Later, when he’d fought back to normalcy, he’d realized that Jane might have been his savior, but she was no saint. She was honest and passionately caring, but she was mule-stubborn. She was smart, but she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Because of her street upbringing, she was cynical and had trouble trusting in any relationship.

But none of that mattered.

She was his friend.

And no one was ever going to hurt her.

“COME HOME,” EVE URGED JANE. “Get on the next plane. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“I’m leaving here, but I’m going back to New York.” Jane paused. “It will be okay, Eve. Stop worrying.”

“I will worry. So will Joe. Come home so that we can take care of you,” Eve said. “This is incredibly ugly. We’ll get through it together.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

“That’s not good enough.” Eve didn’t speak for a minute. “I’m feeling helpless. I don’t like to feel helpless. If you don’t come to us, I’m going to come to you.”

“No,” Jane said sharply. All she needed was to have Eve involved in this nightmare. “I’ll work it out.”

Eve hesitated. “You say MacDuff is there?”

“And Jock. Venable is giving me protection. I don’t need you, Eve.”

“You mean you don’t want me involved. I believe I’ve said that to you on occasion. It didn’t do me any good, did it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “At least, you’re safe while MacDuff and Jock are with you. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She was silent a moment. “I’m sorry about your friend, Celine. You told me you liked her very much.”

“I did,” Jane said. “You would have liked her, too, Eve.”

“Does she have a family?”

“Only a sister, Yvette, who lives in Lyon. I had to call her a few hours ago and tell her about Celine. She was almost hysterical. She’s coming to Paris tomorrow morning. I have to stay until tomorrow night and see if I can help her deal with things at the gallery. There are all those paintings of mine that Celine sold tonight. At least, I know where she keeps the records. She has a part-time assistant, Marie, who may be able to help Yvette with the rest of the final details.”

Final. When several hours before Celine had all her life before her and had thought death was somewhere far in the distant future.

That realization had returned and was hitting hard. She had to get off the phone before she broke down. “I’m going to bed now, Eve. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if there are any problems.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Eve repeated. “Good night, Jane.”

That last sentence had sounded very firm and held all the determination she was familiar with in Eve, Jane thought as she hung up. She had known that would be Eve’s reaction. Their relationship had been more as best friends than mother and daughter all these years, but Eve could display a tigerish maternal protectiveness when the people she cared about were threatened.

Jane had tried to downplay that threat, but how could she do that when Celine’s ugly death loomed over her like a poised guillotine?

She would have to think of something to keep Eve away from her. That guillotine must never threaten Eve. But right now, her mind wasn’t functioning very well. She turned toward the bathroom. Take a shower. Get to bed and try to sleep. Heaven knows, she was exhausted. Maybe when she woke, everything would become clear to her.

Or at least a little less clouded.

SHE MIGHT BE EXHAUSTED but there was no way that she was going to sleep, Jane realized.

She had been lying here in this bed for fifteen minutes, and neither her muscles nor her mind would release their tension.

The darkness is overpowering, Jane thought, as she stared up at the ceiling. This guest room had seemed friendly, soothing, all the other nights she had spent in Celine’s apartment.

Or maybe it was the memory of what had happened downstairs that was overpowering. She couldn’t get away from the picture of Celine on that door.

Hideous.

She closed her eyes and tried to block it out, once more remember Celine as she had been earlier in the evening. So full of vitality. So full of joy.

The tears were suddenly running down her cheeks. She had felt numb before, unable to comprehend anything beyond the horror. But now the horror was fading, and the sheer tragedy of that vibrant woman whose life had been taken was with her.

Damn that bastard.

And if MacDuff and Jock were right, then Celine had died because she had been connected to Jane. Why? It didn’t make any more sense to her now than it had when MacDuff had first told her.

She huddled down in the bed and closed her eyes as sobs shook her body. Celine…

What was she doing? she thought with sudden self-disgust. Next she’d be covering her head with the covers. She had lost a friend, but Celine had lost her life. She wiped her eyes and struggled to sit up in bed. Okay, stop whimpering and start thinking. Figure it out. She wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

First step.

Find out why she had been targeted.

Blasphemer. Very flimsy. But, if it had meaning at all, what sacrilege had she supposedly committed?

She shook her head in frustration. Who knew what small infraction might be interpreted as sacrilege to a fanatic?

All right, then go to step two.

The newspaper story that Venable had gotten from his informant and the identical copies that Jock had said other members of the Sang Noir been given. Since Jane had no previous contact with the group, was there something in the article that might have triggered that crazy act? What had she said to the reporter? Was there some quote from her that had started the nightmare? She couldn’t even remember any of the questions the journalist had asked her. She was never very patient with interviews. She knew that publicity was necessary, but she always thought that her work should speak for itself. There was no telling if that impatience might have translated into a less-than-diplomatic answer.

She turned on the light and threw the covers aside. There was no use wondering when she had the article itself. She had tossed the newspaper on the chest by the door when she had come into the bedroom.

Her own photo smiled up at her from the page. She actually looked friendly and approachable. She vaguely remembered Celine’s joking with the photographer and making faces at Jane.

Celine, again.

She drew a shaky breath and started scanning the text. Nothing controversial, actually pretty boring. How long had she been painting? She had a mixture of portraits and landscapes in the show. Which did she prefer doing? Why had she painted MacDuff’s Run? Did she have an intimate relationship with the earl? That one had almost made her lose her temper. She was always getting that question, and she’d almost stopped putting the painting on exhibit to avoid it. But Celine had begged her to bring the painting to Paris because the speculation alone would help the show. Good business, she had said. It had been Celine’s wheedling that had made MacDuff’s Run a part of the twenty paintings in the gallery downstairs.

No, there was nothing that she could see in the article itself that would offend anyone. She glanced at the photos of the paintings that marched vertically down the page. That was the only part of the article she’d been happy with. All in color, all a decent-enough size to show detail. Storm Morning. A landscape she’d done in southern France. MacDuff’s Run.

Silhouette at the Lake. A shadow picture of Eve framed against a blazing sunset on the lake. Child at the Circus. A little boy with cotton candy and huge dark eyes wide with wonder. Guilt, the portrait that Celine had tried to persuade her to-

Guilt.

She stiffened. She was looking for unusual, and the offer tonight had definitely been out of the ordinary. Even Celine had thought that the amount of money the computer executive had offered was mind-blowing.