Trying to compose herself, Colette said, “Oh, it’s been terrible! Just terrible! After you guys left the party, this baby grand piano was wheeled out on the stage. Then John Major appeared and asked me to stand next to him while he serenaded me—”

“The former prime minister of Britain serenaded you?” Nick cut in, utterly bewildered.

“I’m sorry, I mean John Legend.”

“I’m so relieved,” Mehmet remarked drily to Astrid.

“So John began to sing ‘All of Me,’?” Colette continued tearfully, “and at the end of the song, Richie got onstage, dropped to his knees dramatically, and asked me to marry him.”

Rachel and Nick both gasped.

“He ambushed me right in front of everyone! Apparently my mother and the girls were in on this—that’s why so many friends from China showed up at the party. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there and noticed Gordon Ramsay over by the carrot truffle fries and all I could think was, What is Gordon going to think if I say no?”

“What did you do?” Rachel asked.

“I tried to laugh it off. I said, ‘Oh come on, Richie, this is a prank, right?’ And Richie said, ‘Does this look like a prank?’ He takes a velvet box out of his pocket and thrusts this ring in my face. I’m looking at it, this thirty-two-carat blue diamond from Repossi, and I’m thinking, AS IF I would ever wear a ring from Repossi! This man doesn’t know me, and I’m not in love with him. So I said, ‘I’m so honored, but you’re going to have to give me time.’ Richie said, ‘What do you mean give you time? We’ve been dating exclusively for three years now.’ And I said, ‘Come on, we haven’t exactly been exclusive,’ and all of a sudden Richie’s face got all twisted up and he began ranting, ‘What the hell do you mean by that? You’ve strung me along for three years now! I’m sick of waiting, and I’m sick of your games. Do you have any idea how much I’ve spent on tonight? Do you think John Legend flies to Paris for just anyone?’ Then suddenly Carlton, who had been standing right in front of the stage, hollered, ‘Hundan!*1 Can’t you get the message? SHE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU!’ And before I knew what was happening, Richie screamed ‘Nong sa bi suo luan!,’*2 leaped off the stage onto Carlton, and started punching him in the face!”

“Jesus! Is Carlton okay?” Rachel asked.

“He’s a bit battered, but he’s okay. Mario Batali, though—”

“What happened to Mario?” Astrid cut in, alarmed.

“As Carlton and Richie were rolling on the ground trying to kill each other, my bodyguards tried to get in there and break it up, but it just made things worse, because the four of them bashed into Mario’s food station, and this vat of olive oil where he was deep-frying the fritto misto got toppled over and burst into flames. The next thing you know Mario’s ponytail was on fire!”

“Oh no! Poor Mario!” Astrid clasped her hands to her face in horror.

“Thank God Mrs. Shi was standing nearby. She knew exactly what to do—she grabbed the can of baking soda and immediately emptied it onto Mario’s head. She saved his life!”

“I’m so glad Mario’s all right.” Astrid sighed in relief.

“So what happened after that?” Nick asked.

“The fight pretty much ended the party, and I managed to drag Carlton back to the hotel, but as I was trying to help him clean up his wounds, we got into the biggest row we’ve ever had. Oh Rachel, I know he was drunk, but he started spewing such hurtful things…he accused me of playing him against Richie…he said I had no one to blame for this whole fiasco but myself, and then he stormed out of the room.”

Rachel thought her brother’s accusations weren’t actually that far off the mark, but she tried to be sympathetic. “You probably need to just let him cool down a bit. Things will be better by the morning.”

“But we can’t wait until morning! After Carlton left, I got a call from Honey Chai the gossip columnist. She’s in Shanghai, but she had already heard all about Richie and Carlton’s fight. Then she told me something even more alarming—apparently several months ago, Richie challenged Carlton to a drag race, and it’s happening tonight!”

“Drag race? You must be joking,” Rachel said.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Colette frowned.

