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      For lovely Amy Andrews, a brilliant and versatile author and a wonderful friend.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SINCE the break with Manon, his long-time lover, Luc Valentin mostly resisted seduction. Sex risked ever more desire, and desire was a downhill slope to entanglement in a web of female complications. Before a man knew it he could be sucked into an emotional shredder.

      So when Luc strolled into D’Avion Sydney and the pretty faces at the front desk lit up like New Year’s Eve, their smiles were wasted on the air.

      ‘Luc Valentin,’ he said, handing over his card. ‘I’m here to see Rémy Chénier.’

      The first beguiling face froze. ‘Luc—Valentin? The Luc Valentin? Of …’

      ‘Paris. Head Office. That is correct.’ Luc smiled. Rarely had his appearance at one of the company offices sparked such a dramatic effect. ‘Rémy, mademoiselle?’

      The woman’s eyes darted sideways towards her fellows. It seemed a strange paralysis had overcome them. ‘Er … Rémy isn’t here. I’m sorry, Mr Valentin, we haven’t seen him for days. He isn’t answering his messages. We don’t know where he is. We don’t know anything. Do we?’ she appealed to the others. She consulted her mobile, then scribbled an address. ‘You might try here. I’m sure if he’s in Mr Chénier will be deligh—overjoyed to see you.’

      Luc doubted it. Since his plan was to encourage his cousin to explain the shortfall in the company accounts then wring his unscrupulous neck, joy was likely to be limited.

      There would be a woman involved, Luc guessed, driving across the Harbour Bridge under an impossibly blue sky. With Rémy there was always a woman, though in Luc’s thirty-six years never the same one twice.

      The address was for a sleek apartment complex on Sydney’s northern shore. Luc pressed the buzzer twice before it connected. Then for several tense seconds all he heard was the rustle of white noise.

      Prickles arose on his neck.

      At last, enfin, a voice. It sounded muffled, more than a little croaky, as if its owner had a terrible cold. Or had been weeping.

      ‘Who is it?’

      Luc bent to speak into the intercom, which hadn’t been designed to accommodate tall guys with long bones. ‘Luc Valentin. I am wishing to speak with Rémy Chénier.’

      ‘Oh.’ Through the woman’s husky fog he could detect a certain relief. ‘Are you from his office?’

      ‘You could say I’m from D’Avion, certainly.’

      ‘Well, he’s not here. Praise the Lord.’ The last was muttered.

      Luc drew his brows together. ‘But this is his apartment, yes?’ The place looked like the sort of residence Rémy would choose. All gloss and sharp edges.

      ‘Used to be. Not that he ever seemed to know it,’ she added in an undertone. ‘Anyway, he’s gone. Don’t know where, don’t care. Nothin’ to do with me. I’m outta here.’

      Luc’s eye fell on a small pile of carefully stacked possessions inside the glass entrance, among them cooking pots and a frilled and very feminine umbrella.

      ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle. Can you tell me when was the last time you saw him?’

      ‘Months ago. Yesterday.’

      ‘Yesterday? So he is in Sydney still?’

      ‘I—I hope not. Maybe. I don’t know. Look … Look, monsieur …’ Luc noticed a slightly mocking inflection in the ‘monsieur’ ‘… I’m very busy. I can’t keep—’

      He jumped in quickly before she cut him off. ‘Please, miss. Just one more thing. Has he taken his clothes?’

      ‘Mmm …’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘Let’s just say his clothes took a tumble.’

      Luc hesitated, picturing the scene those words conjured. He had an overwhelming desire to see the face that went with the foggy voice. ‘Are you Rémy’s girlfriend, by some chance? Or—perhaps—the