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moralist, our Gabrielle. What family has she got living now?’

      ‘Father in Marseilles. Her mother, sir, and step-father. He’s English. They live in the Isle of Wight. She has a half-brother, Richard, aged twenty-two, serving as a helicopter pilot in the Royal Navy.’

      Ferguson lit a cigar and sat behind the desk. ‘I’ve met women, Harry, and so have you, of beauty and considerable distinction, but Gabrielle is something special. For a woman like that, only a special man will do.’

      ‘I think we’re fresh out of those this year, sir,’ Fox said.

      ‘We usually are, Harry. We usually are. Now let’s go through the Foreign Office tray.’ Ferguson put on his half-moon spectacles.

       3

      The scene in the ballroom at the Argentine Embassy was splendid, crystal chandeliers taking light to every corner, reflected again in the mirrored walls. Beautiful women, exquisitely gowned; handsome men in dress uniforms; an occasional church dignitary in scarlet and purple. It was all rather archaic, as if the mirrors were reflecting a dim memory of long ago, the dancers turning endlessly to faint music.

      The trio playing on a raised dais in one corner were good and the music was exactly the kind Raul Montera liked. All the old favourites: Cole Porter, Rodgers & Hart, Irving Berlin. And yet he was bored. He excused himself from the small group around the Ambassador, took a glass of Perrier water from the tray carried by a passing waiter and went and leaned negligently against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.

      His face was pale, the eyes a vivid blue, constantly in motion in spite of his apparent calmness. The elegant dress uniform fitted him to perfection, the medals making a brave show on his left breast. There was an energy to him, an eager restlessness, that seemed to say he found such affairs trivial and longed for something more active.

      The Majordomo’s voice rose above the hubbub. ‘Mademoiselle Gabrielle Legrand.’ Montera glanced up casually and saw her standing in the entrance, reflected in the gilt mirror in front of him.

      It was as if the breath went out of him for a moment. He stood there, transfixed, then turned slowly to look at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

      Her hair, no longer banded and gathered up as it had been that morning at Ferguson’s office, was one of her most astonishing features: very blonde and cut in the French style known as La Coupe Sauvage. It was long enough to hang between the shoulder blades, yet apparently short at the front, layered and feathered at the sides, framing a face of considerable beauty.

      The eyes were the most vivid green, the high cheekbones gave her a Scandinavian look and the mouth was wide and beautifully formed. She was wearing an evening dress by Yves St-Laurent in silver thread and tambour beading, the uneven hemline well above the knee, for the mini had returned to fashion that season. She balanced on silver high-heeled shoes, carrying herself with a touch of arrogance that seemed to say Take me or leave me, I couldn’t care less.

      Raul Montera had never seen a woman who looked more capable of taking on the whole world if needs be. She, in her turn, had seen him, and conscious of a strange, irrational excitement, turned away as if looking for someone.

      She was immediately accosted by a young Argentinian army captain who was obviously the worse for drink. Montera gave him enough time to make a thorough nuisance of himself, then moved through the crowd to her side.

      ‘Ah, there you are, chérie,’ he said in excellent French. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

      Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I’d got the wrong night.’

      ‘At your orders, my colonel.’ The captain retired in confusion. Montera looked at Gabrielle wryly and they both burst into laughter.

      He took her hands and held them lightly. ‘You get a lot of that, I suppose?’

      ‘Since I was about fourteen.’

      There was a shadow in the green eyes. He said, ‘Which has not improved your opinion of my sex, I think?’

      ‘If you mean, do I like men, no, not very much.’ She smiled. ‘In the generality, that is.’

      He examined her hands. ‘Ah, good.’

      ‘What is?’ She was puzzled.

      ‘No wedding ring.’

      He drew himself up and clicked his heels together. ‘Colonel Raul Carlos Montera, very much at your orders and I would consider it a privilege and a joy to secure not only this dance, but every other one available this evening.’

      He took her hand and drew her on to the floor, as the trio started to play in slow foxtrot tempo Our Love is Here to Stay.

      ‘How remarkably appropriate,’ he said and drew her to him.

      And to that, there could be no answer. They danced well together, his arm holding her lightly around the waist.

      She touched the scar on his cheek. ‘How did you get that?’

      ‘Cannon shell splinter,’ he said. ‘Aerial combat.’

      She played her part well. ‘But when? Argentina hasn’t been to war in my lifetime.’

      ‘Another man’s war,’ he said. ‘A thousand years ago. Too long a story.’

      She touched the scar again gently and he groaned and said in Spanish to himself, ‘I’ve heard of love at first sight but this is ridiculous.’

      ‘Why?’ she replied calmly in the same language. ‘Isn’t it what the poets have been assuring us for centuries now is the only kind worth having?’

      ‘Spanish as well?’ he demanded. ‘Is there no end to this woman’s marvels?’

      ‘Also English,’ she said. ‘And German. My Russian isn’t fluent, though. Only passable.’

      ‘Amazing.’

      ‘You mean, for a beautiful blonde with a good body?’

      He noted the bitterness in her voice and moved back to look into her face. There was genuine tenderness in his own and a kind of authority.

      ‘If I have hurt you, forgive me. It was not intended. I will learn, though, to mend my manners. You must give me time.’

      And there was that breathlessness in her again as the music stopped and he drew her off the floor. ‘Champagne?’ he said. ‘Being French I would presume it to be your drink.’

      ‘But of course.’

      He snapped his fingers to a waiter, took a glass from the proffered tray and handed it to her. ‘Dom Perignon – only the best. We’re trying to make friends and influence people tonight.’

      ‘I should imagine you’d need to,’ she said.

      He frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’

      ‘Oh, there was an item on the television news earlier this evening. Questions in the British Parliament about the Falklands. Apparently your navy is about to go on manoeuvres in the area.’

      ‘Not the Falklands,’ he said. ‘To us, the Malvinas.’ He shrugged. ‘An old quarrel, but not worth arguing about. The politicians have it in hand. In my opinion, the British will do a deal with us one of these days. Probably in the not too distant future.’

      She let it go, slipped a hand in his arm, and they crossed to an open French window and moved out. On the way, he picked another glass of champagne off a passing tray for her.

      ‘Don’t you drink?’ she asked.

      ‘Not a great deal and certainly not champagne. It creates havoc with me. I’m getting old, you see.’

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