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Isabella opened the window and shouted down, 'The door's open - come on up.' Phoebe waved and stepped out of the car, oblivious to the double-takes of passers-by as she walked beneath the huge poster towards the entrance. She had been such a good friend for so long that Isabella sometimes forgot how famous Phoebe was. Today, as always, she looked stunning": six feet tall, blonde and dressed from head to toe in Odin - or whatever top designer she was currently modelling.

Isabella's sadness evaporated when Phoebe breezed in, hugged her, and shook her head in dismay. 'My God, what has she done to the place? I didn't know she'd had a complete personality bypass.' She spoke with a cut-glass English accent. 'Sorry I'm late, Izzy, but the shoot went on for longer than I expected. Are those to go in the can?' She gestured to the two boxes and the guitar.

'Just one. I can get the other box and the guitar into mine.'

'Nothing else?'

'I bought the DVD player a month before we broke up but I wasn't sure whether I should--'

Phoebe tutted, grabbed her hand and led Isabella into the lounge. 'Unplug it and put it on the boxes. Then let's check for anything else of yours the poor girl may have forgotten to pack.' She looked around the room. 'Christ, talk about being colour bland. Poor old Leo -- it almost makes me feel sorry for him. Izzy, you're so lucky to be out of this. He's far too weak for someone as vibrant as you.' She pulled Isabella along to the bedroom. 'Come on, let's have a snoop.'

Isabella started to protest but Phoebe just wrinkled her nose and put a finger to her lips. When they had first met back in the States, Phoebe Davenport had been a skinny, gangly schoolgirl fresh from England, but even then she had been irresistible, and had soon become so famous that the world knew her now by her first name. Phoebe was one of those charismatic people with boundless energy who seemed to revitalize everyone in their orbit. Her late father, Sir Peter Davenport, had owned vast swathes of property in London, and her mother belonged to one of Boston's wealthiest and oldest families. The New Yorker had once dedicated a whole article to how Phoebe had politely declined proposals from at least seven of the world's most eligible bachelors. And yet, despite her privileged background and lifestyle, she had been a kind and true friend to Isabella: she had let Isabella use her Milan apartment when Leo had called off the engagement and forced her to move out.

Phoebe headed straight for the wardrobe. She opened the doors to reveal rows of beautiful designer gowns, skirts and jackets hanging in plastic covers, organized by colour. Isabella was impressed but Phoebe snorted. 'God, what a waste. It's all so last year, darling. More money than taste.'

Isabella laughed. 'Unlike you, of course.'

Phoebe smiled. 'A girl with money and taste is a rare and wonderful thing. We're thin on the ground.' She turned to three black-and-white photographs above the bed, each showing Giovanna in a state of undress, pouting self-consciously for the camera. EvenIsabella could tell that they were amateur, but Phoebe, the model who had stayed at the top of her profession for over a decade, raised an eyebrow and said, 'How brave.'

Her confidence returning, Isabella headed for the kitchen. 'There's one thing of mine I'm definitely going to take.' She looked inside the fridge, which was virtually empty except for some anonymous glass jars, a slab of moulding cheese and a wilting lettuce leaf. Evidently the otherwise perfect Giovanna didn't cook. Phoebe was right: maybe Leo did deserve her. She opened the freezer compartment and rooted about until she came to the tub of her homemade double-choc-chip ice-cream, which Leo loved.

'Good girl,' Phoebe said, over her shoulder. 'Haven't had a choccy fix for ages.' She checked her watch. 'Speaking of treats, we'd better hurry back to the apartment and unload all this. We haven't much time to pack for Antibes.'

Isabella felt a surge of excitement. Tomorrow she would be in the South of France and a holiday was just what she needed: it was a chance to wipe the slate clean, make a fresh start.

They wrestled the guitar, the boxes, the DVD player and the ice-cream out of the front door and on to the landing. Then Isabella went back into the apartment and placed the keys on the hall table. She paused, then took a small box out of her pocket. She opened it and looked at the exquisite diamond ring. She had always understood that if a man broke off an engagement, the woman could keep the ring. But Isabella no longer wanted anything of Leo's. She closed the box and placed it on the table by the keys. The white mark on her lightly tanned finger was already fading.

