Free Perfect by Marne Davis Kellogg

exception of an astonishing composition of branches laden with orange blossoms in a large square vase on a glass table. The arrangement was so massive, it was as though someone had cut off the entire top of the tree and brought it inside. Behind their fresh fragrance, I discerned an almost undetectable back note of chlorine, as though there were a swimming pool nearby.
    A butler greeted me, a tidy little man with lively eyes and a friendly smile.
    “Welcome, Your Highness. I am Cookson. Mr. Naxos asked if I would escort you to the sitting room.” He indicated the direction down the hallway. “Please.”
    “Thank you, Cookson.”
    He made no allusion to the high-security welcome process, but then, what could he say? It was what it was.
    The look of the place surprised me completely. For Paris, which so often basks in the opulence of its Bourbon and Napoleonic excesses, it was contemporary and uncluttered. The floors were pale, almost caramel-colored wood and the fabric-covered walls were white, with the smallest tint of sage or eucalyptus. A handrail ran along the wall beneath lighted paintings by contemporary artists. At the end of the gallery, we entered the living room, which was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling glass walls and ran the entire width of the building. Outside was a wraparound terrace with now leafless trees in gigantic pots spaced every eight or nine feet apart. The trees were dimly lit. The view of Paris was beyond spectacular. Dame Joan Sutherland and Robert Constantin were singing “Un dì felice,” from La Traviata.
    Did I wish my Thomas were there to share this amazingly romantic, once-in-a-lifetime moment with a view of the most beautiful city in the world—the trees, landmarks, and boulevards ablaze with lights—accompanied by one of the most romantic duets ever written? Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a small twinge. Did I let it get in my way? Heavens, no.
    “Mr. Naxos will be here shortly. What may I bring you to drink?”
    “Scotch, please. On the rocks.”
    “Twist?”
    “Please.”
    He went to a mirrored bar set into the wall. And while he fixed my cocktail I scanned the room’s reflection in the windows with my thief’s eye, as I always did, looking for ways in and ways out, hiding places, secret doors, and invisible panels—although I had virtually no intention of robbing the Naxoses. This part of the apartment was ideally protected in terms of access from outdoors. In front of each set of doors was an imperceptible pressure panel built into the floor. Tiny camera holes were positioned in each corner of the room. The huge sheets of glass were bulletproof. The terrace was three-foot squares of white marble and I assumed a number of them were pressure sensitive, as well. I was terribly impressed. Unless the system were completely disabled, there was no way for a burglar to sneak in from the outside.
    And inside, any of the fabric-covered wall panels easily could have opened into another world, and probably did. The ceiling was high, maybe eighteen feet, and the furniture modern, chrome and glass, upholstered in tan leather, almost the same color as the floor. There were a few white area rugs under the seating arrangements, but the general feeling was one of sparseness. I was surprised to see a dining table at the far end of the room. The table was set for two. It seemed they weren’t expecting me to stay to dinner. Well, I would do what I could to change that.
    Although I was posing as the widow of Mr. Naxos’s prep-school roommate, poor, long-dead Prince Freddy of Romania, there was no way George and Alma Naxos were going to invite me to dinner sight unseen. I needed to be vetted. Seriously vetted.
    I heard sharp footsteps coming down the hall and turned to see George Naxos striding toward me. What a wonderful-looking man. Not handsome in any traditional sense, but so confident, it made no difference. Of average-to-short height, short waisted and quite,