a powerful, selfish woman. Don’t flatter yourself. There’s no double standard at work here.”

“Isn’t there? How often are men accused of being selfish? Almost never. They’re single-minded, devoted to their work, determined. It’s women who are considered selfish.”

“I don’t deny what you say, Annette, but I’ve seen selfish men-and none of this excuses your behavior.”