He wasn’t there.

She scoured the immediate area and scanned the gray swells, but saw no sign of him. How far could he get in his condition? Frowning, she started back up to the house, hoping he hadn’t just given up and lowered himself into the sea. But that wasn’t Jean-Paul Gerard’s style. He’d survived too much to give up now.

By the time she reached the grass, the police and ambulance had arrived. Jared pointed her out to a paramedic, and she tried to protest, but there was no arguing with medical types.

As they draped a blanket over her, she noticed that her truck was gone.

She grinned. Jean-Paul Gerard had stolen it.

Thirty-Nine

The sky was an impeccable Mediterranean blue and the rose garden behind the stone mas in full bloom, a riot of pinks and yellows and reds. Annette enjoyed their scent as she came out onto the terrace. She would miss this beautiful old place, but sacrifices had to be made-and there was still the possibility everything would work out to her advantage. Already she’d cabled Quentin, letting him know that she’d left for France in a total state of shock, unable to fathom all the accusations being flung at her, and promising she’d fight to clear her name. No one had yet offered a shred of proof she’d done anything more than left for her annual trip to the Riviera a bit earlier than usual. Both suffering hypothermia and head injuries, Thomas and Mai hadn’t yet been able to give their version of what had transpired at her oceanside house on the North Shore. Jean-Paul Gerard was missing and presumed drowned, and Kim’s body had washed ashore.

Naturally Jared and Rebecca had come out unscathed. Didn’t they always?

Annette had the glimmer of an idea in which she could blame everything on her dead Vietnamese bodyguard, even ordering Mai’s hands and feet bound. I had to…he was going to kill me!

Hmm, she thought. The story needed work, but it had possibilities.

But meanwhile, she had her contingency plan of last resort. Thirty years ago-after her brush with being “found out” as Le Chat-she had set up a Swiss bank account for herself and purchased a beautiful chalet in the Alps to which her ownership couldn’t possibly be traced. Retreating there would mean giving up everything: Boston, Winston & Reed, Quentin. She would have to begin a completely new life-and at sixty years of age. It wouldn’t be easy. At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing Thomas Blackburn would finally have to acknowledge that she indeed knew what it was to suffer.

She planned to leave for Switzerland this afternoon.

However, she had one last loose end to snip off in her mas garden.

The sharp thorns of the rosebushes dug at her gloved hands and her sleeves as she reached among them, feeling around until she grasped the edges of a tall, heavy terra-cotta urn. She rocked it onto its edge and rolled it out onto the terrace.

The cremated remains of my pets are in there, she’d told various gardeners over the years. Just leave it right where it is. Of course, they had. They’d thought her quite the eccentric.

The plastic cover she’d taped carefully over the top was still in place. She grimaced at the layers of dead insects and grime, but just shut her eyes and peeled back the plastic. The top half of the urn was filled with hundreds of bits of cork, which she scooped out. In spite of the close call she’d just had on Marblehead Neck, she could feel the excitement building in her.

At last her fingers struck the familiar softness of the plastic-wrapped leather pouches she’d dropped into the urn in 1959. She hadn’t touched them since.

One by one she brought them out: Le Chat’s plunder. Diamonds, pearls, emeralds, gold, sterling silver-beautiful pieces of jewelry of every description. There was even one particular Art Deco piece, an interesting snake bracelet, that had caught her eye. It had belonged to a St. Louis socialite, one of Annette’s Radcliffe classmates, who was still whining about its loss.

Nothing in these pouches, however, came close to equaling Empress Elisabeth’s incredible Jupiter Stones.

If Annette had known Tam had swiped them all those years ago, she wouldn’t have waited until 1975 to deal with the sneaky little brat.

Still, it wasn’t the monetary value the jewels represented that made Annette’s heart trot happily along as she indulged in the memory of those thrilling days. She hadn’t become Le Chat for the potential profit, but for the excitement-the daring of it all. If she could go back to 1959, she wouldn’t change a thing, except perhaps not shooting Jean-Paul when she’d had the chance.

“Was it worth it?” a female voice asked.

Annette jumped, startled out of her reverie.

Rebecca Blackburn looked stunning in a navy wrap-dress and flats, her hair pulled back, no sign that her beloved grandfather was on the brink of death.

“Get off my property,” Annette said, “before I call the police.”

“Oh, don’t worry. The police are already on their way.”

Annette shot to her feet. “I want you out of here!”

Rebecca was unmoved. “Scream and throw a fit all you want. I’m not leaving. There are all kinds of warrants out for you in the United States, and the French police know you’re here. They’re going to detain you for questioning. I just thought I’d mosey on over and make sure you didn’t try and make an exit before they could get here. Those are your suitcases on the walk out front?”

Annette didn’t speak.

“Grandfather’s going to recover. Mai’s already talking like crazy. I know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true. I thought you might like to know that.”

Cursing herself for not having the foresight to bring a gun out to the garden with her, Annette bent down and gathered up her packages of stolen jewels. Her hair fell into her face, and she could feel perspiration springing out on her back and in her armpits. She hated this feeling of desperation.

“Don’t try to leave,” Rebecca said.

Annette glared at her, hugging the packages to her chest. “I’ll do as I please.”

“I didn’t come alone.”

“Oh-and I suppose you tucked Jean-Paul in your back pocket? Did he live, as well? Get out of my way, Rebecca. I may be sixty years old, but I can still knock you on your pretty behind.”

But she could hear the back door creaking open, and her gut twisted as she saw the familiar tawny hair and the handsome, grim face of her son.

“Quentin…”

“Hello, Mother,” he said.

Annette licked her parched lips and felt her spirit-her very soul-catching fire, blackening in the despair of seeing her son’s expression. He knows, she thought. He knows everything.

Rebecca said softly. “How do you think I knew where to find you?”

“I did it all for you.” Annette’s voice was hoarse; she felt as if she were choking. “Quentin…don’t look at me like that. Please! It was all for you. How could you have had a jewel thief for a mother? The police would have come after me if I hadn’t given them Jean-Paul. Think of what that would have been like for you.”

“If you’d considered me, you’d never have become a thief in the first place. And I’d rather-” He hesitated, his tone cold, but he was fighting back tears. Clenching his fists at his side, he went on, “I’d rather have had a mother who accepted the consequences of her actions. I’d rather have had a jewel thief for a mother than a liar and a murderer.”

“Quentin, how dare you speak to me like that? I can explain…”

“No, Mother. You can’t.”

Annette snapped her mouth shut. She could see it was useless. He’d spent too much time already with his cousin and Rebecca. They’d never understand.

Suddenly she couldn’t stand the way Quentin was looking at her-the way Rebecca, the little snot, was trying not to look at her. Hanging on to her pouches of jewels, she began to run.