cry uncle [070-070-3.7]

By: judith arnold

Synopsis:

JUST LEAVE, Pamela ordered herself.  Get out.  Save your life.

Two suitcases--a Pullman and a folding bag--stood by the door, her
trench coat draped over them.  The lights and the air conditioner had
been turned off, the drapes drawn against the early morning fog.  The
traveler's checks she'd purchased yesterday were stashed carefully in
an inner pocket of the Pullman.  In her purse she had her passport, her
driver's liCense and her credit cards, each of them required for
travel, for escape.

She allowed her self a farewell look at the living room.  Her gaze took
in the dramatic abstract sculpture adorning the far corner, the wall of
glass that faced Puget Sound, the gleaming hardwood floors.  The sleek
white L-shaped sofa.  The glass-topped coffee table.  The dhur-rie
rugs.  The Waterford crystal coasters, stacked neatly beside the
matching cut-crystal ice bucket on the wet bar.  The embroidered silk
throw pillows.  The plants, a tic us and a couple of philodendrons,
standing lush and green in ceramic pots.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Judith Arnold has never witnessed a professional hit man at work, and
she has never tied her sons to a ceiling fan by their feet {although
she's been tempted to}.  That hasu't,.  ho ever prevented her from
creating a wonderfully inventive story in which the hero protects the
woman he loves from a cold-blooded killer and copes a more than
usually precocious child.  You'll delight in the danger, romance and
humor of Cry Uncle.

The award-winning author of more than fifty published romances, Judith
lives quietly with her family in Massachusetts, where she exercises her
imagination at least as much as her body.

Har/equ/n Books

TORONTO NEW YORK * LONDON

AMSTERDAM PARIS * SYDNEY * HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM A'I3"IENS TOKYO * MILAN

MADRID * WARSAW * BUDAPEST AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

My thanks to Jo Anne Young of Moonstruck Travel for her generosity and
friendship.

This book is dedicated to my nieces, Hannah and Rachel, and my nephews,
Jacob, Sanders and Nahum.  Not a Lizard among them.

ISBN 0-373-70634-0

Copyright 1995 by' Barbara Keller.

All rights reserved.  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter Invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written
permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan
Mill Road,

Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination
of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the
same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired by any
individual known or unknown to the author, and all Incidents are pure
invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises B. V.
and TM are trademarks of the publisher.  Trademarks Indicated with are
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Off'me, the

Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U. S. A.

PROLOGUE

JUST LEAVE, Pamela ordered herself.  Get out.  Save your life.

Two suitcases--a Pullman and a folding bag--stood by the door, her
trench coat draped over them.  The lights and the air conditioner had
been turned off, the drapes drawn against the early morning fog.  The
traveler's checks she'd purchased yesterday were stashed carefully in
an inner pocket of the Pullman.  In her purse she had her passport, her
driver's liCense and her credit cards, each of them required for
travel, for escape.

She allowed her seN a farewell look at the living room.  Her gaze took
in the dramatic abstract sculpture adorning the far corner, the wall of
glass that faced Puget Sound, the gleaming hardwood floors.  The sleek
white L-shaped sofa.  The glass-topped coffee table.  The dhur-rie
rugs.  The Waterford crystal coasters, stacked neatly beside the
matching cut-crystal ice bucket on the wet bar.  The embroidered silk
throw pillows.  The plants, a tic us and a couple of philodendrons,
standing lush and green in ceramic pots.

Oh, Lord, the plants.  She should have given them to someone to water
in her absence.

But she'd been preoccupied by so much else: arranging to have all her
mail forwarded to her attorney's office, discontinuing her newspaper
delivery, emptying the refrigerator.  Packing.  Figuring out where on
earth a

vwaa could hide so a hit man wouldn't find her.  Dreaming about when
she could come back and resume her normal life.

If the plants die, they die, she thought.  Better them than me.

She loathed running away like this, losing control over her existence,
depending on the whims of fate to determine her course.  But as long as
Mick Morrow was out on bail, free to roam Seattle looking for her, she
had no choice.

She checked her watch: six-thirty.  She ought to be sipping a cup of
fresh-brewed coffee right now and scanning the front page of the
newspaper, after which she would don an elegant business suit and drive
down to Murtaugh Associates, where she would take her place at her
drafting table or behind her desk and conenplate her next
assignment--an assignment she'd had to relinquish to Richard Duffy
because Mick Morrow was on the loose.  She'd done the preliminary
designs for the strip-mall face-lift.  She'd made the presentations and
won the client, but now Richard was going to get to oversee the
project.  Pamela no longer had a sayin it.

She no longer had a say in anything.  Ever since she'd realized that
the same car was following her for the third time in one week, driven
by the same man she'd testified against in court, she'd lost her sense
of safety.

The police thought she was paranoid, and maybe she was.  They'd sworn
they had an officer on Mick Morrow's tail twenty-four hours a day, and
he hadn't been anywhere near her.  She wished she could believe them,
but she didn't.

Vrlthout her testimony, the district attorney would have a difficult
time winning a murder conviction.  Pamela had already seen Morrow
commit murder once.  Was it really so paranoid to believe he'd commit
murder a second time, if murdering her guaranteed his freedom?

She wasn't going to stick around to find out.  She was going to
disappear.

CHAPTER ONE

NoN- OF Tim WOME in the Shipwreck looked like wife material to Joe.

The usual crowd filled the tavern sunburned beach bums, a few arty
types, some navy guys, and the standard allotment of amateur fishermen,
professional fishermen and big talkers eager to regale any sucker who
wandered by with stories about the one that got away.  The Shipwreck's
female clientele fell into similar categories--boaters, navy personnel,
beach bunnies, artistes.  Joe knew at least half of them.  The other
half he figured he probably didn't want to know.

"She'll be here," Kitty promised, sidling up to the bar and slapping
down her tray.  "I need two rural runners and a Cutty on ice."

Joe wrenched his attention from the noisy crowd and gazed around the
dimly lit room.  He took in the knotted plank flooring, the walls
draped with weathered nets, and the ceiling, where broad-blade fans
churned the sticky air without doing much to cool it.  In front of him
the bar stretched left and right, his personal, chest-high fortress. In
front of the bar stood Kitty, his head waitress.  Despite the heat, her
skin was dry, her platinum blond hair only the slight cat bit droopy.

"Two ram runners and a Curry on ice," he repeated, reaching for
glasses.  "What time did you tell her to come?"

"I didn't.  She'll get here when she gets here, okay?"

"This is important, you know."

Kitty snorted.  "If it's all that important, why don't you marry me
?"

Grinning, Joe cascaded a generous portion of Scotch over the ice cubes
in a highball glass.  "That would make me what?  Your fourth
husband?"

"Fifth, but who's counting?"

"You know I love you, Kitty.  But you're exactly what I don't need
right now."

"Yeah, tell me about it."  She returned his grin, then waltzed off, her
tray balanced above her shoulder on the splayed fingers of one hand.
Joe observed the sway of her hips with detached admiration.  She had
big curve top and bottom, and she dressed in clothing that flaunted
them--tonight, a snug T-shirt and fire-engine-red shorts.  Her legs
were a tad thick, but her other dimensious were superlative enough to
overcome that flaw.  She probably would have been even mor attractive
if she didn't bleach her hair.  Toward the end of every month, the dark
roots made her look a little seedy.

Joe and Kitty had slept together once, years ago--he-tween her second
and third husbands if he wasn't mi taken.  But they hadn't set the
world on fire, and they'd decided that from that point on they would
just be friends.  In any case, a four-times-married bleached blonde
whose brassiere cups run neth over wasn't the kind of woman Joe needed
right now.

He needed someone proper and demure, someone stable and respectable
and.  boring.  The woman Joe was looking for had to be bland and
inoffensive.  No dark roots, no wise-ass sense of humor, no D-cup bm
and sassy hip-wiggling.  The woman he was going to marry

had to be exactly the sort of woman he'd never bother with if he had
any choice in the matter.

But he didn't have a choice.

When she'd arrived at the Shipwreck for her shift that evening, Kitty
had told him she'd found exactly the woman for him.  "She moved into my
building just a few days ago.  Unattached, quiet, keeps to herself.  I
ran into her in the laundry room, introduced myself and said, " I

know a guy who's looking for a lady just like you.  ""

"What did she say?"

"Nothing.  She just kinda flinched."

"Great," Joe had retorted.  At five o'clock, the bar had begun to perk
up.  The early-bird drinkers had staggered home to sleep off whatever
they'd spent the daylight hours imbibing, and the evening drinkers were
starting to trickle in.  Joe had been filling bowls with peanuts when
Kitty had sashayed in through the back door and filed her report on
this new neighbor of hers.

"No, listen," Kitty had continued.  "I said to her, " The guy in
question is my boss, and he's desperate to get

"Terrific," Joe had muttered.  "You paint me as desperate, and she
flinches at the mere thought of meeting me.  You have such a way with
people, Kitty."

Kitty had brushed off Iris sarcasm.  "Damned fight I do.  Who gets the
best tips around here?"

"They're tipping your anatomy, not your personality."

