He stared grimly through the office window at Sydney Harbour, a treacherous smiling blue in the midday sun. One way or another he had to find the canaille. Hunt him down and force him to make reparation.

There was one final resort, of course. Luc sighed. He should have known it would come to this.

The family connection.

Emilie, R'emy’s twin, was married to an Australian now, but as far as Luc knew she and R'emy had always been close. Despite not having seen her for a few years, Luc thought of Emi with affection. Though she shared R'emy’s gingery curls and blue eyes, she was as different from her twin as a warm, happy wren from a vulture.

Trouble was, like all the women in his family she wanted to know too much.

Eyeliner in hand, Shari leaned closer to the mirror. Dark blue along right lower lid, continue without breaking across bridge, now ease onto left lower lid.

She winced. Careful. While the swelling had subsided, her bruise was still tender. Her badge. The perfect parting gift, really, for a mouse. It brightened up her face. It seemed she could never have compared to all those exciting women R'emy had known in France. And she was too demanding. Suspicious. Difficult. Too clever for her own good. Too emotional— Well, that one was certainly true. Too mouthy. Too jealous. Too unforgiving. Frigide. A frump. Needy. Victorian …

His complaints had mounted over time. No wonder the poor guy had been forced to seek so much feminine consolation far and wide.

She knew in her mind the trick was not to believe the things he’d said, but to ridicule them. Though in her heart …

He’d stopped being sweet some time back, but this recent encounter had been … a shock. Nothing she’d ever anticipated. Though she needed to remind herself it could have been far worse. For a while there she’d thought he might actually force her into sex.

Hot shame swept through her again. To think something like this could happen to her. The irony of it, when her girlfriends had so envied her for her sexy Frenchman. At one time. Before they noticed his roving eye. However tactful they tried to be around her, Shari knew they’d seen it.

But if any of them found out it had come to this squalid end—the ones she had left, that was—what would they think of her? Would they assume he’d been violent all along? Would they think she’d tolerated it?

She wished she wouldn’t keep thinking of all those battered wives she’d seen on television shows over the years. All those sad women, too beaten down to defend themselves, believing they deserved their punishment, making excuses for their abusers. Forgiving them, walking the domestic tightrope fearful of saying the wrong thing.

She started breathing fast, getting too emotional again. It was no use getting worked up again. She wasn’t those women. She hadn’t been too entangled in the relationship to see she had to extricate herself. She’d acted swiftly and decisively, give or take a couple of cruel tweaks of her hair. A twist of her ear. A nipple. Shari Lacey would not be, could never be, downtrodden.

From now on it was all good. She was in her lovely old Paddington again, with every pretty street teeming with the sort of inspirations a children’s author needed. She had everything to sing about.

Still, it was amazing how a man’s fist had only needed to be slammed in her face the one time to leave her as jumpy as a kitten. Thank heavens she’d already dealt with the estate agents and fixed up the details of her move before Fist Day, or she wasn’t sure how she’d have coped.

But she was a rational person. She was safe now. She would get over it. The important thing was to fight fear. Not to turn into an emotional cripple, cringing at the sound of every male voice. She could still enjoy men and indulge in a little flirty chit-chat.

Maybe.

R'emy was not typical. Her head knew this. Once again, though, it was her heart that was the trouble.

In fact it was a good thing, a needful thing, that Neil was insisting she come to his party. There’d be loads of men there, all quite as civilised as her lovely brother. It could be her testing ground. From this moment on, serenity was her cloak and her shield.

When her hand grew steady again, she lined both lids with the darker shade, painted a band of purple shadow beneath her eyes and on the upper lids, then switched to the turquoise brush inside the corners, across the bridge and all the way to her brows.

Standing back to examine her handiwork, she felt a surge of relief. Not only was the bruise undetectable, the stripe across her eyes looked quite atmospheric. It was dramatic, maybe a little over the top, but it suited her. Somehow it made her irises glow a vivid sea-green.

If she hadn’t been kicking herself over what a fool she’d been, how needy she must have been to fall for such a clich'e, she’d have laughed to think of how poor old Neil and Emilie would freak when she turned up looking like Daryl Hannah in Bladerunner.