Stefan Brancuzi was the sole monarch of a tiny Balkan principality that was rapidly replacing overcrowded Monaco as the new refuge for the tax-burdened wealthy, but he wasn't the one in whom the photographers were most interested. It was the beautiful Englishwoman at his side who had attracted their attention, along with the attention of much of the American public.

As Stefan led her toward his waiting limousine, Francesca lifted her gloved hand in a futile gesture that did nothing at all to stop the barrage of questions still being hurled at her-questions about her job, her relationship with Stefan, even a question about her friendship with the star of the hit television series, "China Colt."

When she and Stefan were finally settled into the plush leather seats and the limo had pulled out into the late night traffic on East Fifty-fifth Street, she groaned. "That media circus happened because of this coat. The press hardly ever bothers you. It's me. If I'd worn my old raincoat, we could have slipped right through without attracting any attention." Stefan regarded her with amusement. She frowned reproachfully at him. "There's an important moral lesson to be learned here, Stefan."

"What's that, darling?"

"In the face of world famine, women who wear sable deserve what they get."

He laughed. "You would have been recognized no matter what you'd worn. I've seen you stop traffic in a sweat suit."

"I can't help it," she replied glumly. "It's in my blood. The curse of the Serritellas."

"Really, Francesca, I never knew a woman who hated being beautiful as much as you do."

She muttered something he couldn't hear, which was probably just as well, and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, unimpressed, as always, with any reference to her incandescent physical beauty. After a long wait, she broke the silence. "From the day I was born, my face has brought me nothing but trouble."