It was a glittering day.

      The sky was a clear and vivid blue, unblemished by cloud, and although the sun had no warmth on this cold November Saturday it was, nevertheless, a bright golden orb flung high above Park Avenue that added immeasurably to the sparkle and zest of the morning.

      Rosie walked at a rapid pace, enjoying being back in New York, and assailed by many memories. Most of them were good memories, and so her present-day problems were lifted, at least temporarily. Certainly she felt less weighed down by them, and the heaviness she had been experiencing of late had miraculously evaporated the moment she had planted her feet on American soil. And she was determined to enjoy her few weeks here; nothing was going to spoil her first visit to her home town in two years.

      She had arrived three hours earlier on Concorde from London, an amazingly rapid flight across the Atlantic which had taken only three hours and forty minutes. Her ticket on the supersonic plane was a present from Gavin, one he had forced her to accept. As usual, she had been reluctant to take anything from him, but now she was glad she had succumbed to his pressure. He had told her that Concorde was not a luxury but a necessity, if you were in their business and under so many different time constraints; she now agreed wholeheartedly with him.

      The plane had landed at nine-thirty; she had whizzed through Baggage and Customs, and by eleven-thirty she had already been well ensconced in Nell’s apartment on Park Avenue at Eightieth Street, unpacked, freshly made-up and enjoying the cup of tea Nell’s housekeeper had made for her, and which Maria insisted she drink before going out into the cold weather.

      Because it was such an icy day Rosie had exchanged her black suit and matching coat for a loden-green wool trouser suit worn with a wine-coloured turtle-neck sweater, her favourite Lucchese cowboy boots made of a wonderful dark reddish-brown Cordovan leather, and a long, full, highwayman’s cloak cut from Austrian loden cloth. She had bought the cloak in Munich a few years ago, and had it lined with wine cashmere which added extra warmth. But mostly she loved the cape for its dramatic looks, the sense of élan it gave her when she wore it.

      Well dressed for the weather, she had left the apartment intending to hail a cab, but the crisp air felt so good after being cooped up in the plane that she decided to walk instead.

      Now she paused for a second and stared down Park Avenue.

      It was so clear she could see for ever, all the way to the Pan Am building where the tip of the avenue led into Grand Central. Despite the fact that she was based in Paris, and adored that beautiful, graceful, elegant city of light, New York was home to her, and it was unique. There was no other city like it anywhere in the world.

      Earlier, coming in from Kennedy Airport, the limousine driver had chosen to enter Manhattan by way of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. As they had driven over it from Long Island City she had suddenly caught her breath as she gazed out of the car window.

      Straight ahead of her, ranged on the other side of the East River, rising up like giant cliffs shimmering in the sunlight, were the towering apartment buildings of the East Side. And behind them floated the gargantuan office blocks of mid-town Manhattan; standing out in particular were the Empire State and the Chrysler buildings, the latter her favourite with its perfect art deco tower and slender spire. Those immense skyscrapers piercing the high-flung azure sky formed formidable canyons of steel and glass and concrete, and to Rosie they had never looked more impressive and awe-inspiring than they did at that moment. In the brilliant, mid-morning sunshine the skyline of Manhattan seemed to have been carved from crystal by some enormous god-like hand; it was so breathtaking it was almost otherworldly.

      But then she had always thought this city was beautiful, high-powered, challenging, and the most exciting place to be – if you were talented, ambitious, driven and lucky. Conversely, her brother deemed it to be Sodom and Gomorrah, for Kevin had recognized, at an early age, its dark and decadent side, its seamy, sleazy underbelly, had been aware of the corruption, ruthlessness, cruel poverty and inequities that permeated New York, flourished alongside the excitement, the glamour, the success, the great wealth and privilege.

      Now, as she thought of her brother, a flash of anxiety shot through her, and it made her tighten her lips imperceptibly. Kevin’s lack of response to her calls was the only thing which marred her gladness at being back in New York. She had phoned him every day for the past week, first leaving her London numbers and then yesterday, knowing she was about to depart, she had repeated Nell’s number into the machine.

      He had not called her back, as yet, and her anxiety was running high; she had told him so when she had phoned once more, before leaving Nell’s apartment this morning, adding, ‘Please, Kevin, call me to reassure me you’re all right. I’m beginning to worry.’ Then she had repeated Nell’s number even though she knew that he knew it by heart.

      He’ll call me today, she told herself, genuinely believing this as she plunged on down Park, her pace increasing, her cape flying out behind her like a proud banner. She made a striking figure in her dramatic outfit, and her mass of coppery hair which caught and held the sunlight was turned into a bright burnished helmet around her creamy-complexioned, heart-shaped face.

      Quite a number of men glanced at her covetously, and several women admiringly,