“When will you have the test results for us, Paul-Louis?” He dreaded going back to New York to tell Frank, especially with incomplete information.

“Another two or three days, perhaps four. I cannot be quite sure yet. Certainly by the end of the week you will have your answers.”

“And if the results are good, you don't think it would alter your position now?” He was begging, pressing for all the good news he could. He knew how conservative Suchard was, maybe this time he was being too careful. It was hard to understand how his results could be so diametrically opposed to what all the others had said. Yet he had never been wrong before, and it was taking a terrible chance not to believe him. Obviously, they couldn't ignore what he was saying.

“It could change some of my position, not all of it. Perhaps if these next results are optimum, perhaps you will only be looking at another year of further research.”

“What about six months? If we work on it in all our laboratories, and concentrate all our research capabilities on this project?” With the gain they stood to make, it could be worth it. And profit was something Frank Donovan liked listening to, testing was not.

“Perhaps. That is a tremendous commitment, if you are willing to make it.”

“It's up to Mr. Donovan, of course. I'd have to discuss it with him.” There was a lot he'd have to discuss with him now, and he didn't want to do it on the phone. He knew it was taking a chance, but he really wanted to wait for the last test results, and then talk to Frank after they knew exactly what Suchard had discovered. “I'd like to wait until you finish the last test, Paul-Louis. If you don't mind keeping all of this confidential until then.”

“Not at all.” They agreed to meet again as soon as the final test was completed, and Paul-Louis said he'd call him at the hotel.

Their meeting concluded on a gloomy note, and Peter felt exhausted as he took a cab back to the Ritz, and then got out and walked the last few blocks to the Place Vendome. He was feeling desperately unhappy. They had worked so hard and he had believed in it so much, how could it go so sour? How could Vicotec prove to be a killer now? Why hadn't they discovered that before? Why did it have to happen this way? His one big chance to help humanity, and instead he had backed a killer. The irony of it tasted very bitter, and as he walked back into the hotel, even the hubbub of the cocktail hour and guests coming and going in a flurry of well-dressed activity didn't cheer him. The usual Arabs, Japanese, French movie stars, models from all over the world went unnoticed as he strode across the lobby and walked up the stairs to his room, thinking about what to do now. He knew he had to call his father-in-law, yet he wanted to wait until he had the rest of the information. He would have liked to talk to Kate about it, but he knew that whatever he said to her would have reached his father-in-law's ears before morning. It was one of the true weaknesses in their relationship. Kate was unable and unwilling to keep anything to herself, whatever was said between husband and wife was always shared with her father. It was a remainder of their old relationship when she'd been growing up alone with him, and try as he had over the years, Peter had been unable to change it. He had resigned himself eventually, and he was careful not to tell her anything unless he wanted to share it with Frank too, and this time he most emphatically didn't. Not yet anyway. He wanted to wait until he heard from Paul-Louis again, and then he would face whatever he had to.

Peter sat in his room that night, staring out the window, and feeling the warm air, unable to believe what had happened. It was incredible. And at ten o'clock, he was standing at his balcony, trying not to dwell on the possibility of failure. But all he could think of now were the dreams, and how close they had come, the hopes dashed and lives changed by what Paul-Louis had said to him, and might discover shortly. There was still hope, but there was certainly very little chance of an early release now. And appearing at the FDA hearings in September would be pointless. They wouldn't allow them to begin human trials, if there was still so much to work out. There was suddenly so much to think about. It was hard to wrap his mind around all of it, and finally at eleven o'clock, Peter decided to call Katie. It would have been nice to be able to tell her what was troubling him, but at least hearing her voice might cheer him up.

He dialed the number easily, but there was no answer. It was five o'clock in the evening, and even Patrick wasn't home. He wondered if Katie might have gone to friends for dinner. And as he set the receiver down, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of depression. Four years of hard work had all but gone down the drain in a single day, and along with it, almost everything he'd ever dreamed of. And there was no one to talk to about it. It was grim.

