Stephenson Bradley Gould looked young for his age, blond, delicate, and experienced in nothing. He was a quiet boy, a book- reader, a lonely walker, neat and clean. His name should have been Fletcher. Until he flew on the Concorde to Paris, he'd been literally imprisoned in boarding schools, summer camps for the well-to-do, and isolated apartments in different New England towns.

His mother – a woman wealthy beyond reason, since two of her husbands (one of them Stephen's father) had died suddenly and left her an astonishing amount of money – was Mrs. Melissa Staunton's best friend from her school days. Her name was Patricia, but the servants – behind her back, of course – called her Patsy. They didn't like her all that much, but they did appreciate the money she paid for their attention to her, to her son Stephen and to the duplex in New York.

If ever anyone had a thorn in her side, it was Stephenson Bradley Gould's exquisite mother, Patricia Gould.

Ever since Steve's birth, one after another, tutors, baby-sitters, counselors, guides, you-name-it, had been hired to do what tutors, baby-sitters, counselors and guides are supposed to do. And ever since Steve could remember, he hated every one of those people. He was always being shipped off, from here to there, back again, up and down, in and out. He developed so strong a drive toward rebellion that when his aircraft landed in Paris, all he could think of was flight – especially when he spotted Maurice waiting for him.

The silent drive to Cannes, then to Monte Carlo, took the entire day. By the time Steve and Maurice arrived both were exhausted, even though they'd stopped for refreshment. They had even taken a nap in a picnic park just off the road from Toulouse.

Melissa Staunton stood next to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard. She could see and hear the approach of the long, black limousine. She could see Maurice's black sunglasses and the visor of his cap. Mrs. Staunton hummed to herself as the big car was maneuvered into its parking space.