"Whatever works.  So anyway, I said, " Why don't you mosey on over to
the Shipwreck tonight and check him out?  He doesn't bite.  ""

"That must have really reassured her."

"All fight, look, you don't want my help?  Just say the word, Joe. Stay
single and see where that gets you."

CRY UNrGL

Where that would get him was alone and bereft.  His lawyer had told him
that if he wanted to hold on to Lizard he would have to clean up his
act and settle down, attach himself to a good woman and create a stable
family situation.  Joe knew all the good women in Key West, and most of
them were married.  The others, like Kitty, presented the sort of image
that would have the majority of family court judges delivering Lizard
to the Prescotts in no time flat.  If this new neighbor of Kitty's
worked out, Joe would be eternally grateful.

He wished he'd had more than a few hours' warning that he was going to
be meeting a prospective bride that night.  He'd shown up at the bar
wearing his everyday garb--a loose cotton shirt, old jeans and sneakers
without socks.  If he'd known Kitty had invited a woman to stop by and
meet him, he would have dressed in something a little nicer--and he
would have shaved.  As a rule he shaved only every third day.  Tonight
was day two.

He surveyed the room again.  Two women huddled in front of the jukebox,
their backs to him.  Even in the dull amber light he recognized one of
them from the pink-rose patch on the hip pocket of her shorts.  Sabrina
would have made a good wife, he supposed--at least she would have been
a pleasure to find in his bed after a long day.  She and Joe had been
an item several years ago.  But one long weekend, when he'd tagged
along with a couple of buddies doing a round-trip sailing jaunt to
Miami, $a-brina had taken up with a biker.  Scuzzy guy, all tattoos and
pees. Sabrina had given him the boot after a few weeks, but her attempt
to reconcile with Joe had gotten kind of complicated, and then Lizard
had arrived, and Joe had found himself with more important things to
worry about.

Sabrina had been damned good in bed, though--even if she had lousy
taste in music, a fact he was reminded of when she shoved her quarters
into the jukebox and the room filled with the nasal whine of Madonna
begging her papa not to preach.  One of these days, when Joe had a free
minute, he was going to yank all the Madonna discs out of the jukebox
so he'd never have to listen to them again.

Scanning the crowd once more, he noticed a woman entering the bar.  She
was on the heavy side, maybe a few years his senior, her hair a dark
halo of frizz in the humid heat.  Okay, he thought magnanimously.
Assuming she wasn't too much older than him: she'd do.  If Joe were to
marry someone past, say, forty, a judge might not view it as a stable
family situation.  But mid-thirties probably wasn't too oldL So what if
his wife wasn't exactly heart-stoppingly gorgeous?  This was strictly
business.  Joe didn't have to love the woman.  He just had to marry
her.

He watched her weave among the tables heading toward him.  Turning
away, he checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar- What with
the atmospheric lighting and rows of liquor bottles lining the shelves
in front of the mirror, he couldn't see much, and what he did see
iegistcred pretty low on the first-imon scale.  He ran his fingers
through his long, shaggy hair, scowled at the bristle of beard shading
his jaw and straightened his shht Spinning back, he presented the woman
with what he hoped was a congenial smile.

Except that she wasn't there to receive it.  She had joined a group of
guys at a table near the back.  In fact, she was perched on one man's
lap.

Suffering a twinge of regret tempered with relief, he nodded to Lois,
his other primo waitress, as she hollered at him for a couple of Buds.
He snapped off the tops of two bottles, set them on her tray and sent
her off to serve her cuswmers.

No sooner had she departed than Kitty was back, re questing two pifia
cola alas Joe busied himself with the blender.  He didn't say a word,
but Kitty apparently read volumes in his silence, because she said,
"Stop worrying.  She'll be here."

"What does she look like?"  he asked, recalling with some shame his
immediate response to the frizzy-haired woman who'd just come in.

"What do you mean, what does she look like?"  Kitty arranged the frosty
drinks on her tray and grinned slyly.  "She's nowhere near as pretty as
me, of course.  But you could do worse.  As a matler of fact" -- she
lifted the Way onto its one-handed Perch "--you have done worse."

"Thanks."  He watched Kitty saunter back into the crowd, then rinsed
out the blender.  His gaze strayed to the clock on the back wall.  It
resembled a ship's wheel, with thick wooden bars radiating out from a
hub.  It was actually quite tacky, which was why he'd bought it for the
Shipwreck.  Tacky was the ambience he was aiming for.

Right now the clock wasn't just tacky; it was annoying.  It read 9:53.
If this lady friend of Kitty's couldn't get her butt down to the bar at
a reasonable hour when the subject was as momentous as her potential
marriage to Joe, she wasn't going to work out.  Joe was used to night
owls, but he doubted a night-owl woman would make a wife decent and
proper enough to persuade a judge to let Joe keep Lizard.

Brick arrived through the back door.  Joe called a greeting to his
second-'m-command, and Brick grunted in response.  Grimting was about
the limit of Brick's com-munieation skilL but he made the best tequila
sunrises

on the island, and at the Shipwreck such a talent was considered far
more important than eloquence.

A trio of women entered the bar.  Joe knew them all.  He'd dated them
all.  One of them waved to him as the threesome worked their way
through the room, looking for a table.

"Two shots of Cutty, neat?

"I need a stinger, a boxcar and a gimlet!"

"Three rum-and-Cokes, hold the Coke!"  "A glass of chardonnay.,

The noise level had increased as the ship's-wheel clock rounded 10:00
p. m. " and Joe's skull was starting to echo.  All the stools along the
bar were occupied, and dozens of customers loomed behind them, waiting
for someone to stand and free up a seat.  On the jukebox Madonna was
replaced by real music--Van Morrison--and the temperature in the
crowded room mtcheted up a few grees.

Kitty Stood at the pickup station, smiling mysli-o usly.  "I said, a
glass of chardonnay."

"Who in this joint would order white wine?"  Joe grumbled, rummaging
through one of the refrigerators iow the bar.

"Your fiancee," Kitty answered.

Joe stood bolt upright, the chilled bottle clutched in his hand.  His
heart did a tap dance against his ribs and his throat momentarily
squeezed shut.  He hated to admit how anxious he was.  If this neighbor
of Kitty's didn't work out, he was go' rag to have to go shopping for a
wifo on the mainland.  Things were getting tight.

Not desperate, though.  He wasn't going to let on--to Kitty or anyone
else--that he was close to desperation.

"A white-wine sipper, huh?"  he murmured, sliding a goblet from the
overhead rock and standing it on Kitty's tray.  "Where is she?"

"Over near the front door.  In case she wants to make a quick escape, I
guess."

He peered through the mob of bodies in the dimly lit room, but he
couldn't tell which one she might be.  "I'll take her drink to her.
What's she wearing?  "

"A white dress."

"What's her name again?"  "Pamela."  "Pamela what?"

"How the hell should I know?  I asked her if she'd consider marrying
you, not what her last name was."

"Okay.  Brick?  Give me ten," he called to his assistant once he'd
poured a hefty dose of wine into the goblet.  Brick gruntexl.

Joe managed a smile of thanks for Kitty, although he was feeling
uncommonly nervous.  It wasn't like him to get twlsllxl in knots over a
woman--or over-anything, for that matter.  Cris came and went, and when
they were truly awful, he indulged in some intense moping.  But then he
got over it.  Rolling with the punche was his preferred modus
operandi.

But thl.  q was different.  This was wif,-hunting.  Joe had never
proposed to a woman before, and here he was, about to propose to a
total stranger.

Not really propose, he reassured himlf, strolling around the end of the
bar and working his way through the throng, barely pausing to
acknowledge the greetings the re drs hurled at him.  What he was
offering the woman was less a proposal than a proposition.

Scratch that.  If she was a white-wine sipper in a white dress--dy
dressed for her wedding, apparently--she wasn't the sort to be
propositioned.  He had to approach her in a classy way.

And he didn't even know her last name, damn it.  "Hey, Joey!"  a man
called out behind him.  He smiled and waved vaguely, but his gaze was
riveted on the screened front door that opened onto Southard Street.
Standing next to it, looking incredibly out of place, was a woman in a
white dress.

Not bad, he thought, one set of apprehensions fading and another set
kicking in.  The white dress she had on resembled a tank shirt that
fell to midcalf, the hem notched a few inches on the side seams.  The
way the cotton cloth draped her body indicated that she was somewhat
lacking in the curves depaxtment.  Her arms were slim, her shoulders
bony.  Her feet were strapped into fiat leather sandals.  Her long,
graceful neck was framed by ash-blond hair that fell to her shoulders
with barely a ripple.  Gold button earrings glinted through the sfiky
locks.  A matching gold bangle circled one slender wrist.

Her face was as angular as the teat of her, her nose and chin narrow,
her cheeks hollow.  Her eyes were a pale sfi-ver gray.  In fact,
everything about her had a pale, s'dver-gray quality.  Obviously she
was a recent arrival on the island.  No one who'd been on Key West for
any length of time could stay that pale.