He stood at the balcony again for a little while, and thought about going out for a walk, but even strolling through Paris suddenly held little appeal, and instead, he decided to get some exercise to rid himself of his private demons. He glanced at the little card on the desk, and then walked swiftly down the stairs to the spa two floors below him. It was still open fortunately, and he had brought a dark blue bathing suit with him, just in case he had the opportunity to use it. He usually liked using the Ritz pool, but this time he hadn't been sure how much time he'd have to do it. As it turned out now, while he waited for Suchard to complete his tests, he had time to do a lot of things. He just wasn't in the mood to do them.

The attendant on duty seemed a little surprised when he walked in. It was almost midnight by then, and there was no one there. The spa appeared to be deserted and everything was silent. The single attendant had been reading a book quietly, and assigned Peter a changing room and gave him a key, and a moment later, he walked through the wading pool of disinfectant toward the main pool area. It was a large, handsome pool, and he was suddenly glad he had come here. It was just what he needed. He thought a swim might clear his head after everything that had happened.

He dove neatly into the pool from the deep end, and his long, lean body sliced through the water. He swam a considerable distance underwater, and then surfaced finally, and swam long clean strokes down the length of the pool, and then as he reached the far end, he saw her. She was swimming quietly, mostly underwater, and then she surfaced occasionally and went down again. She was so small and lithe that she almost disappeared in the large pool. She was wearing a simple black bathing suit, and when she surfaced, her dark brown hair looked black against her head, and her huge dark eyes seemed startled when she saw him. She recognized him instantly, but made no sign of recognition to him. She just dove under the water again and went on swimming as he watched her. It was so odd watching her, she was always so near, and yet so totally removed, in the elevator, both times, and now here. She was always tantalizingly close, and yet so far away that she might as well have been on another planet.

They swam silently at opposite ends of the pool for a while, and then passed each other several times, as they both did laps, working earnestly to flee their private torments, and then as though by design they both stopped at the far end of the pool. They were out of breath, and not knowing what else to do, unable to take his eyes from her, Peter smiled at her, and then she smiled in answer. And then just as suddenly, she swam away again before he could speak to her or ask her any questions. He hadn't been planning to anyway, but he suspected that she was used to that, people who hounded her, or wanted to know things they had no right to ask her. He was surprised to see that she wasn't accompanied by a bodyguard, and he wondered if anyone even knew she was down here. It was almost as though they didn't pay any attention to her. When he had seen her with the senator, they hadn't looked at her, or spoken to her, and she seemed perfectly content to be in her own world, just as she was now, as she continued swimming.

She came up at the far end from Peter this time, and not really intending to, he began to swim slowly toward her. He had no idea what he would have done if she had spoken to him with any real interest. But he couldn't imagine her doing that anyway. She was someone one looked at, or was fascinated by, an icon of sorts, a mystery. She was not a real person. And as though to prove what he thought, just as he approached, she stepped gracefully out of the pool, and with one swift gesture, wrapped herself in a towel, and when he looked up again, she was gone. He had been right after all. She wasn't a woman, only a legend.

He went back to his own room shortly after that, and thought about calling Kate again. It was nearly seven o'clock in Connecticut by then, and she was probably at home, having dinner with Patrick, unless they were out with friends.

But the odd thing was that he really didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to put up a front for her, or tell her things were fine, nor could he tell her what had happened with Suchard. He couldn't trust her not to tell her father, but not being able to say anything to her made him feel oddly isolated as he lay on his bed at the Ritz in Paris. It was a special kind of purgatory, in a place meant only to be Heaven. And he lay there, in the warm night air, feeling better than he had before, physically at least. The swim had helped. And seeing Olivia Thatcher again had fascinated him. She was so beautiful, yet so unreal, and everything about her made him somehow feel that she was desperately lonely. He wasn't sure what made him think that, if it was just what he had read about her, or what was real, or what she had conveyed to him with those brown velvet eyes that looked so full of secrets. It was impossible to tell from looking at her, all he knew was that seeing her made him want to reach out and touch her, like a rare butterfly, just to see if he could do it, and if she would survive it. But like most rare butterflies, he suspected that if he touched her, her wings would turn to powder.