Dangerous to Know by Merline Lovelace

unescorted…until Meredith Ames’s nameless, faceless contact finally met with her. Or a prospective client arranged for her services.
    Gulping, Paige swept out of the bedroom in a rustle of taffeta skirts.
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    As the cab pulled away from the Carlton, she stifled the urge to twist around and check the rear window. Her mind told her Maggie wouldn’t lose sight of her taxi. Her heart told her David wouldn’t lose sight of her. Still, she had to swallow a lump in her throat when the cab turned onto the Croisette and left the stately hotel behind.
    After a leisurely drive along the well-lit boulevard, the taxi swept up a curving drive to a gleaming vanilla villa on a high promontory overlooking the sea. A uniformed valet helped Paige out and escorted her inside, where a man who might have doubled for a Russian grand duke bowed over her hand.
    â€œGood evening, mademoiselle, ” he murmured in flawless English, having clearly identified her age, her marital status, and her nationality in a single glance.
    â€œGood…good evening.”
    â€œWelcome to the Grand. May I have your passport, please?”
    â€œOh. Yes. Of course.”
    Fumbling in the evening bag, Paige dug out Meredith’s hastily doctored passport. She checked to make sure the large-denomination bill Maggie had tucked inside it was still in place. It would signal her profession to this sophisticated head croupier more clearly than a printed announcement. Her fingers trembled as she handed the small leather-bound passport over.
    With an unruffled savoir faire, the duke pocketed the bill and placed Meredith’s passport in an old-fashioned walk-in safe, then gestured her inside with a charming old-world bow.
    â€œGood luck this evening, mademoiselle. ”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œAt the tables.”
    â€œOh. Thank you.”
    That was it! Her first…business contact as Meredith Ames. A little dazed by the smoothness of it all, Paige stood at the top of a wide, curving marble staircase and tried to still her fluttery pulse.
    Maggie had explained in detail how these matters were arranged among the elite. A note passed to a maître d’, or in this case the head croupier. A murmur here, a whisper there. A glass of champagne, if she wished it. Perhaps a chip or two tossed onto one of the felt-covered tables. Then either the client himself or perhaps the croupier would approach her. To request her companionship. To arrange a meeting later. Only if mademoiselle wished it, of course.
    It was all so civilized. So polite. So seemingly safe.
    At this moment, the uglier aspects of Meredith’s profession seemed to belong to another world. The somewhat shocking description of the various services a woman in her business might be requested to provide took on a hazy, surreal distance.
    Paige stared at the sea of hushed elegance below her, trying to absorb the impact of its opulence. The sounds that drifted up the stairs were far different from those that had assaulted her ears in the Las Vegas casino David had taken her to one weekend. There was no raucous clatter of coins hitting the trays of slot machines. No exultant shouts and delighted exclamations. No loud music blaring from a lounge band to distract the gamblers.
    Here, music from a string quartet floated above the low murmurs of laughter and muted conversation. Fine crystal champagne flutes tipped against each other with melodious clinks. The only discordant note was the subdued rattle of little wooden balls in the roulette wheels, and even that was muted by the plush carpeting and the acres of thick felt on the tables.
    Paige swallowed, wondering if Meredith’s contact was among the glittering crowd that swirled through the high-ceilingedroom. Gripping her small black evening bag with both hands, she started down the stairs.
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    Two hours later, she ached in every bone.
    She’d never realized how much effort it took to appear relaxed when