Killer Heat

His French accent was always a turn-on.

On Martha's Vineyard I kept a collection of old keys on my desk- from flea markets and antique shops-to use as paperweights. Luc must have seen them after Joan and Jim's wedding.

I left a voice mail for him at the hotel before I slipped into the tub.

I felt better after a long, soothing bath and an attempt at a nap. But I was too wired to sleep, excited by my feelings for Luc-feelings I hadn't experienced in more than a year.

Joan and my friend Nina were determined to help me find a balance between my private life and the intensity of the prosecutorial job. I liked the emotional involvement of my work, but it was difficult to translate how richly rewarding it could be to someone who'd had no experience with the dark world of sex crimes and homicides.

It was an admittedly odd juxtaposition. When I closed my eyes to think about kissing Luc, I had to force out thoughts of the two dead women whose killers we were trying to find. I could remember every word Luc had whispered to me that first night on the Vineyard, but the staccato sound of gunshots still reverberated in my ears, even in the quiet space of my home.

There was something so easy, so comfortable about spending time with friends who were prosecutors and detectives. There was no need to explain how we coped with the trauma that we witnessed almost every day, or to applaud our efforts to help put people's lives back together, or to question our often Sisyphean interest in bringing the guilty to justice.

I needed to leave some of that baggage at home when I walked out the door to meet Luc.

I wore a strapless sundress that always lightened my mood when I put it on. It was aqua silk, with a swing skirt that just touched the top of my knees. My legs were tanned and it was too hot for pantyhose, so I chose a pair of black patent sandals with thin straps and high heels. I carried a sequined throw over my shoulders, in the unlikely event it cooled down during the evening.

I took a last look at myself in the mirror, then pulled back my hair, sweeping it off my neck into a knot and clipping it in place with a beaded barrette.

'There's a car service waiting for you, Ms. Cooper,' the doorman said when I came downstairs.

'Thanks, Vinny.'

He held the door open and whistled for the driver to pull up. 'Glad you're taking the night off. That's a tough schedule you've been keeping.'

Even the doormen knew I needed to get a life.

It was a fast ride to the elegant hotel on Sixty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue. Bright red awnings and neatly trimmed topiary marked the entrance, and I stopped to reapply my lipstick before I went into the lobby.

Bar Seine was one of the most attractive rooms in the city. Dark wood paneling gave it a rich, warm look, and the low lighting and soft music added to its appeal. As soon as I stood in the doorway, Luc came forward to greet me.

'Bon soir, Alexandra,' he said, taking me in his arms and kissing both my cheeks several times. 'I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I'd have been-how do you say? Desole-there's nothing in English that quite captures that expression. I don't know what I would have done if you'd thrown me over for another case.'

Luc guided me to a banquette in a corner of the room. Before we sat, he lifted my fingers in the air and twirled me once around. 'You look ravishing. I've kept the driver, so perhaps we'll go dancing after supper.'

'Lovely idea.'

'Une coupe?'

'Oui, monsieur.'

There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a cooler. The waiter saw us sit down and came over to pop the cork.

'That's the last thing I'm going to say in French.' Luc had made fun of my accent on our second date, despite years I spent studying the language in high school and college.

He raised his flute and tapped it against mine. 'Well, if you just say 'oui' to everything I ask from this point on, we'll do fine. Here's to a splendid evening.'

There was something wonderfully seductive about Luc's manner. Although Nina had declared him GU- geographically undesirable- when she learned he was just visiting from France, she, too, had been taken by his charm and charisma.

'Are you hungry? Did you have any lunch?' he asked before the waiter left.

I had been too upset to eat anything after the episode at the range. 'Something light would be good.'

'Huitres?'

'Perfect.'

'Perhaps not as fresh as the oysters you get in Chilmark from Larsen's Fish Market or those fried clams at The Bite, but they should do,' Luc said, ordering two dozen for us. 'Now tell me about your day. What kept you out of the office?'

'Tell me about yours. You probably have more exciting news.'

Luc was forty-eight years old, divorced with two children who lived nearby in his hometown. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had strong features-blue gray eyes that reflected his enthusiasm, even behind wire- rimmed glasses, and a long, thin Roman nose. He was tall and lean, with hair just a few shades darker than my own, and his great style was evident in the way he dressed and carried himself.

'I think things are beginning to shape up well,' he said. 'This is the height of our season in Mougins. It's hard for me to get away in August, but the opportunity to duplicate my father's creation is quite thrilling for me.'

Luc smiled easily. He delighted in the pleasures of the culinary arts, and his energy was infectious. I couldn't imagine a professional world- certainly neither law nor medicine, with which I'd been surrounded since childhood- that didn't involve life-and-death decisions but simply enjoyment.

Andre Rouget had moved to New York from France in the 1960s and had built a remarkable career in a notoriously fickle business. One of the first celebrity chefs, he had opened a landmark restaurant in a town house on East Fiftieth Street. Lutece became known for the finest French cuisine in America, maintaining its excellence as it passed from Rouget's leadership to that of the great Andre Soltner, until it closed its doors almost forty years later.

'Have you found a location?' I asked.

'I'm hoping to do this exactly in the manner of my father,' Luc said, explaining that his partner in the venture was scouting for a building very much like the original.

'And you'll call it Lutece?'

'Bien sur. There's a great history in that name. You know what it means?'

'Wasn't Lutetia the original name of Paris? Isn't that the Latin word, from the time of the Roman conquest?'

'Even more complicated, Alex. The Parisii were a Celtic tribe, living on the Ile de la Cite. The derivation of the word is Celtic-louk-teih, the place of the marshes.'

I didn't want to be thinking of Mike Chapman now, but the mention of a useful piece of trivia brought him to mind at once. The information would serve me well betting against him on Jeopardy! some night.

'But let's talk about you. Tell me why you aren't on the Vineyard this weekend.'

The oysters arrived on a bed of ice chips. They were cold and delicious, with a slightly briny taste that I especially liked.

'I couldn't plan anything because of the trial. I should be able to get up there for the long Labor Day weekend.'

'Such a beautiful island, especially where you are, in Chilmark. It must restore your spirit, when everything else about your work seems so harsh.'

'My own little piece of paradise, Luc. I love it there. What happens in Washington tomorrow?'

'My partner wants me to meet a guy who lives on the Eastern Shore-a potential backer for the restaurant. Then I fly directly home. Back to work. We have to feed all those American tourists, you know,' Luc said, refilling our glasses and touching the rim of his against mine again. 'Laura told me you had a big victory yesterday. Can you explain the case to me?'

I didn't want to bring Kerry Hastings's story into our rendezvous. It was too somber to mix with champagne