A little washed-out, but definitely an interesting face.  Not quite
pretty, but intriguing.  It was the sort of face a man could look at
for a long time without growing tired of it.

Her expression was cautious.  Maybe a touch skeptical.  Haunted.  Those
eyes, so large and pale, seemed troubled.

The notion of marriage troubled h/m more than a lit-tie, too.  But the
alternative--losing Lizard--was far worse.

He took a step closer to her, and another step.  In her search of the
room, she stared at him, past him and then at him again.  Noticing the
wineglass in his hand, she straightened up and eyed him warily.  She
bit her lip.  Her teeth were as white as her dress.

"Hi," he said, sounding a heal of a lot more confident than he felt.
"You must be pamela.  I'm the guy who wants to marry you."

OH, GOD.  He looked like a bum.

The door frame dug into her spine as she backed away from him.  Okay,
she consoled herself, things could be worse.  She hadn't agreed to
anything yet.  She'd made no commitments, no promises.  And honestly,
any danger this man posed couldn't be as bad as what she'd left behind
when she'd escaped to Igey West.

As bums went, she had to admit, the fellow extending the glass of. wine
toward her was actually rather handsome.  Unfortunately,.  he was also
sczuffy and grungy, with a stubble of beard and hair that clearly
hadn't had a close encounter with a pair of scissors in some time, a
shapeless shirt and jeans faded to a powdery blue, the fabric split
like a fraying grin across one knee.  And that earring.  oh, God.  An
earring.

She ordered herself to remain calm.  Experience had taught her that
just because a man was impeccably dressed didn't mean he was safe.  And
vice versa.  neath the baggy shirt and the decrepit jeans she dis-cemed
a lithe, lean body.  Behind the stubble of whiskers and the shaggy
auburn hair this man.  "Joe..  had a lively face, his smile producing a
dimple on one side, his nose long and straight and his eyes as blue as
a summer sky, two lovely spots of light in the gloom of his low-rent
bar.

The Shipwreck, she recalled, glancing away from Joe long enough to
remind herself of where she was.  It was an apt name for the place. The
rowdy, motley customers might well have washed ashore from some
disaster.  As she had.

Joe continued to hold out the wineglass.  If she took it, she might be
tempted to consume its contents in one gulp--assuming the glass didn't
slip from her hand and shatter on the floor.  That was a strong
possibility, given how slick with sweat her palms were.

His smile widened.  It really was a charming smile, de-spil his rumpled
appearance.  Either that or she was rationalizing, trying to find a way
to like this man.

She didn't'have much choice.  He was offering her exactly what she
needed: some wine and a new identity.  She might as well make the best
of it.

"Hello," she said, discreetly wiping her hands on her dress.

He shot a quick look over his shoulder, then shrugged.  "It's kind of
crowded in here.  If you'd like, we could go into my office to talk, or
I could drag a couple of chairs outside.  There's a little yard behind
the building."

"It might be more pleasant outside."  In truth, she wasn't sure she was
ready to shut herself up inside an office with him.

He reached out and took her hand.  Forget abouting shut up with him in
an office--she wasn't ready to be touched by him yet she couldn't very
well mak a fuss simply because he wanted to hold hands with his future
wife.

Besides, there was nothing threatening in his touch.  His hand was as
dry as hers was clammy, and his grip was warm and strong.  If only he
were barbered and well tailored and didn't have a silver hoop linked
through his earlohe--and if only her life weren't completely out of
kilter--she might have responded positively to the smooth, leathery
surface of his palm, the thick bones of his fin gem She might have
liked the deft way he navigated through the crowd, smiling innocuously
at people who greeted him, ignoring one creep who gave him a salacious
wink.

Pamela wished she could ignore the creep, too, but she couldn't.  She
was too tense, too conscious of how ludicrous this whole idea seemed.

Joe ushered her to the rear of the barroom and down a hall, past a pay
phone and the men's and ladies' rooms to a door crowned by a glowing
red Exit sign.  He re leased her hand so he could grab two chairs from
a nearby stack.  Then he jammed his hip again.  t the door and it swung
open.

Theoutdoor air was nearly as dense and hot as the indoor air, but at
least it wasn't stagnant.  Instead of the acrid aromas of cigarettes
and beer, it smelled of the ocean, rich and briny.  Oravel and crushed
sea shells crunched beneath her sandals as she followed Joe into a
small lot bounded by a ramshackle fence that backed onto the buildings
in the next block.  A spotlight fastened to the rear wall of the bar
glared down upon the yard, brighter than the moon.

She filled her lungs with the salty air, then attempted a smile for
Joe, who was positioning the chairs so they faced each other a safe
distance apart.  He gestured toward one of the chairs and she lowered
herself to sit.  Settling into the other, he handed her the wine.

For a man dressed so disreputably, he had good manners, at least.  And
that smile, and those amazing blue eyes.  And that earring.  She took a
long sip of chardonnay and lowered the glass.  And zeroed in once more
on the silver earring.  She wondered how he'd felt marching into a
jewelry store and standing in line for ear-piercing with a bunch of
prepubescent girls.  Maybe he hadn't gone to a jeweler.  Mayhe he'd
done it himself--plunged a needle into the heart of a flame and then
into his own flesh.

Maybe a former lover had done it.  Mayhe a present lover had.  But thi.
evening's discussion was about marriage, not about lovers past and
present, or monogamy, or fidelity, or anything like that.

All right, so Joe had an earring and--for all Pamela knew--hundl'eds of
girlfriends.  So he dressed like a bum.  So he wasn't her style Nothing
about this encounter was her style.  For that matter, nothing about the
recent progression of her life was her style.

Things had gotten out of control.  She didn't have many options legt.
The essential thing was to stay alive.  If marrying a man with
devastating blue eyes and an earring would provide the protection she
needed, she'd be a feel not to give his offer a fair hearing.

"$o," he said, his smile flagging slightly as he studied her in the
pool of white light.

It occurred to Pamela that he could he judging her as harshly as she'd
judged him.  Perhaps he found her wanting.  Kitty had said he was
desperate for a wife, but she hadn't said he was desperate enough to
settle for a

He spread his legs, rested his elbows on his knees and tapped his
fingertips together.  "I guess you're wondering why I called you here
tonight," he quipped, then flashed her a smile that, for all its
edginess, she found comforting.  If nothing else, they had their
anxiety in common

The least she could do was help him out by contributing to the
conversation.  "Kitty told me you need to get married," she said.

He shrugged.  "That about sums it up."

"Forgive me... Joe?"  she half asked.

He smacked himself in the forehead, evidently disgusted by his lack of
moers.  "Jonas Brenner," he said, gently prying her fingers from theft
death grip on the stem of the wineglass and giving her a friendly
handshake as she transferred the glass to her other hand.  "Everyone
cslls me Joe.  And yet!"  're Pamela.  Kitty didn't mention your last
name.  "

"Hayes," she said.  "Pamela Hayes."

"Pleased to meet you."

She smiled diffidently.  She couldn't quite say she was pleased to meet
him, not yet.  She wished he were a little less disheveled.  She wished
circumstances hadn't driven her to the opposite end of the continent,
as far from her home as it was possible to be without leaving the
country.  But wishes weren't going to get her anywhere, so she accepted
his firm grip as he shook her hand, and consoled herself with the
thought that at least his ting emails were clean.  As soon as he
released her, she took another long sip of wine.

He leaned back in his chair, sertltlnlzing her.  She wished he'd
brought a beverage outside for himself, so she wouldn't be the only one
drinking.  She felt exposed, like a job applicant unprepared for an
interview and doing everything wrong.

"Well," he said, then fell s'gent as a squadron of thundering
motorcycles cruised down the street nearby,

riders hooting and mufflers roaring.  When the night air grew
relatively tranquil once more, he began again.  "The deal is, I have
this hie co

She nodded.

"I've had custody of her for three years," he explained.  "When I first
got her, I thought it was just going to be for a few months, but when
Lawton and Joyce--that's my brother-'m-law's brother-in-law-and
sister"

Pamela stopped nodding and held up her hand.  "Your brother-'m-law's
brother-in-law?"

Joe smiled apologetically, "Okay," he drawled, as if speaking more
slowly would clarify everything.  "See,

Lizard--that's my niece"

"Lizard?"

"l-li.abeth.  But she likes to be called Lizard."

"Lizard," Pamela echoed quietly.  If marrying Joe had seemed like an
absurd idea before, it seemed even more absurd now.  How on earth could
she take seriously a man who had a niece named Lizard?

"Yeah.  Now, Lizard's parents--that would be my sister and
brother-in-law--died."

"Oh--I'm sorry."

He tried to disguise his sorrow behind a shrug that didn't hide much.
His unbelievable blue eyes grew too clouds.  Then the moment passed.
"Well, anyway.  That was three years ago.  Lawton and Joyce said they'd
take L/zard, which made seam.  They were married, they were rich, they
could afford nnnn' and all that stuff.  Only problem was, they were
involved in setting up some sort of development deal in Indonesia.  So
they asked me if I could keep Lizard for just a couple of months until
they wrapped things up overseas.  And I said sure.  But tlum a couple
of months turned into a couple of years.  Three years, to be exact.  I
suppose those Indonesian development deals can get complicated."

