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had a concert tonight, Madame. He said he will be home quite late.”
    Or in other words, he didn’t expect her to wait up for him. She couldn’t even if she tried. There was a time when that would’ve made her sad. A time when returning home to the City of Light—and her husband—would’ve filled her with excitement, regardless of the hour. But not tonight.
    Tonight Paris’ glittering streetlamps cut through the damp winter fog with an unpleasant glare that made her head throb. Even the sight of her stately nineteenth-century apartment building coming up on the Avenue Georges Mandel did little to lift her spirits. The musty, humid air outside wrinkled her nose as she stepped from the car, and the brief elevator ride up to the fifth floor felt interminable.
    But once she entered her own front door, it was as if a five-hundred-pound weight had tumbled from her shoulders. Home at last, with everything exactly where it should be. Same elegant country furniture and petit-point rug. Same comforting view of the neighborhood peeking from behind the half-drawn cream damask drapes. Same stout, middle-aged Simone beaming at her from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.
    Colette couldn’t stop herself from beaming right back. “You two are going to spoil me,” she said as Henri stepped in behind her, quickly setting down her bags so he could help her off with her coat. “I’ve told you before, you needn’t stay so late on my account. It’s no hardship to take a taxi from the airport and put myself to bed. I manage it just fine when I’m out of town.”
    “All the more reason for us to pamper you when you’re here,” Simone retorted. “Are you hungry? I have some nice soup ready, or I could whip you up an omelet.”
    She’d eaten on the plane, but that was hours ago. Jet lag usually put a damper on her appetite, but if she went to bed on an empty stomach, she’d only wake up in two or three hours completely ravenous. Best to have a little something now.
    “A bowl of soup sounds lovely,” Colette replied. “Let me wash my face and change out of these clothes first.”
    One look at the oh-so-inviting king-sized bed with its warm, fluffy comforter and plush pillows nearly did her in, but she grabbed a nightgown from the polished oak armoire and plodded on into the bathroom. A cream-colored marble vanity with two sinks, a shower and tub big enough for an orgy, spotless white floor tile heated from below to chase away the post-bath chill—hers, all hers. Colette thoroughly enjoyed her creature comforts. On nights like this she found them doubly comforting, even if she was too tired to take full advantage of them.
    Still, it felt so good to splash warm water on her face and rinse off the mask she’d applied that morning, San Francisco time. She dabbed on a light moisturizer then slipped into her nightgown and robe. She found the latter hanging on the back of the bathroom door, right where she’d left it six weeks ago. It was her favorite Chinese blue silk, warm and shimmery-smooth. Aleks had brought it back for her from last year’s Asian tour with the Orchestre de Paris . Simone should’ve hung it up in the walk-in closet by now, but Aleks must have told her not to. The thought of him wanting to see it hanging there every morning made Colette smile.
    Her bags stood off to one side in the bedroom, waiting for Simone to unpack them. That was one good thing about domestic help—not to mention having a hot, home-cooked meal ready for her after a ten-hour flight. Guided by the heavenly aroma, Colette padded quickly into the kitchen. Simone had already set a place for her at the kitchen table, complete with a small basket of warm, sliced bread and a glass of wine.
    Colette sank down gratefully, picked up the glass by its stem, swirled it and took a sip. White burgundy, decadently rich and fruity. Considering her fatigue, she probably shouldn’t indulge, but it was too good to resist. Then the soup arrived,