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Stan Reubin’s voice ran like drops of cold water down her spine. She hadn’t expected the past to sneak up on her tonight in the form of Stan Reubin, and for a minute it threw her.

“Stan. I’m fine.”

“Great. Listen, Jessie and I are here and I remembered I’d promised you dinner at Lasserre. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, Paris. Put on your best dress and get yourself over here—we’re at the George Cinq, ready and waiting to buy you the best dinner you’ve ever tasted.” Stan puffed at his cigar happily—he always felt good when he kept his promises.

Paris was silent, struggling with the anger she felt boiling up in her. It was anger against everything that had happened to her, anger at her failure, anger at the reasons behind it, and the bottled-up anger at her and her sisters’ treatment at the hands of Bill and Stan. She could hold it back no longer and it focused in on Stan as she let the words pour out in a low, even tone.

“Listen, you thieving old bastard,” she began. “If you think you’re offering me a big treat taking me out to expensive restaurants and buying me dinner with my mother’s money, you’re wrong. You made enough money from Jenny to live on comfortably for the rest of your life and then ditched her when things weren’t going too good. You didn’t give a fuck about her, or about us. You were there to prevent what happened from happening—you, Stan, the smartest lawyer Beverly Hills possesses, right? So how was it the smart lawyer didn’t see his client being fleeced and didn’t take care of his client’s money properly? You didn’t give a damn about us—any of us—did you, Stan? In fact, I doubt if you even gave us a thought—until you had to when Jenny was dead. Quite conveniently dead, wasn’t she? I mean, what would have happened if she’d stayed alive? There would have had to be some explanations made, wouldn’t there? Public explanations. You know how Jenny loved publicity!”

Stan’s jaw had dropped and his cigar smoldered, clamped between rigid fingers. Jessie looked at him in surprise.

What the hell had got into the girl? wondered Stan, as her words assaulted his ear. She was threatening him now, threatening a court case—she was gonna sue on behalf of her sisters! Jesus Christ! Stan swallowed hard. “Now, Paris, I know you’re a bit upset …” There she went again. She couldn’t possibly know anything, could she? How? No, no, it wasn’t possible.

“Aw, come on, now, Paris, let’s have a nice dinner and talk it over. You’re still upset.”

Paris felt better; for once she had the upper hand, and Stan Reubin was cracking. It was when she’d threatened to sue that he’d suddenly come to life and tried to placate her. Maybe she should sue, maybe the bastard really was hiding something. “And that goes for Bill Kaufmann too,” she said, raising her voice excitedly. “You can expect a lawsuit, Mr. Reubin. Oh, and by the way, you can tell Jessie that there’s a sale at Chloe tomorrow—she can easily drop a few thousand of Jenny’s money there, while you still have it!”

She slammed down the phone and took a swig of the white wine. God, she felt good, better than she’d felt in ages.

Lasserre was everything they’d said it was, everything a good restaurant should be, thought Stan, toying with his pâté de foie gras with white grapes. Then why wasn’t he enjoying it as much as he should? Jessie was busy chatting with the Johnsons, a nice enough couple from New York whom Stan met up with now and then on the legal circuit, but Frank Johnson had annoyed Stan by insisting that this was the restaurant where you had to order the duck. “Every duck is numbered,” he’d said, “just like good wine. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Stan had tried to tell him that it was the Tour d’Argent for duck, but Frank Johnson wasn’t having any of it and Stan had given in without a fight. And now they were all stuck with the goddamn duck.

He didn’t feel like a fight tonight, he was happy to let Frank and Jessie keep the conversation flowing around him. Jesus, that little Paris Haven had upset him, she’d really upset him; imagine threatening to