The inspector was silent as he looked down at Lindsay. He felt very sorry for her. He’d wanted to slug Royce Foxe in the face. Instead, he said in his soft voice, resisting the impulse to hold her hand and soothe her, “I have a daughter who is just your age. Just like you, mademoiselle. Her name is Felice. Last year she got this crush—that’s the American slang, isn’t it?—yes, this crush on an older man and she acted so foolish and so silly that we all of us were equally annoyed and despairing. But this man, he was a normal adult, you see, with no sickness in his mind, and thus it was that he understood she was merely a young girl in the agony of infatuation. He was kind to her, but nothing more. He didn’t take advantage of her. No normal man would. Do you understand?”
She stared up at him, her eyes dull, not caring about his wretched daughter. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Now, tell me exactly what happened.”
Her voice was as dull as her eyes, and it worried him. “My father told you what happened. It’s true what he said, only it isn’t, not really. The prince wrote to me that both he and Sydney wanted me to visit them here in Paris. I wanted to see him, it’s true. I thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. I worshiped him. I thought my stepsister wasn’t right for him, wasn’t worthy of him—”
“Ah, and you, mademoiselle, were the only one who was right for him?”
“Yes. I believed she mistreated him, that she didn’t give him what he needed, what he wanted, what he deserved. Of course he told me of the bad things she’d done to him.”
“So you stayed when you saw your sister wasn’t there?”
“Yes. It seemed so natural, you see. He told me Sydney didn’t like him and had left. He told me not to blame myself. I felt so badly for him. I was so angry at my sister for hurting him. He was wonderful and so nice and he took me everywhere, showed me all through Montmartre, told me old stories. It was just like all my daydreams coming true. And then that night, he came in my bedroom and started asking me questions about what I let boys do to me and he told me he wanted to teach me all those things. He told me how he’d had to wait for me. And then I really saw him. He wasn’t handsome anymore or charming or kind. I was so afraid of him, and then, finally, I realized that he wasn’t what I’d believed him to be. He hurt me but I fought him, and I screamed and screamed like they taught me to do in my self-defense classes, and then he hit me and hit me and then—”
The inspector waited. He saw she couldn’t get the words out and said gently, “Then your sister came and she shot him. He had already ejaculated in you?”
She looked at him.
Galvain searched his mind for another word, saying finally, “He came inside you? He had come?”
She nodded, a spasm shaking her body.
“Your sister fired the gun again?”
“Yes, she had to. To protect me. He fell off me onto the floor. We thought he was dead, but then he groaned.”
Galvain patted her hand, unable to keep himself from making this bit of human contact with her. He wasn’t particularly surprised when she jerked away. Poor girl, he thought, poor girl. “You rest now, mademoiselle, and you get yourself strong again. All this will fade, you will see.” He prayed it would be true, but he doubted it. Fade, yes, but she would never forget, never. He wondered what she would be like in five years, in ten. He added, “Your father has hired two guards to keep the paparazzi away from you, those vultures, and the other media people as well. They will lose interest soon enough. I will talk to you again. Rest, petite.”
Royce Foxe’s voice was heavy with fatigue, his eyes rheumy and burning with grit as he opened the suite door. He stared at the same inspector who’d been in Lindsay’s room at the hospital. “What the hell do you want? Is it the damned prince again? I thought you said he was improving by the hour?” Royce hadn’t slept much during the past three days. Even now he knew there was much to do. And now this French police inspector was here again, at Royce’s suite, this calm little man Royce was beginning to reassess. Perhaps the little man wasn’t quite so insignificant after all. But nonetheless, he didn’t stand a chance with him, with Judge Royce Foxe. “I’ve been assured that my daughter won’t be charged with attempted murder. She won’t be charged with anything. She acted in defense of her sister. I’m an attorney and an American federal judge, and surely you must know that you can’t prey on my ignorance, because I don’t have any.”
“Yes, I know you are a judge, monsieur.”
“The bastard will live. So what do you want now?”
“It is a relief,” Galvain said, looking around. “No, your daughter won’t be charged with attempted murder. That has never been an issue. That is not why I’m here, monsieur. I want to know if the young mademoiselle Lindsay Foxe will be pressing charges against the man. The hospital told me you’d brought her here yesterday.”
“What did you say?”
The inspector remained calm and still and patient, saying, “The Prince di Contini raped her. He brutalized her. Is your daughter here, monsieur? I must speak with her.”
“No, you won’t speak to her, there’s no need. Do you think I’m mad? There will be no charges against the prince. Good day, Inspector.”
“I must hear this from mademoiselle.”
Royce didn’t know what to do. Damned little man with the power of the police behind him. Royce hadn’t, quite simply, thought through the consequences. “I will have my daughter get in touch with you tomorrow, Inspector. I thought you were so concerned about her health. Well, prove it, and go away. She is resting now.”
“No, I’m awake.” Lindsay came slowly into the living room, wearing a nightgown and bathrobe, her feet in soft flat slippers. Her curly hair was tangled around her face, thick and wavy. She looked sixteen years old, except when one noticed the fading bruises and the weary eyes that held too much knowledge for a young girl of her age.
“Go back to bed, Lindsay,” Royce said. “Now. You’re not needed here.”
Inspector Galvain was pleased when she turned to him, ignoring her father. “Hello, Inspector. Is everything all right? Sydney isn’t in trouble, is she?”
“No, there is nothing to worry about with your sister.”
“Her concern for her sister comes a little late, I should say.”
Galvain watched the girl shrink away at the blast of her father’s words. The damned bastard, as cold and brutal as the prince had been. Words or fists, it didn’t matter. The soul was still shattered. Inspector Galvain wished he could take her home with him, to his wife, Lisse, who would smother her with love and reassure her that she hadn’t been to blame.
He said to her now, formality deepening his voice, “I must ask you a question, mademoiselle. I must know if you will press charges against the prince.”
Her face went slack.
“I told you, Inspector, she won’t!”
“Mademoiselle?” Even as he looked at her, his expression as neutral as he could make it, he knew it was impossible for her. But he wanted to try. He wanted to see what the girl was made of. If only he could get her father out of the room, but then, the man would still have a chance at her, to batter her even more than the prince had, only his abuse would be emotional, and the good Lord knew that he’d had years upon years to build weapons for his arsenal.
Lindsay didn’t look at her father. Suddenly she looked very old and immeasurably tired. To Galvain’s surprise, she said in a very calm voice, “If I press charges, Inspector, what exactly would happen?”