Honor Thyself by Danielle Steel

came on and asked Jason who he was. The call was getting stranger by the minute, and he didn't like it.
    “My name is Jason Waterman, I'm Miss Barber's ex-husband. And I'm a long-standing client of the Ritz. Is something wrong?” He was beginning to have a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he wasn't sure why. “Is Miss Barber all right?”
    “I'm sure she is, sir. And this is rather unusual, but we've had a note from the head housekeeper about her room. These things happen, and she may be traveling, or actually staying somewhere else. But she hasn't used her room since she checked in. Normally, I wouldn't mention it, but the housekeeper was concerned. Apparently all of her things are there, as well as her handbag, and her passport is on the desk. There's been no sign of activity in the room for nearly two weeks.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as though divulging a secret.
    “Shit,” Jason blurted out. “Has anyone seen her?”
    “Not that I'm aware of, sir. Is there anyone you'd like us to call?” This was very unusual. Hotels like the Ritz did not tell people who called that the guest they were calling hadn't used their room in two weeks. Jason knew they must have been worried too.
    “Yes, there is,” Jason answered his question. “This probably sounds crazy, but could you check with the police, or the hospitals where the victims of the tunnel attack were taken, and just make sure there are no unidentified victims, either dead or alive?” It made him sick to say it, but he was suddenly worried about her. He still loved her, always had, she was the mother of his kids, and they were good friends. He just hoped nothing terrible had happened. And if it wasn't the tunnel attack, he had no idea where the hell she was. Stevie probably knew more than he did, and didn't want to divulge secrets. Maybe she'd been meeting some guy in Paris, or elsewhere in Europe. She was, after all, single again now, since Sean's death. But then why hadn't she used her room, or at least taken her passport and handbag? These things didn't happen, he told himself. But sometimes they did. He hoped she was shacked up somewhere, with a new romance, and not in a hospital, or worse. “Would you mind calling around?” he asked the assistant manager, who immediately promised that he would.
    “Would you be kind enough to leave me your number, sir?” Jason gave it to him. It was one o'clock in New York, and just after seven at night in Paris. He didn't expect to hear from him till the next day. He hung up, feeling uneasy, and sat at his desk, staring at the phone for a long time, thinking of her. His secretary told him the Hotel Ritz in Paris was on the line twenty minutes later. It was the same clipped British voice he'd spoken to before.
    “Yes? Could you find anything out?” Jason asked, sounding tense.
    “I believe so, sir, although it may not be her. There is a victim of the bombing who was taken to La Pitié Salpêtrière hospital. She is blond, approximately forty to forty-five years old. She is unidentified and has not been claimed.” He made her sound like lost luggage, and Jason's voice was a croak when he spoke.
    “Is she alive?” He was terrified of the answer.
    “She's in the intensive care unit, in critical condition, with a head injury. She's the only unidentified victim of the bombing they have left. She also has a broken arm, and second-degree burns.” Jason felt sick as he listened. “She's in a coma, which is why they've been unable to identify her. There's no reason to believe it's Miss Barber, sir. I would think someone would have recognized her even in France, since she's known worldwide. This woman is probably French.”
    “Not necessarily. Maybe her face is burned. Or maybe they just didn't expect to see her there. Or maybe it's not her. I hope to God it's not.” Jason sounded near tears.
    “So do I,” the assistant manager said in a gentle voice. “What would you like me to do, sir? Should I send