So could stories about orphaned children named Lizard, Pamela thought,
although she refrained from saying so.  She only nodded again.

"Anyway, about a month ago, I got this letter from Joyce saying they
were finally done doing their thing in Indonesia, and they were
returning to California, and they intended to take Lizard.  But by now
Lizard and I have been together a long t/me.  We've grown pretty
close."

"How old was she when you got her?"

Pamela didn't know much about babies.  She was an only child, so she'd
never had the opportunity to observe younger siblings or nieces and
nephews.  Even so, it seemed to her that the years between two and five
must be significant in a child's development.

"I taught her the alphabet," said Joe.  "I potty-trained her.  I nursed
her through the chicken pox.  And frankly, I'm not in much of a mood to
hand her over to a couple of stuck-up financ/ers who haven't even seen
her in three years."

"I don't blame you."

"So, I went to Mary DiNardi--thates my hwyer--and asked how I could go
about getting permanent custody of Lizard.  And Mary said, " Joe, look
at you.  You're thirty years old, you run a bar, you're single and you
don't even shave rego!  arly.  "" He shot Pamela a sheepish grin.
"Meanwhile, Lawton and Joyce have a n-room house in Hillsborough and a
couple million stashed in the bank.  The fact that I potty-trained
Lizard doesn't count for much w/th family-court judges.  My lawyer said
I have

to take a flyer on clean-cut living.  Specifically, she told me to
marry a decent lady.  " Another flash of a smile, this one curiously
seductive.  " You wouldn't happen to be decent, would you?  "

Pamela shifted uncomfortably, causing the chair's hinges to squeak. She
crossed her legs, traced the rim of her glass with her finger and
managed a feeble smile.  How did one answer such a question?  How on
earth did one measure decency?  Why did the mischievous glint in his
eyes make her wish, for a fleeting instant, that she wasn't quite so
decent?

"It would seem to me," she said, steering clear of his provocative
question and his even more provocative grin, "that this child ...
Lizard" -- she tried not to shudder at the name "--hasn't really known
any family other than you.  Why would a judge award custody of her to
two total strangers?  I would think that after she experienced the
trauma of losing her parents, the system wouldn't want to traumatize
her again."

"I would think so, too," said Joe, leaning back and balancing one leg
across the other knee.  The position drew her attention to the faded
strip of denim covering his fly.  She drank some more wine and was
careful to keep her gaze on his face when she lowered her glass. "Thing
of it is," he continued, "Lawton and Joyce are rich.  They're
respectable.  They make a fortune pushing papers around.  They listen
to Bach.  They're such fine, fine people."  Sarcasm oozed from every
syllable.

"Do you think that marrying me would make you look respectable to a
judge?"

"Personally, I happen to think I'm just about as respectable as I can
stand to be.  But Mary DiNardi--who's taking me for two hundred and
fifty bucks an hour, so she'd better know what she's talking
about--doesn't exactly agree.  She says I've got to project stability
and maturity and all that kind of thing.  And a wife--a nice, neat,
well-behaved wife--is just the ticket."

"What does ... Lizard think of this?"  Pamela wondered whether she'd
ever be capable of using the child's nickname without cringing.

"She doesn't know anything about a custody challenge.  All she knows is
that Lawton and Joyce are these two mysterious people who've been
sending her Christmas and birthday cards with funny Indonesian stamps
on them.  She has no idea some pea-brained judge could rip her out of
her home and force her to live with a couple of snobs she's never even
talked to Last time she saw them was probably at her christening or
thereabouts.  Thee folks aren't her family.  I am--and Kitty and Lois
and Birdie and Brick.  And my mother when she's in town."

If Joe Brenner's social circle included characters with names like
Birdie and Brick, Pamela supposed it was no wonder he called his niece
Lizard.

Anyway, what I'm looking for here is just a temporary arrangement.  A
year, tops.  Pve got a three-oom house, so you'd have your own room. If
you met someone and fell in love, I'd only ask that you be discreet.
You're supposed to be the decent one in this situation.  " He tempered
his words with a smile.

"If we had separate bedrooms" -- no "if" about it, she thought wryly
"--wouldn't that make it obvious that the marriage is a sham?"

"Well, of course, if some social worker stopped by to check us out,
we'd have to put on a little lovey-dovey show for her.  I don't see
that as an 'insurmountable problem."

"But Lizard" -- wince "--would reale something was weird between us,
wouldn't she?"

"Number one, Lizard is five years old, and I honestly don't think she
has any idea what husbands and wives do behind closed doors.  Number
two, people down here are pretty hang-loose about things.  If a couple
wants separate rooms it's no big deal."

Pamela mulled over what he'd told her, and she wasn't entirely pleased.
The separate rooms, the discretion, all the businesslike details of the
arrangement suited her fine.  But the idea of presenting herself as a
perfect wife and mother to a five-year-old.  What did she know about
raising kids?  How were she and Joe going to trick a little girl into
believing they were a genuine couple?  As scant as Pamela's knowledge
of children was, she couldn't shake the understanding that children
were a lot harder to fool than family-court judges and social work
Beyond that minor misgiving, there was another problem, a much more
troubling one:.  Pamela was in danger.

No matter how much she wanted to elude that danger, she cotfidn't do it
by hiding behind a five-year-old girl.  What if--God forbid!  --Mick
Morrow somehow tracked Pamela down?  She didn't want to die--but she
wasn't going to save her own life by placing an innocent child in
harm's way.

She began to shake her head.  "If it's money you're worried about," Joe
said, misreading her hesitation, "I've got to tell you, I'm not rich.
But we could work something out.  I'm willing to support you, put you
on my insurance, pay all the expenses"

"No, it isn't money," she said, cutting him off.  She had plenty of
money, an embarrassment of money.  She'd withdrawn from the bank in
Seattle a large chunk of her savings.  She hadn't yet opened a local
bank account, be cause bank records were easy to trace.  If she could
deposit the money as Joe's wife, using the name Pamela Brenner, maybe
she would escape detection.

But the child.  She couldn't take Joe's name and his hand in marriage
when doing so might place his niece in danger.

"If it's the sex thing," Joe continued, "we can work that out any way
you want.  I'm looking for a little playo acting here.  Public displays
of affection, nothing more.  I'm sure we"

"No, it's not sex," She stared into his eyes and felt herself tumbling
into the blue.  When a man with eyes like Joe's talked about sex, she
could forget about his earring, his beard, his slovenly apparel.  She
could forget about almost everything.

But she couldn't forget about Mick Morrow.

"Joe," she said, glancing away to break the spell of his gaze, "there's
something you need to know about me before this discussion goes any
further."

He leaned forward.  Tracing the line of his vision, she noticed that he
was staring at her hands.  She hadn't re-all?  ed she had furled them
into fists so tight her knuckles had turned as white as schoolroom
chalk.

She made a concerted effort to relax--and then gave up.  There was no
way to say what she was about to say and remain calm.  "Joe..."  She
sighed.  "Back in Seattle, where I lived before I came here, I
testified in court against a hit man."

Joe sat straighter and lifted his eyes to her face.  He looked
startled, horrified--but also sympathetic.  "A hit man?"

"He was convicted of murder based on my testimony.  But his conviction
was set aside on a technicality.  He's free on bail pending a new
trial.  And"she sighed again, shuddering the way she.  did every time
she con-fronll the reality of her current existence "--he wants me
dead."

"DEAD?"  Ti-m WORD CAMB OUT on a croak.  How in the name of God could a
frag' He blond slip of a woman have wound up on the wrong side of a hit
man?

"It's all right," she said bravely.  She seemed suddenly relaxed, or
maybe resigned.  "We haven't signed any contracts here, Joe.  I know
you didn't bargain for anything like this.  If you want to retract' the
offer"

"Not so fast," he said, silencing her.  His brain told him he ought to
run like hell from a woman who was on a murderer's A-list, but his gut
told him he should sit tight and work it through.

He wasn't given to heroics.  If a gun-toting mobster started buzzing
the island in a fully armed Apache helicopter, his impulse would be to
grab Lizard and split, and the hell with everyone else.  Joe looked out
for Numero Uno--which used to be him.  qeff unt'fi Lizard came along
and knocked him out of the top slot.  He would sacrifice his own life
for the Liz Monster, and he'd do whatever was necessary to avoid that
sacrifice.  But he wasn't about to play the white knight for some
silver-eyed stranger from Seattle who'd been stupid enough to testify
against a professional assassin.

On the other hand, if he didn't marry Pamela while he had the chance,
he might not find anyone better.  Superficially, at least, she was
everything he needed: conservative, personable, reasonably
attractive--certainly not the sort of woman he'd be ashamed to be seen
in public with.  Given her current predicament, she was probably as
eager to grab a husband as he was to grab a wife.  She

CRY UNCIJ5

didn't have the luxury of quibbling over the fine points with him.

And what were the odds that a liquidator from the Great Northwest would
track her down to the Florida Keys?

