Paris, France

KELLY HARRIS WAS a roman candle that had exploded into the world of fashion. She was in her late twenties, an African-American with skin the color of melted honey and a face that was a photographer's dream. She had intelligent soft brown eyes, sensual full lips, lovely long legs, and a figure filled with erotic promise. Her dark hair was cut short in deliberate dishabille, with a few strands sprawling across her forehead. Earlier that year, the readers of Elle and Mademoiselle magazines had voted Kelly the Most Beautiful Model in the World.

As she finished dressing, Kelly looked around the penthouse, feeling, as always, a sense of wonder. The apartment was spectacular. It was on the exclusive Rue St.-Louis-en-Elle, in the Fourth Arrondissenient of Paris. The apartment had a double-door entry that opened into an elegant hall with high ceilings and soft yellow wall panels, and the living room was furnished with an eclectic mixture of French and Regency furniture. From the terrace, across the Seine, was a view of Notre-Dame.

Kelly was looking forward to the coming weekend. Mark was going to take her out for one of his surprise treats.

I want you to get all dressed up, honey. You 're going to love where we're going.

Kelly smiled to herself. Her husband was the most wonderful man in the world.

Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and sighed. I had better get moving, she thought. The show starts in half an hour. A few moments later, she left the apartment, heading down the hallway toward the elevator. As she did so, the door of a neighboring apartment opened and Madame Josette Lapointe came out into the corridor.

A small butterball of a woman, she always had a friendly word for Kelly.

"Good afternoon, Madame Harris." Kelly smiled. "Good afternoon, Madame Lapointe." "You're looking beautiful, as always." "Thank you." Kelly pressed the button for the elevator.

A dozen feet away, a burly man in work clothes was adjusting a wall fixture. He glanced at the two women, then quickly turned his head.

"How is the modeling going?" Madame Lapointe asked.

"Very well, thank you." "I must come and see you in one of your fashion shows soon." "I'll be happy to arrange it anytime." The elevator arrived, and Kelly and Madame Lapointe stepped inside. The man in work clothes pulled out a small walkie-talkie, spoke hurriedly into it, and rapidly walked away.

As the elevator door started to close, Kelly heard the telephone ring in her apartment. She hesitated.

She was in a hurry, but it could be Mark calling.

"You go ahead," she said to Madame Lapointe.

Kelly stepped out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, found it, and ran back into her apartment.

She raced to the ringing telephone and picked it up. "Mark?" A strange voice said, "Nanette?' Kelly was disappointed. "Nous ne connaissons pas la personne qui repond a ce nom." "Pardonnez-moi. C'est une erreur de telephone." A wrong number. Kelly put the phone down. As she did, there was a tremendous crash that shook the whole building. A moment later, there was a babble of voices and loud screams. Horrified, she rushed into the hall to see what had happened. The sounds were coming from below. Kelly ran down the stairs, and when she finally reached the lobby, she heard loud, excited voices coming from the basement.

Apprehensively, she went down the stairs to the basement and stood in shock as she saw the crushed elevator car and the horribly mangled body of Madame Lapointe in it. Kelly felt faint. That poor woman. A minute ago she was alive and now?And I could have been in there with her. If not for that telephone call?

A crowd had gathered around the elevator, and sirens were heard in the distance.

I should stay, Kelly thought guiltily, but I can't. I have to leave. She looked at the body and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Madame Lapointe."

* * *

WHEN KELLY ARRIVED at the fashion salon and walked in the stage door, Pierre, the nervous fashion coordinator, was waiting.

He pounced on her. "Kelly! Kelly! You're late! The show has already started and-" "I'm sorry, Pierre. There-there was a bad accident." He looked at her in alarm. "Are you hurt?" "No." Kelly closed her eyes for a moment. The idea of going to work after what she had witnessed was nauseating, but she had no choice. She was the star of the show.

"Hurry!" Pierre said. "Vite!"

Kelly started toward her dressing room.

* * *

THE YEAR'S MOST prestigious fashion show was being held at 31 Rue Cambon, Chanel's original salon. The paparazzi were near the front rows. Every seat was occupied, and the back of the room was crowded with standees eager to get the first glimpse of the coming season's new designs. The room had been decorated for the event with flowers and draped fabrics, but no one was paying any attention to the decor. The real attractions were on the long runway-a river of moving colors, beauty, and style. In the background, music was playing, its slow, sexy beat accentuating the movements onstage.

As the lovely models glided back and forth, they were accompanied by a voice on a loudspeaker giving a running commentary on the fashions.

An Asian brunette started down the runway: "?a satin wool jacket with edge top stitching and georgette pants and a white blouse? A slim blonde undulated across the runway: "?is wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with white cotton cargo pants? A redhead with an attitude appeared: "?a black leather jacket and black shantung pants with a white knit shirt? A French model: "?a pink, three-button angora jacket, a pink cable-knit turtleneck and black cuffed pants? A Swedish model: "?a navy satin wool jacket and pants and a lilac charmeuse blouse? And then the moment everyone had been waiting for. The Swedish model had walked off and the runway was deserted. The voice over the loudspeaker said, "And now that the swimming season is here, we are pleased to display our new line of beachwear." There was a crescendo of anticipation, then Kelly Harris appeared at the peak of it. She was wearing a white bikini, a bra that barely covered her firm, young breasts and a figure-hugging bottom. As she floated sensuously down the runway, the effect was mesmerizing. There was a wave of applause.

Kelly gave a faint smile of acknowledgment, circled the runway, and disappeared.

Backstage, two men were waiting for her.

"Mrs. Harris, if I could have a moment-?" "I'm sorry," Kelly said apologetically. "I have to make a quick change." She started to walk away.

"Wait! Mrs. Harris! We are with the Police Judiciaire. I am Chief Inspector Dune and this is Inspector Steunou. We need to talk." Kelly stopped. "The police? Talk about what?" "You are Mrs. Mark Harris, yes?" "Yes." She was filled with sudden apprehension.

"Then I am sorry to inform you that-that your husband died last night." Kelly's mouth was dry. "My husband-? How-?" "Apparently, he committed suicide." There was a roar in Kelly's ears. She could barely make out what the chief inspector was saying: "?

Tour Eiffel?midnight?note?very regrettable?deepest sympathy." The words were not real. They were pieces of sound with no meaning.

"Madame-" This weekend, I want you to get all dressed up, darling. You're going to love where we're going.

"There is some-some mistake," Kelly said. "Mark wouldn't-" "I am sorry." The chief inspector was watching Kelly closely. "Are you all right, madame?" "Yes." Except that my life has just ended.

Pierre bustled over to Kelly, carrying a beautiful striped bikini. "Cherie, you must change quickly.

There is no time to waste." He thrust the bikini in her arms. "Vite! Vite!" Kelly slowly let it drop to the floor. "Pierre?" He was looking at her in surprise. "Yes?" "You wear it."

* * *

A LIMOUSINE BROUGHT Kelly back to her apartment. The salon manager had wanted to send someone to be with her, but Kelly had refused. She wanted to be alone. Now, as she walked in through the entrance, Kelly saw the concierge, Philippe Cendre, and a man in overalls, surrounded by a group of tenants.

One of the tenants said, "Poor Madame Lapointe. What a terrible accident." The man in overalls held up two jagged ends of a heavy cable. "It was no accident, madame. Someone cut the elevator's safety brakes."