“Hi there,” she said, it was seven in the morning for her, and she sounded bright and alert, and already in a hurry. “How's Paris?”

For an instant, he hesitated, not sure what he could tell her. “Fine. I miss you,” he said, and suddenly waiting to hear from Suchard felt like a crushing weight to him, and the night before only an illusion. Or was it Olivia who was real now, and Katie the dream? Still tired from the night before, it all seemed very confusing.

“When are you coming home?” she asked, sipping a cup of coffee and finishing her breakfast in Greenwich. She was catching an eight o'clock train to New York and she was rushing.

“I'll be home in a few days, I hope,” he said thoughtfully. “By the end of the week for sure. Suchard had some delays in his tests, and I decided to wait here. I thought it might make him finish a little more quickly.”

“Is anything important causing the delays, or just technicalities?” she asked, and it was almost as though he could see Frank waiting with her for the answer. He was sure Frank had already told her everything Peter had said the day before. And as always, he knew he had to be careful what he told her. It would all go straight back to her father.

“Just some minor things. You know how meticulous Suchard is,” Peter said nonchalantly.

“He's a nitpicker, if you ask me. He'll find a problem even if you never had one. Daddy says it went great in Geneva.” She sounded proud of him, but a little cool. Over the years, their relationship had taken some odd turns. She was less affectionate than she used to be with him, and less demonstrative unless she was in a playful mood and alone with him. And she seemed not to be particularly warm to him that morning.

“It sure did go great in Geneva.” He smiled, trying to visualize her, but suddenly all he could see was Olivia's face, sitting in his Greenwich kitchen. It was an odd sort of hallucination, and it worried him. Katie was his life, not Olivia Thatcher. He opened his eyes wider and stared at the rain falling beyond his window, trying to concentrate on what he was seeing. “How was dinner with your father last night?” He tried to change the subject. He didn't want to discuss Vicotec with her. They'd have plenty to talk about that weekend.

“Great. We made lots of plans for the Vineyard. Dad's going to try and stay for the whole two months this year.” She sounded pleased, and Peter forced himself not to think about what Olivia had said to him about compromising everything. This had been his life for nearly twenty years, and he still had to live it.

“I know he's staying up there for the whole two months, you're all deserting me in the city.” He smiled at the thought, and then thought about his sons. “How are the boys?” It was obvious from his tone how much he loved them.

“Busy. I never see them. Pat finished school, Paul and Mike got home the day you left, and this place looks like a zoo again. I spend all my time picking up socks and jeans, and trying to match pairs of size thirteen sneakers.” They both knew they had been blessed, they were all good kids. And Peter loved being with them, he always had. Hearing about them from Kate suddenly made him miss them.

'What are you doing today?” he asked, sounding wistful. He had another day of waiting to hear from Suchard, with nothing much to do except sit in his room and work on his computer.

“I have a board meeting in town. I thought I'd have lunch with Dad, and I want to pick up some things for the Vineyard. The boys ate our sheets last year, and we can use some new towels and other odds and ends too.” She sounded busy and distracted, and the fact that she was seeing her father again had not gone unnoticed.

“I thought you had dinner with Frank last night,” Peter said, frowning. His perspective was suddenly just a fraction different.

“I did. But I told him I was going into town today, and he invited me to a quick lunch in his boardroom.” What could she possibly have to say to him? It made Peter wonder as he listened. “What about you?” She turned the tables on him, and he stared at the rain falling on the rooftops of Paris. He loved Paris even in the rain. He loved everything about it.

“I thought I'd do some work in my room today. I have a lot of little stuff I brought over on my computer.”

“That doesn't sound like much fun. Why don't you at least have dinner with Suchard?” He wanted a lot more from him than dinner, and he didn't want to distract him from what he was supposed to be doing.

“I think he's pretty busy,” Peter said vaguely.

“Me too. I'd better run or I'll miss my train. Any message for Dad?” Peter shook his head, thinking that if he had one, he'd call himself, or fax him. He didn't send messages to Frank via Katie.

“Just have fun. I'll see you in a few days,” Peter said, and nothing in his voice would have told her he'd just spent the night baring his soul to another woman.