"Okay," he said, leaning forward and staring straight into her troubled
eyes.  "This guy's in Seattle, right?"

"yes."

"And he doesn't know where you are?"

"Nobody knows.  Not even my parents.  I told thn I had to get away, and
they agreed.  I keep in touch with them, of course, through my
attorney, who also stays in contact with the police."

"Why didn't the police offer you protection?"

He watched the shifting of her shoulders as she shrugged and decided
that if a woman wasn't going to be overly endowed in the mammary
region, sexy shoulders were a nice consolation prize.  The thin straps
of her dress revealed intriguing hollows and delicate ridges in the
arrangement of her shoulder blades, collarbones and upper arms.  He
wondered if her skin would feel as creamy as it looked.

The sound of her voice cut through his half-baked fantasies.  "The
police didn't seem to think I was in any real danger.  I told them I
had received a couple of sWange phone calls and I'd been followed home
from work a few times.  They said there was someone keeping an eye on
the man I testified against and he hadn't been anywhere near me.  I
don't know--maybe they were right.  But when yon look in your rearview
mirror and discover that the car behind you is being driven by someone
who looks like the man you witnessed shooting someone in cold blood,
you tend to get a little nervous."

"It sum wouldn't sit well with me," he agreed, "but if the police say
it wasn't him..."

She sighed, then shook her head.  "Maybe I am worrying about nothing.
But I don't know.  I tried hiring a private bodyguard, but frankly, I
couldn't stand having him lurking around me all the time.  It made me
even more paranoid.  It's bad enough be' rag followed by one person.  I
couldn't stand being followed by two.  So I decided to leave town until
a new trial was scheduled anal the hit man was back in custody."

If the police thought she was safe, how much danger COuld she possibly
be in?  Maybe she was a touch para, hold, but it would give her a
reason to stick around.  He could tolerate her minor neuroses as long
as they didn't interfere with the big picture--keeping Lizard.

So Pamela Hayes was a lit He bit nutty.  She would fit fight in in Key
West.  "So," he said, feeling a lot less concerned about her story,
"your parents have no idea where you are?"

"For their safety as well as mine, we thought that would be best for
the time being."

"Then I guess we won't invite them to the wedding," Joe joked, although
merely saying it made him realizo that he'd pretty much made up his
mind He needed a wife, and Pamela more or less fit the bill.  "Anything
else I need to know?"  he asked.  "Any loan sharks holding your
markers?  Any preexisting health conditions?"

He watched her hands flutter.  Like her shoulders, they were delicate,
the fingers slim and gracefid, the knuckles smooth enOUgh to pose for
hand-lotion ads.  The gold bangle bobbed again.  qt her wrist, drawing
his attention to yet another intriguing bone.  He, always a
breasts-and-butt man, had never before noticed how alluring a woman's
skeletal structure could be.

"Look, Joe," she said.  "I didn't know about your niece.  Seriously--we
can't mix a little girl up in this.  I don't even know why I came here
...."

"You came to avoid a hit man," he reminded her.  "No--I mean, why I
came to your bar to talk to you.  Your waitress, Kitty--she seemed so
friendly in the laundry room this morning.  I don't know anyone in Key
West, and she was so nice, and she kept telling me what a great guy you
were, how I really ought to meet you, how I was exactly what you were
looking for...."  A sad-sounding laugh escaped her, and she shook her
head.

"I take it you didn't mention to Kitty that you had a goon from Seattle
on your tail."

"He's not on my tail," Pamela insisted, though she didn't look totally
convinced.  "Tin sure he doesn't have any idea where I am at the
moment.  And Kitty told me she thought you and I could help each other
out.  She knew I was looking for a new identity and..."  Pamela sighed.
"My mind just isn't working the way it used to.  I used to be so
rational.  Just yesterday I would have found the idea of marrying a
stranger preposterous."

"Now wait a minute," Joe objected.  For no good reason, he felt his ego
was under attack.  "Preposterous?  You think marrying me is
preposterous?"

"No," she hastened to assure him.  "I thinlr you'd make a fine husband.
It's me.  I'd make a lousy wife."

He ought to tak her at her word.  He had Lizard's safety to think of,
and marrying a woman with a contract on her head was asking for
trouble.  But Joe was used to asking for trouble--and acing the answer.
And Pamela's linking him, marriage and preposterous made him
argumentative.  "Tn have you know, there ar a lot of women who'd jump
at the chance to marry me."

"And they don't have hit men chasing them," she pointed out.  "For
your niece's sake, you really ought to marry one of them."

Joe contemplated the women who'd jump--and for Lizard's sake, none of
them would do.  They were flashy, or irresponsible, or pleasantly lax
when it came to morality.  They were too similar to what See had been
like before he had Lizard.

Pamela wasn't flashy.  She obviously wasn't irresponsible.  If she had
the courage and integrity to testify again.  qt a murderer in a public
trial, her morals had to be damn near unimpeachable.  She was exactly
what he needed for his niece's sake.  "Why do you think you'd make a
lousy wife?"  he asked.

"I'm completely ignorant when it comes to children."

"I didn't know anything about children when Lizard fell into my lap,"
he admitted.  "There I was, busted up over my sister's death, and
suddenly I found myself taking care of an obnoxious little twit who had
a vocabulary of hundred words, most of them variations on the word no.
She thought toilet paper was for tearing into confetti.  She refused to
eat any food that wasn't pink--we went through a lot of strawberry
yogurt in those days.  Pins she spent the first three months howling
for Mama and Dada, which was a real treat, let me tell you."  Aware
that he might be coming across as unforgivably self-pitying, he brought
his lament to a quick close.  "The bottom line is, if I could do it,
you can do it.  And, I mean, I'll do most of the child care.  You'll be
just a fig-urebead, as it were."

She smiled, a real smile, not just one of those anemic, polite smiles
she'd been running past him since they'd met.  This smile had the
effect of widening her face, launching her cheeks skyward and pleating
little crinkles into the skin at the comers of her eyes.  He wondered
what laughter would sound like coming from her.

He wondered about a lot of things--like how she had happened to witness
a professional hit in the first place.  What she did for a living, how
old she was, what she looked like first thing in the morning, when she
was all sleep-tousled and her guard was down.

But now wasn't the time to indulge his curiosity.  If he didn't get
back behind the Shipwreck's bar soon, Brick's grunts were going to take
on blasphemous overtones.

"Tell you what," he said, standing and offering her his hand.  "Why
don't you come over to my house tomorrow and get a feel for things.
Before you agree to anything you ought to meet Princess Liz.  We can
talk some more...."  And check each other out in broad daylight, he
almost said, although he had the feeling Pamela Hayes wouldn't look any
worse in the midday sun than she looked in the white glow of the
spotlight above the back door.

"That sounds like a good idea."

"I live on Leon Street.  A couple of blocks from the municipal beach.
Do you know where that is?"

She reached into the pocket tucked into a side seam of her dress and
pulled out a small coin purse.  Opening it, she scowled.  "I haven't
got anything to write your address down on."

"What do you think cocktail napkins are for?  Come on inside, and I'll
draw you a map."  He closed his hand completely around hers, not
exactly sure why he felt the impulse to hold her.  It wasn't because
she was on the verge of becoming his wife.  It wasn't simplY an act of
chivalry, the proper behavior of a gentleman escorting a lady through
the rear door of a bar.  It had something to do with wanting to re ass
her, and himself.  If he could

touch her, he could trust her.  And if she was in trouble, he wanted
her to believe she could trust him.

Even though, if push came to shove, he wasn't so sure she could.

CHAPTER TWO

East DOES r, Mick Morrow thought.  Don't make a scene.

He stepped into the small, clean office and bell led up to a counter
decorated with house plants.  On the other side of the counter, two
plump, mild-faced, middle-aged women sat across from each other at
facing desks, sipping coffee and yarn reefing about an upcoming sale at
Nordstrom.  On each desk stood an African violet in a clay pot.

The women didn't seem to notice his entrance, so he nudged a plant out
of his way.  That got their attention.  The woman on the left ended her
monologue about the costs, both financial and emotional, of keeping her
husband in up-to-date neckties, rose from her chair and crossed to the
counter.  "May I help you?"

He gave her his sweetest Sunday,school 'nile.  "You're the manager
here, right?"

"I'm looking for Pamela Hayes.  She owns a unit on the top floor."

The woman glanced over her shoulder at her companion, and they
exchanged a meaningful raising of eyebrows.  Then she turned back to
him.  "Ms.  Hayes does own a unit here, but we're not a miing persons
bureau,

He didn't supply his name.  "Is she mi.  sing

"This is the management office.  We don't keep tabs on the owners.  If
someone has a noise complaint or needs a plumbing repair, we take care
of it.  But if you're looking for someone who happens to own a unit, we
can't ally help you:' She peeked over her shoulder once more, and her
buddy gave her an approving nod.

Rage had always been a problem for him; and he engaged in a silent bout
with it.  The Sunday-school mile remained unaltered, though.  He had
learned to compensate for his bad temper by being a good actor, never
showing his hand until it was time to collect his winnings.  "I've been
trying to reach Pamela for days," he said smoothly.  "I'm begio'nning
to worry that maybe something's wrong.  You know, like maybe she's
lying on the floor in a pool of blood or something."