She looked around the apartment one last time and was glad suddenly that it had been transformed. It was in her past now. She no longer belonged here. She had to move on.

ANTIBES'SMOONLIT MARINA WAS CALM AND ROWS OF TETHERED yachts lay on the still water. Isabella spotted him as she raised the Kir Royale to her lips. She nudged Phoebe. 'Look, it's Bondi.'

'Where?' Phoebe swivelled in her chair just in time to see him walk past the bar and along the marina. The man they had christened Bondi was tall with a deep tan, dark eyes and blond highlights. For the last three days he had been giving Phoebe windsurfing lessons. Tonight he was with another equally beautiful man.

Kathryn Walker flicked her auburn hair out of her green eyes. 'He's gay, Phoebe,' she said, in a tone drier than her martini. 'You might be a supermodel, but however many windsurfing lessons you take with him, and whatever bikini you wear, he's not going to jump you.' Kathryn was an old schoolfriend from the States. One of the famously wealthy Walker family of New York, she had a willowy figure and skin so fair that, although she had covered herself in sunblock for the last three days, her nose was peppered with freckles.

'I don't know wh'at you see in him,' Isabella said. 'He's a windsurf instructor and spends all his time in the sun yet he highlights his hair. How vain is that?'

'I'm telling you, he's definitely gay,' Kathryn said.

'Come on, he's gorgeous.' Phoebe turned to the fourth person in the party for support. 'Surely you can see that, Claire?'

Claire Davenport sipped her Bacardi Breezer. 'I'd need to meet him first.' She was just over a year younger than Phoebe and worked in publishing. She was as blonde as her sister, but not as tall.

'You'd need to meet him?'

'Yeah, to see if I liked him.'

Isabella laughed. 'I agree. I never go for a guy just because of the way he looks.' After Leo she had no intention of going out with anyone just yet, however much she liked him. But this was only talk. 'Handsome is as handsome does.'

"You're saying that first impressions mean nothing?' Phoebe pointed at another beautiful man as he passed. 'What about him? He looks like Brad Pitt.'

'So what?' said Isabella.

'Come on, you're the movie nut. Which movie star do you like?'

Isabella thought for a moment and stifled a yawn. It was almost eleven and she was suddenly drowsy. 'John Corbett.'

'Who?'

'The guy in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I liked the character he played.'

'Yeah,' said Claire. 'He played a cool guy in Sex and the City too.'

Isabella stifled another yawn. 'He seems kind, a man you could trust.' She looked up at the stars and listened to the others continue the conversation, the breeze cool on her skin. For the first few days of the holiday she had been preoccupied with work, but the mix of friends, sun, sea air and exercise had soon worked its magic. She had barely thought of Leo. Now, after a few drinks, she was so relaxed that although Phoebe and the others were "talking about going on to a club she might have to go back to her suite.

THREETABLES AWAY, MAX KAPPEL SIPPED HIS COLD BIERE BLONDE AND leaned back into the shadows. He couldn't stop staring at her. He had breezily agreed to test the NiL drug on himself and Professor Bacci's daughter because he was so convinced it wouldn't work. But now he felt less cavalier. In the flesh Isabella was even more intriguing than her photograph had suggested, and more interesting than her classically beautiful friends, including the exquisite Phoebe. Even when Isabella sat back she appeared animated and expressive.

Her huge brown eyes seemed to convey her emotions, raw and unfiltered.

After Professor Bacci had made up the serums and told him Isabella's holiday plans, Max had decided to conduct the experiment in Antibes. It was a neutral place and if the experiment worked it might pass as a holiday romance - and he knew the area because it was just down the coast from his house in St Laurent-du-Var. He still hadn't decided how he would get close enough to her to inject the drug without arousing her suspicion.

He watched her for another half-hour until she stood up to leave. Above the hubbub he heard apologies: '. . . tired . . . too much sun . . . walk in the fresh air . . .' Phoebe and the others rose to go with her, but Isabella said, "You stay and go clubbing. I'm fine. The hotel's just up the road. See you later.' They all hugged each other, and then she was on the street. Alone.