“Don't work too hard,” she said evenly, and then she hung up, and he sat there for a long time, thinking about her. The conversation was unsatisfactory, but typical of her. She was interested in what he did, and deeply involved with anything that had to do with the business. But at other times, she had no time for him at all, and they never talked anymore about their inner thoughts, or shared their feelings. Sometimes he wondered if it frightened her to be close to anyone but her father. Losing her mother as a young child had given her a fear of loss and abandonment, and she was afraid of getting too attached to anyone but Frank. To Katie, her father had proven himself long since, and he had always been there. Peter had been there for her too. But her father was her priority. And he expected a lot of Katie. He was very demanding of her time, her interest, and her attention. But he gave a lot too, and he expected to be acknowledged for the generosity of his gifts with an equal amount of time and affection. But Katie needed more in her life too, she needed her husband and her sons. And yet, Peter suspected that she had never loved anyone as much as she loved Frank, not even him, or their sons, although she would never admit it. And when she thought anyone was threatening Frank, she fought like a lioness to protect him. It was the reaction she should have had for her own family, and not her father. That was the unnatural quality in the relationship that had always bothered Peter. She was attached to her father beyond all reason.

Peter worked on his computer all that afternoon, and finally at four o'clock, he decided to call Suchard, and then felt foolish once he did it. This time Paul-Louis took the call from the laboratory but he was curt with him, and told Peter he had no further news. He had already promised to call the moment the final tests were finished.

“I know, I'm sorry … I just thought …” Peter felt stupid for being so impatient, but Vicotec meant so much to him, more than to anyone else, and it was on his mind constantly. That, and Olivia Thatcher. It became impossible to work finally, and at five o'clock, he decided to go to the pool and see if he could burn off some of his tension by swimming.

He looked for Olivia in the elevator, and at the spa. He looked for her everywhere, but he didn't see her. He wondered where she was today, what she thought about the night before. If it was a rare interlude for her, or a kind of turning point. He found that he was haunted by everything they had said, the way she'd looked, the deeper meaning of everything she'd told him. He kept seeing those huge brown eyes, the innocence of her face, the earnestness of her expression, and the slim figure in the white T-shirt as she walked away. Even swimming didn't exorcise her from his mind, and he didn't feel much better when he went back upstairs and turned the television on. He needed something, anything, to distract him from the voices in his head, the vision of a woman he barely knew, and the worry of Vicotec going down the drain with Suchard's testing.

The world was in its usual state when he watched CNN. There was trouble in the Middle East, a small earthquake in Japan, and a bomb scare at the Empire State Building in New York that had driven thousands of terrified people into the street, which only served to remind him of the night before, as he watched Olivia walk out of the Place Vendome and followed her. And as he thought of it, he suddenly wondered if he was losing his mind. The announcer on CNN had just said her name, and there was a blurred photograph of her back in the white T-shirt, as she hurried away, and an even fuzzier photograph of a man a good distance behind her. But all you could see was the back of his head, and no other distinguishing feature.

“The wife of Senator Anderson Thatcher disappeared last night, during a bomb threat at the Hotel Ritz in Paris. She was seen walking from the Place Vendome at a hurried pace, and this man was photographed following her. But no further information about him is known, whether he was following her maliciously, or according to plan, or simply by coincidence. He was not one of her bodyguards, and no one seems to know anything about him.” Peter realized instantly that the photograph was of him as he first followed her from the square, but fortunately no one had recognized him, and it was impossible to identify him from the picture. “Mrs. Thatcher has not been seen since approximately midnight last night, and there are no further reports about her. A night watchman says he thought he saw her come in early this morning, but other reports claim that she never returned to the hotel after this photograph was taken. It is impossible to say at this time if there has been foul play, or if perhaps, with so much political strain, she has simply gone somewhere, perhaps to take respite with friends in or near Paris for a few hours, although as time goes on that appears less and less likely. The only thing we do know for certain is that Olivia Douglas Thatcher has vanished. This is CNN, Paris.” Peter stared at the screen in disbelief. A montage of photographs had just been shown of her, and as he continued to watch the TV, her husband came on, and a local reporter conducted an interview with him for the English-speaking channel Peter was watching. The reporter implied that she had been depressed for the past two years, ever since the death of their young son, Alex. And Andy Thatcher denied it. He also added that he felt sure that his wife was alive and well somewhere, and that if she had been taken by anyone, they would be hearing from the responsible group shortly. He seemed very sincere and amazingly calm. His eyes were dry, and he showed no signs of panic. The reporter said then that the police had been at the hotel with him and his staff all afternoon, manning the phones and waiting for word of her. But something about the way Andy Thatcher looked made Peter think he was whiling away the hours by working on his campaign, and not as frantic about his wife's whereabouts as anyone else would be. But Peter was suddenly terrified as he wondered what had happened to her after she had left him.