The woman grew pale.  Another beseeching glance toward her colleague,
who stood and approached the counter.  "Ms.  Hayes is out of town," the
second woman

Just what he'd expected.  If the slut had been lying in a pool of blood
on the floor, it would have been because he'd found her.

"Can you tell me where she is?  I mean... See, she and I were dating.
We had a big fight.  I admit I was rot tee to her.  I want to send her
flowers, that's all.  I just want to make it up to her."

"Maybe you should contact her family.  Really, we can't help you with
this."

"You know where she is, though, don't you?"  "No," both womea said
together.

The rage lid am at him, small, hot flames searing the edges of his
mind.  "But you must be forwarding her mail."

"No," the first woman said.  "The post office stopped delivering her
mail about a week ago.  I assume they're holding it for her."

"Or forwarding it directly," the other woman added.  The flames drew
closer, grew larger.  He pounded his fist against the counter.  The two
women flinched s'unul-taneously.  "Damn it, someone must know where she
is!  I've got to find her!"  Calm downl Don't blow it!  "I mean, ff I
can't get a dozen red roses to her right away, she'll never forgive
me."

The first woman moved back to her desk and the phone.  "I'm calling
Security," she said.  "Please leave now."  '

Ass.  He shouldn't have punched the counter.  If he'd had to hit
something, he should have hit one of the women, square in her pinch
able double chin.  Then the other one might have opened up, spilled the
beans, told him where the hell Pamela Hayes had run off to.

Now it Was too late.  Things were going to get messy if the authorities
showed up.

"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in a pla-caring gesture.
"Hey, it's just my broken heart talking, okay?  I'm upset, is all.  I
love that girl more than life itself."

"Well, then," the second woman said.  The first continued to punch
buttons on the phone.  "Why don't you go home and write her a nice
letter I'm sure the post of-lice will forward it to her."

"Okay, yeah, that's what I'll do," he said, retreating to the door and
out.  He loped across the chilly chrome-and-marble lobby and out of the
building, into the dense June fog.  He was in his car, tearing out of
the parking lot, before anyone in a uniform could reach the building

The flames of his anger still nipped at him, crackled and flared.
Pamela Hayes had obviously taken a powder.  She hadn't shown up at her
office in a full week.  Mick was go' rag to have to track her down.

He had to, before the DA put together a new case against him, He had to
find that big-eyed, big-mouthed bitch and shut her up before she caused
him any more problems.  It was her own fault, really.  She shouldn't
have been where she was when she was, witnessing things that weren't
supposed to have witnesses.  If only she hadn't been there, he'd be a
free man today.

But as long as he wasn't free, neither was she.  She'd seen hims she'd
spoken against him, and now she was going to pay.

All Mick had to do was find her.

DEEPER AND DEEPER, Pamela thought as she studied the blurred diagram
Joe had sketched on a lxtured napkin at the Shipwreck last night.  The
ink had bled in spots, and his handwriting left a great deal to be
desired.  She could find scarcely any resemblance between his drawing
and the map she'd obtained from the chamber of commerce six days ago,
when she'd cruised the last few weary miles of Route I onto the island
and comprehended that she had truly, literally, gone as far as she
could go.

One part of her considered Jonas Brenner her salvation: marry him and
she'd be under his wing.  Surely the matron saints of feminigm would
forgive her for shucking her own last name and submerging her 'entity
w]thln a man's.  Once her arrangement with Ioe had run its course and
she divorced him, she could go back to being Pamela Hayes.

But another part of her couldn't shake the frightening notion that
rather than saving herself, she was sin Icing deeper and deeper into
trouble.  Her mind conjured up the image of a person in quicksand who,
instead of stretching out and floating on the ooze, tried to fight her
way out and wound up being sucked down to her death.  The woman staring
at her from the mirror above the scratched dresser looked an awful lot
like someone who was sinking fast.

Sighing, she turned away from her wan reflection and gazed at the neat,
stark efficiency aparuent that had been her home for the past fw days.
She suspected that the apmhent building had once been a motel; her
front door opened onto a second-floor balcony that ran the length of
the building to a flight of stairs on either end.  The exterior was
ticky-tacky tropical--faded pink stucco, wrought-iron railings,
rippling roof tiles that were just a bit too orange to be believable.
The inlm*ior was just plain tacky--carpeting rough enough to file one's
nails on, ceilings lmred to resemble cottage cheese, a kitchenette as
small as a coat closet and furniture coustructed of cardboard-thick
wood held together with paste.

She wondered what Joe's house looked like, and his furniture.  Such
things used to matter to her.

Now all that mattered was saving her neck.

She opened the front door, stepped out onto 'the balcony and glanced
toward Kitty's windows.  The curt: am were drawn.  It was nearly eleven
o'clock; Ioe had told Pamela to arrive at his house in time for lunch.
If Kitty was still sleeping, Pamela didn't want to disturb her.

She reentered her own apartment, crossed to the dresser and studied her
image in the mirror one last time.  The word drab sprang to mind.

Most of the clothing she owned had been purchased for work and the
cooler climate of Washington State--wools, tweeds, silk blouses and
tailored suits.  One local shopping trip had harvested the sleeveless
shift she'd worn last night and the cotton walking shorts she was
wearing now.  The cream-colored shell she had on looked too formal, but
it would have to do.  If Joe had been looking for a babe, he wouldn't
have proposed marriage to Pamela.

She gathered up her map, her purse and her cocktail napkin and left the
apartment.  This time, she noticed, Kitty's curtains were open.  She
told herself she only wanted a clarification of where Joe lived, but
deep inside she knew she really needed a pep talk.  If anything, she
was edgier today than she'd been last night.  Perhaps Kitty could offer
some guidance.

Pamela tapped lightly on Kitty's door.  "Hold your goddamn horses!"
Kitty bellowed from inside.

Pamela's tension increased.  She didn't know much about her neighbor,
other than that she worked the evening shift at the Shipwreck, that her
hair was bleached a radioactive shade of blond and that she had the
sort of physical endowments that made women like Pamela feel
pathetically scrawny.  Yet something about Kitty had put Pamela at ease
yesterday morning, when they'd met in the laundry room.  As they'd
folded their clothing across from each other, on a long, Formica-topped
table, Kitty had somehow convinced Pamela that Joe Was the great-eat
thing since french fries, and if Pamela didn't marry him she'd regret
it for the rest of her life.

"Marry him?"  Pamela had asked, wondering why, if this guy was so
great, he needed Kitty to find him a wife.

'"He's got a legal situation.  Nothing major, nothing criminal.  It's
just, he's looking for a fine upstanding woman like yourself who'll
agree to marry him for a while.  Someone who'll take his name and wear
his ting.  Nothing serious."

Nothing serious?  Pameh had thought.  Taking a man's name and wearing
his ring sounded pretty serious to her.  So serious she wouldn't
consider it.  Pamela was deft-nitely not the home-and-hearth type.  She
was devoted to her career, and she'd always been an exceedingly private
person.  Marriage meant opening up to someone else, making oneself
vulnerable, feeling someone else's fears and longings as if they were
one's own.  Pamela simply wasn't ready to make a commitment like that,
and everyone who knew her knew that.

Which meant that if she got married, the likelihood of her being found,
by Mick Morrow or anyone else, might decrease.  Who would hunt for a
single-minded, independent woman architect Pamela Hayes in a cozy,
domestic setting?  Who would expect to find her doing her impersonation
of a wife?

"Marry him," she'd rumioated once Kitty had run out of superlatives for
Joe.

"Yeah.  He'd make one helluva husband.  And you better believe I know a
thing or two about marriage."

Pamela smoothed the cocktail napkin between her hands and gazed
hopefully at the open curtains, longing for Kitty to give her another
inspiring speech before she paid a call on what might soon become her
new home.

At last the door swung open.  Kitty filled the doorway in a colorful
silk kimono, a vision of wild platinum hair and cleavage.  Her face
brol into a smile.  "Oh,

mela!  I didn't realize it was you.  I thought it was this jerk who
tried to pick me up at the bar last night.  A real 1oer, you know?
Swore he was the reincarnation of Ernest Hemingway, which was reason
enough to want to punch him in the nose.  He kept saying he was going
to look me up in the phone book and come after me.  "

Pamela found nothing amusing about that.  Her own experience with Mick
Morrow made her suspicious to the point of paranoia about men who
threatened to come after women.  She stepped inside Kitty's
apartment--a mirror-image of hers, only embellished with great
quantities of- clutter--and closed the door behind her.  Then she drew
the chain lock.  "Make sure you look through your peephole before you
open your door to anyone," she instructed Kitty.

Kitty appeared unconcerned' The island is full of guys who think
they're Ernest Hemingway.  I'm used to it.  " She bounded across the
room to her unmade bed and did a belly flop onto it, her head propped
in her hands and her knees bent so her feet hovered above her rump. She
looked like a superannuated teenager at a pajama party, eager to gossip
and giggle about boys.  " So, what did you think of Joe?  "

"He's... very nice," Pamela said, lifting a filmy garment of some sort
from a chair and lowering herself to sit.  "He wants me to go to his
house today."  "To meet Lizzie Borden," Kitty guessed.  "Lizzie
Borden?"