“Aren’t they a little old for this?” Rachel asked. Drag racing sounded so juvenile to her, like something out of Rebel Without a Cause.

“Hiyah, you don’t understand! This isn’t some kiddie race—they’ll be driving these super-fast cars through the streets at night, evading police all the way. It’s going to be so dangerous! Honey Chai heard that Richie and Carlton are staking ten million dollars against each other, and people all over Asia are betting on this race—that’s why so many of Richie’s friends are here in Paris! Almost every guy I know is obsessed with racing these days.”

Nick chimed in, “Actually, I read an article about this in the paper. All these Chinese kids from rich families are taking part in illegal drag races around the world—Toronto, Hong Kong, Sydney—getting into huge wrecks and damaging millions of dollars in property along the way. Now I know why Carlton was doing so many test laps around the track at Bugatti the other day!”

Colette nodded grimly. “Yes, I thought he was just buying cars for his side business, but now we know the real reason. And he’s been so emotionally erratic these past few days—the disappearing act, the drinking, the fighting—it’s all because of this goddamn race! I feel so stupid, I should have seen this coming from a mile away.”

“Come on, none of us suspected either,” Rachel said.

Colette looked around the room uneasily, trying to decide how much of the story she wanted to tell. “You know, this isn’t the first time Richie and Carlton have tried this. This happened before in London.”

“That’s how Carlton got into that car wreck, wasn’t it?” Nick asked.

Colette nodded sadly. “He was racing Richie down Sloane Street, and his car”—her voice was suddenly cracking—“his car spun out of control and crashed into a building.”

“Wait a minute, I think I read about this…wasn’t it a Ferrari that smashed into the Jimmy Choo boutique?” Astrid piped in.

“That was it! But that’s not the whole story. There were other passengers with Carlton. Two girls were inside the car—a British girl who will never walk again and a Chinese girl who…who died. It was a horrible tragedy, all covered up by the Baos.”

Rachel’s face went pale. “Carlton told you all this?”

“I was there, Rachel. I was in the other car—the Lamborghini that Richie was driving. The girl who died was a friend of mine who went to LSE,” Colette tearfully revealed.

Everyone stared in shock at Colette.

“It’s all beginning to make sense now,” Nick said in a hushed tone, thinking back to what his mother had told him about the accident.

Colette continued. “Carlton hasn’t been the same since the crash. He’s never been able to get over it—he blames himself and he blames Richie. I think he feels like he can somehow redeem himself by winning this race. But we can’t let him get into any car tonight. He’s in no condition—not physically and especially not mentally. Rachel, can you please talk some sense into him? I’ve been calling him nonstop, and of course he isn’t picking up my calls. But I think he’ll listen to you.”

With the full gravity of the situation finally sinking in, Rachel picked up her phone and dialed Carlton’s number. “It’s gone straight to voice mail.”

“I was hoping he’d pick up if he saw your number.” Colette sighed.

“We’ll just have to go to him. Where’s this race taking place?” Nick asked.

“That’s the thing—I have no idea. Everyone’s just disappeared. Roxanne’s off with my security team trying to track them down, but she hasn’t had any luck so far.”

Astrid suddenly spoke up. “What’s Carlton’s phone number?”

“It’s 86 135 8580 9999.”

Taking out her phone, Astrid began dialing Charlie Wu’s private line. “Hey you! No, no, everything’s fine, thank you. Um, hope you don’t mind, but I have a big favor to ask. Does that security whiz still work for you?” She paused, lowering her voice. “The one who tracked youknowwho down with just a mobile-phone number a couple of years ago? Great. Could you help me track down the location of this phone? No, really, I’m absolutely fine. I’m just trying to help some friends out—I’ll tell you the whole story later.”

A few minutes later, Astrid’s phone buzzed back with a text message. “Found him,” she said with a grin. “Right now, it looks like Carlton’s at a commercial garage on avenue de Malakoff, right next to Porte Maillot.”

PARIS—2:45 A.M.