Max waited a minute then followed her. A few paparazzi were waiting by the exit, presumably for Phoebe. When they realized Isabella wasn't a 'face' they lowered their lenses. As he followed her through the narrow streets he was as conscious of the small PowerDermic vaccine gun in his pocket as if it were a stone in his shoe. He had to stop himself touching it. Usually he felt icily confident before he hit a target, but not tonight. Killing someone was different, cleaner. Dead men told no tales so it didn't matter if they saw who killed them. But tonight he had to inject his prey, then walk away without revealing what he had done.

Isabella Bacci had disconcerted him too. So far his targets had been hard men from whom he had no difficulty in remaining detached. She was different: so unguarded that she made him curious.

As he followed Isabella's athletic frame, he watched the other people wending their way home through the lit streets, laughing, holding hands. 'I was like you once,' he whispered into the night air. 'I felt what you feel' He fingered the vaccine gun again. What if Bacci's claim was genuine? Would this make him feel what normal humans felt?

Suddenly Isabella stopped walking and looked down a narrow side-street. Ahead, a couple and a group of men glanced down the same alley, then averted their eyes and carried on walking. An angry cry made Max step instinctively into the shadows. Edging closer, he looked down the alley and saw three men knock a fourth to the ground. Two young men in suits passed him and walked into the narrow street, then turned back. All avoided eye-contact with the attackers and walked on as if they had seen nothing.

Only Isabella didn't move or look away. Hanging back, Max could tell that she was tempted to walk on by - she was powerless, after all, to do anything. He could almost see the indecision and fear in her eyes.

Then the man on the ground cried out as one of the muggers kicked him in the head, then again. Isabella looked about her frantically for support, evidently hoping someone would intervene. Max stepped back further into the shadows. The few passers-by continued talking among themselves, as if to block out what was happening.

Another kick made contact and blood glistened on the cobbles, the dark pool spreading from the prone man's head like wine from a broken bottle. This galvanized her to run down the side-street towards them, shouting at the top of her voice, 'Stop it! You're killing him! I'm a doctor! Leave him alone!'

At first nothing happened. Then the man doing the kicking paused and looked at her, his face blank. The others were staring, incredulous. She halted four feet from them and Max saw her shoulders slump as the impetuous fury that had propelled her there evaporated, leaving her stranded. Her left knee was shaking and it must have taken all her courage to stand firm.

The kicker stepped towards her. He was young, with long dark hair and a round, cherubic face. A gash on his left cheek was bleeding and the toes of his pale Timberland boots were dark with blood. Then the other two stepped over their victim towards her. Together they formed a line. 'This is your business, Mademoiselle?' demanded the shortest one.

You're killing him,' Max heard her say, voice quivering with outrage as she looked down at the victim, his head covered in blood.

The man with the stained Timberlands reached into his jeans, pulled out an ivory-handled knife and stepped towards her. She didn't move. He stepped closer.

'You have pretty eyes, Mademoiselle, but they see too much.' He pulled the blade back, poised to strike. 'Perhaps I should cut them out.

ISABELLA DIDN'T REMAIN STILL BECAUSE SHE WAS BRAVE: SHE FROZE because she had lost all power over her limbs. She went to the gym regularly and was fit, but she was no fighter. A rush of nausea brought her out in a cold, prickly sweat. She wished she'd stayed in the bar now and walked back to the hotel with the others. She tried to shout, but her mouth was dry, her throat tight.

The man smiled and the knife glinted in the flickering light of the street-lamp. He moved closer and when she stepped back, her heel caught the kerb. She stumbled, hit her head on the lamp-post and fell to the ground, dazed.

What a pathetic way to die, she thought, looking up at the thug's half-lit face. As he thrust the knife towards her, a shadow fell across his features, and she saw movement in her peripheral vision. Time seemed to slow and her visual acuity sharpened as the blade rushed towards her in a quicksilver flash. Then, it was obscured by a dark mass inches from her eyes. A huge figure had appeared above her, the light from the street-lamp illuminating his white-blond hair like a halo. Only now did she realize that he had shielded her face by thrusting his arm in the knife's path. He had wrapped his forearm in his linen jacket but the blade had still cut him: a bloodstain bloomed on the pale fabric. He made no sound, and his clear blue eyes betrayed no pain.