"Okay, his niece hasn't taken a hatchet to anyone yet.  She's a maniac,
though.  Take her with a sense of humor and you'll be fine.  I adore
that kid."

A maniacal child, Pamela thought.  Alternately referred to as a lower
order of vertebrate or America's most famous ax murderer.

"But look, Pamela..."  Kitty tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes
narrowing as she appraised Pamela.  "Can we speak frankly?  If you're
going to marry Joe, you ought to jazz yourself up a little, know what I
mean?"

Pamela didn't take criticism from others well--usually because she
spent too much of her time and energy criticizing herself.  "Jazz
myself up," she said war fly trying not to bristle.

"A couple of weeks down here and you'll develop some color, you know?
But right now, you look kind of washed out.  Here."  Kitty sprang from
the bed, hauled Pamela out of her chair, and dragged her into the
bathroom.  A forceful nudge landed her on the toilet seat.  "I'm just
going to give you a little color, okay?  Nothing extre211e.  '

With that, Kitty attacked Pamela's face with a vast array of cosmetic
brushes.  Choking clouds of tinted powder billowed into the air as
Kitty went at her with blusher and eye shadow.  Pamela tried in vain to
catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the seat, but all she
saw was the reflection of Kitty's arm wielding her brushes like Jackson
Pollock assaulting a canvas.

Pamela hoped she wouldn't look like a Jackson Pollock painting when
Kitty was done.

"It's not as ff the situation between Jonas and me has anything to do
with physical attraction," she protested -feebly as Kitty laid down a
brush and brandished a mas-can wand.

Ion as Did he ask you to call him that?  "

"It's his name."  It only just occurred to Pamela that she preferred
Jonas to Joe.  She liked the Biblical ring of it.

"Gee, he never told me that.  I guess he must be serious about you."

"Of course not," Pamela scoffed.  "He just wants to marry me."

Kitty stepped back and assessed her handiwork.  "Not bad.  All you need
now is..."  She rummaged through a

drawer and pulled out a rainbow-striped ribbon.  "There you go," she
said, arranging it around Pamela's hair.  "You ought to do something
about those earrings," she muttered, now that Pamela's ears were
exposed, along with the plain gold buttons that adorned the lobes.
"They're awfully boring.  But earrings are one thing I don't lend."

Pamela almost responded that if necessary she could borrow some
earrings from Joe.  Instead, she rose from the commode and confronted
herself in the mirror.  The face that stared hack at her looked a bit
feverish, but that was an improvement over her usual waxy pallor. Kitty
stood beside her, beaming proudly at what she'd wrought, making Pamela
feel as ff she were part of some pagan ritual, the sacrificial virgin
who'd been primped by the tribal matriarch before offering herself to
the gods so the crops would grow and the local volcano wouldn't
erupt.

"So what do you think?  You look gorgeous," Kitty said, answering for
her.

"Thank you."  Pamela didn't agree that she looked gorgeous, but if she
said so, Kitty might think she was referring to the makeup job and not
the face behind it.  "Actually," she said, turning from the mirror and
following Kitty out of the cramped room, "I didn't come here for you to
attempt to make me pretty.  I came to get directions to Jonas's
house."

"That bum!  He invited you over and he didn't tell you where he
lives?"

"He did tell me," Pamela defended him.  She pulled out her cocktail
napkin and showed the blurry diagram to Kitty.  "He gave me this, but I
can't make head or tail of it."

Kitty took the napkin, squinted at it, rotated it a hundred and eighty
degrees, then shook her head.  Without having to be asked, Pamela
supplied her with the chamber of commerce map.  "Ah, here we go.  See,
here's Leon Street.  You're going to head down to South Street and hang
a left, and then you just keep going till you get to LeOn Street and
make a right.  Easy as pie."

"What does his house look like?  Have you been there?"

Kitty's laugh was just a tad too knowing.  "Sweetie, there isn't a
woman on this island who wouldn't want to call that house home."

"What is it, a palace?"

"No, but a prince lives inside.  Go get him, Pam.  Be the first one to
reel him in."

Pamela might be the first, but she wouldn't be the last.  This was a
marriage with a built-in conclusion.  And as for reeling Joe in, the
only reason he was biting on her hook was because of Elizabeth.  Lizzie
Borden.  Lizard.

Pamela shrugged back her shoulders and girded herself to meet the
maniac.  "Okay," she said, tucking an errant strand of hair into her
ribbon.  "Here goes noth " Here comes the bride," Kitty sang as she
ushered Pamela to the door.  " You're going to love being married,
Pamela.  Trust me--I've done it plenty of times myself.  "

Done what?  Pamela wondered as she waved and departed from Kitty's
disorderly apahaent.  Gotten mar-tied, or enjoyed the part of marriage
she and Joe weren't going to share?  Last night he had promised her
that she would have her own bedroom.  Without separate beds, the deal
was off.

Pamela wasn't a prude and she wasn't a virgin.  But she wasn't going to
get involved any more than she had to with Jonas Brenner.  This was a
business arrangement.  Safety for her, a custody judgment for him.  Sex
would only complicate matters.

Besides, he was much too gnmgy to appeal to her in a romantic way. Torn
apparel, unshaven cheeks, the mop of hair, the absurdly blue eyes . 
the taut lean body, the firm, powerful grip of his hand around hers and
that sly,

seductive dimple punctuating the corner of his mouth.  Definitely not
her type.

She gave a final wave to Kitty, who was watching her from the window
with a go-get-'em grin plastered across her face.  Then she descended
the steps to the parking lot adjacent to the building.  The asphalt
felt sticky in the late-morning heat; the warm, damp air wrapped around
her like a compress.  Hers was the only car in the lot with
out-of-state plates.  She'd have to change the registration.

Right after the wedding, she resolved--assuming she and Joe went
through with the marriage.  She wonld get Florida plates and a license
under the name Pamela Brenner.

Pamela Brenner.  Would that ever sound anything less than bizarre to
her?

It's only temporary, she reminded herself as, after in-stinetively
checking the back seat to see if a hit man was hiding there, she
unlocked her car.  A gust of scorching air slammed into her when she
opened the door, and she gingerly lowered herself onto the saming seat.
The first time she'd gotten into her car after it had baked for a while
in the Key West sun, the steering wheel had nearly given her
second-degree burns.

Pamela Brenner.

What if she ultimately discovered that she couldn't stand Joe?  What if
they were incompatible?  What if he expected her to pick up after him,
and cook for him, and iron his shirts, and perform all the other
mundane homemaking chores she loathed?  Even if he didn't expect her to
he a real wife, he might expect her to be a housewife, a prospect that
made facing Mick Morrow almost palatable in comparison.

She ordered herself to calm down.  Nothing had been forged in concrete.
She was going to visit Joe's home and meet his niece, that was all. She
was going to pay a social call on the proprietor of a bar and his
ax-murderer

Allowing herself a fatahs' tic smile, she mined on the air conditioner
and cursed as fiery air blasted from the vents.  In a minute it oooled
down, and after a final glance at her map, she steered out of the
parking lot.

In the week she'd lived in Key West, she'd grownrea-son ably familiar
with Duval Street, which ran through the heart of Old Town and seemed
to be the commercial center of the island.  The sidewalkg were crammed
with souvenir shops, restaurants, bars, art galleries, T-shirt
boutiques, bars, pharmacies and more bars.  Perhaps the overabundance
of liquor merchants was in some way related to the island's population
of men who thought they were Ernest Hemingway.

Stranger than the stores, though, was the landscape itself.  Pamela had
visited Southern California plenty of times; she knew what palm trees
were.  But here they didn't seem like lonely oases sprouting in the
desert.  Key West was the tropics, everything lush and green and
voluptuous-and humid.  Hot and humid.

She followed Kitty's directions and navigated into a residential area
of cozy, pretty houses.  The neighbor hood seemed too homey for someone
like Joe, although as an adoptive father to an orphaned girl he must
have a domestic side to him.  She recalled what he'd said last night
about abruptly finding him.  elf the primary caretaker of a
two-year-old who ate only pink food and sobbed for her parents.  There
was clearly more to Jonas Brenner than frayed jeans and an earring.  At
last she found his home, a sprawling white bungalow on a plant-choked
lot.  The wide front porch overlooked a shaggy lawn interspersed with a
variety of palm species.  Flowering bougainvillea crawled up the
trellis-like underpinnings of the porch.  Slouching wooden chairs sat
empty beneath the broad overhang.  Halfway up the pebbled driveway
Pamela stopped her car and climbed out.  Some sort of tropical bird,
earn-oufiaged by the foliage, cawed a greeting.  She wasn't sure what
she'd expected, but whatever it had been, this was better.  The house
had been recently pain led The roof was in good repair.  A child's
bicycle lay on its side next to the slate front walk.  The front door
stood open, the screen door veiling the interior of the house from her
view.  She could imagine herself living in a house like this.  It was
certainly big enough, and charming.  Although the landscaping was as
much in need of a trim as Joe's hair, it was lovely.  Yes, she could
imagine it .  An arrow whizzed past her head.  She shrieked and
flattened herself against the notched bark of a royal palm, clinging to
the rough surface until her trembling stopped.  It took most of her
courage to glance at the missile, which lay on the grass a few feet
away.  Red plastic, with a suction cup at the end.  Another arrow flew
toward her from a cluster of bushes at the side of the house.  This one
missed her by several yards.  She pushed away from the palm and
glowered at the bushes.  A girl emerged from the shrubbery.  She stood
about three-and-a-haft feet tall, with brownish-red hair braided into
two narrow plaits on either side of her face and hanging loose in the
back.  Gull feathers were woven into the braids.  The eh' rid had dark
eyes, a smudge of a nose, a pouting mouth and tings of grime circling
her neck.  She wore a yellow T-shirt with bright purple letters across
it reading Life's a Beach, and a hula skirt constructed out of shreds
of green b were bare and dirty, and her equally' dirty hands clutched a
toy archer's bow.  She scowled at Pamela.  "You're dead," she
announced.  Pamela met the girl's stare.  "Do I look dead to you?"  The
girl meditated for a minute, then shrugged.  "You're ugly," she said.
Pamela knew better than to ask the child ff she looked ugly.  Her
smile, however, felt as plastic as the hula skirt, and she abandoned
all pretense of friendliness.  "Where's your uncle?"

"He's not here.  He went to Birdie's."  "He invited me for lunch."
"Yeah, well, he's at Birdie's.  You wanna play?"  No, Pamela did not
want to play.  Not with a heavily armed savage who called her ugly.
"Who is Birdie?"  The girl .  airked at Pamela's apparent ignorance.
"You know.  Birdie.  Come on, let's play.  I'll be the boo doo chief.
You can be the biker."  With that, the girl spun around and plunged
into the shrubbery.  Pamela took a deep breath and let it out.  She
didn't want to be the biker.  What she wanted was for Jonas Brenner to
appear and explain what in God's name was going on.

Her prayers were answered Promptly.  "Pamela?  His voice sailed toward
her from the street.

She turned to see him jogging up the driveway, a bouquet of pale
squares drooping from his hand.  As he drew nearer, she saw they were
loose lea bags.

She sh'ffted her gaze from the ca bags to the man holding them.  His
grooming had improved considerably overnight.  Although his hair was
still too long, his chin was clean-shaven, and his apparel--a sky-blue
cotton shirt tucked neatly into a belted pair of khakis--was un-torn.
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirror-lensed sunglasses, and his
earring was dangly and gold this time, either a heart or a skull, or
maybe--she hoped--a peace sign.  She couldn't make out the shape.

"Sorry," he said, then smiled.  Without the stubble to hide it, his
dimple was more pronounced.  "I realiTed you might be a tea drinker and
I didn't have any ca bags, so I had to borrow some.  Actually, I wanted
to borrow the whole box, but Birdie can be funny about stuff."  He had
reached Pamela's side, and she fell into step next to him as they
ambled up the front walk to the porch.  "You should have rung the bell.
lJ?and would have let you in."

"Lizard is outside playing," Pamela told him.  "She invited me to join
her."  She told me I was ugly.  Honestly, Pamela reproached herself,
she shouldn't let a child's opinion mean so much to her.  But it did.
"Who's Birdie?"

"She's Lizard's main baby-sitter.  She lives across the street.  You'll
meet her eventually," said Joe, holding the screen door open for Pamela
and following her into an entry hall.  The walls were a muted beige,
the oak floor covered with a thick, faded runner rug.  The shadows kept
the interior air surprisingly cool.

"Lizard, Birdie, Kitty.

Is there anyone named Toad

I ought to know about?  "

Joe threw back his head and laughed.  It was such a deep, warm laugh
Pamela almost begged him to remove his sunglasses.  She wanted to see
what happened to his eyes when he dissolved into robust
laughter--whether they squinted or sparkled or.  No, she didn't want to
know anything about his eyes at all.

"I reckon I'm as close as anyone gets to being a toad around here," he
said.  "We should all count our blessings now that we're about to add a
swan to the menagerie."  '

It took Pamela a full minute to realize he meant that she would be the
swan.  She felt her cheeks grow warm.  She hadn't prepared herself for
flattery--especially not after Lizard's succinct assessment of her
appearance.  And Joe's compliment wasn't like the usual line a man
would use to beguile a woman.  He had already established that he
wanted to marry her and that once he did they would sleep in separate
beds.  Maybe he was trying to soften her up so she would overlook his
niece's tactlessness.

Or maybe he really meant she was swanlike.

That was a discomfiting thought.  This marriage was going to work only
if she knew it was based on nothing more complex than sheer necessity.
"Your house is nice," she said to distract herself.

"I'll show you around.  Here's the living room."  He waved through an
arched doorway off the hall.  "And through that doorway is the dining
room, which leads into the kitchen."

"Everything's so tidy."  Given Lizard's appearance and behavior, Pameh
would have expected the living room to be strewn with toys--or arrows.
But it was an oddly se date room, full of old, comfortabl-looking
furniture brightened with throw pillows and antimacassars and a few
odditles--a brass peacock umbrella stand in one comer, an unused brown
candle shaped like a turkey on a table, a strange tree-shaped light
consmwted of artistically bound fiber-optic threads, a clumsy crayon
drawing of two stick people, one large and one small, elegantly framed
and hanging prominently on a wall.

"I told Lizard if she didn't pick up her things before you arrived, I'd
hang her from the ceiling fan by her toes and turnlthe fan on high
speed.  Apparently that was the wrong thing to say," he added, at last
removing Iris sunglasses and treating Pamela to a flash of glittering
blue.  "She pleaded with me for haft the morning to tie her to the fan.
She said she wanted to see if she could vomit in a perfect circle on
the rug.  The thing about Lizard," he went on, leading Pamela back into
the hall and up the stairs, is she as gross as any boy.  There's not a
prissy bone in her body.  I like to think she's liberated.  "

"Does she vomit much?"  Pamela asked delicately.  "Rarely?"  Joe tossed
her an easy .  mfle.  "I'll be in chaxge of all upset stomachs.  Don't
worry about it."  The upstairs hall was also lined with a faded runner
rug.  Joe gestured toward a half-open door.  "That's L/zard's room.  I
wouldn't look inside if I were you.  It's a nightmare scene.  My room's
way down at the end of the hall.  And your room would be here," he
said, U-turning and heading to the opposite end of the hall.

room he led her into was bright and airy, the walls papered in a
sunshine-yellow pattern, the double bed neatly made and the f pieces of
furniture polished to a high gleam.  The mirror above the dresser
wasn't warped, and the dresser itself was co of solid maple, not
particle board The rug covering the floor was the color of honey.

She closed her eyes and visualized the bedroom in her sleek condominium
back home in Seattle, with its cool parquet floors, its marble master
bathroom and its floor-to-ceiling windows.  She pictured her platform
bed, the simple lines of the room's decor--a hybrid of Shaker and Asian
styles--and the enormous dimensions of her closet.  Opening her eyes,
she saw the exact opposite of the exquisitely designed bedroom she'd
left behind when she'd fled for her life.

"This is beautiful," she said.

"I think you'll find it pretty quiet.  The windows overlook the
backyard, so you won't get much street noise.  If it's too hot for you,
I can install a Window AC unit.  But with all the windows open, you'll
probably get a nice breeze in here."  He watched her expectantly, as if
not quite convinced she liked the room.

She turned and smiled.  "Really, it's fine."

He returned her smile.  She wished he would laugh again, another big,
rousing, heartfelt laugh.  In spite of his smile, his eyes were
serious, the blue of his irises layered in shadow.  He seemed as
nervous today as she'd felt last night.

She was nervous, too.  Even though they seemed to have cleared a
hurdle, they hadn't finished running the course yet.  Too many things
could still go wrong.  She could still discover Joe was a slob, a
wastrel, demanding or moody or any number of other unpleasant things.

And then there was his lunatic niece, armed and dangerous.

Yet her anxiety waned when she stood with him in the sun-filled room
that would be hers if she agreed to marry him.  She thought about what
she'd seen of the hOUse the massive, well-used furnishings, the
old-fashioned arrangement of the rooms, the verdant yard, all of it the
antithesis of her condo back home.  She considered the comforting order
of the living room, the small, personal touches, the framed crayon
drawing of a man and a child side by side, holding hands.  She surveyed
the room that would be hers and contemplated the long hallway that
connected her room to Joe's.

How many steps loomed between the two rooms?  she wondered.  How many
paces separaxi a husband and a wife?

S'dly thought.  Ridiculous thought.  No one would be pacing anywhere.
That was the way she wanted it, the way they both wanld it.  If she and
Joe got married, that was the way it would be.

"It's a very nice room," she said one final time, then edged past him
and out the door, ready to face the next hurdle: his niece.

CHAPTER THREE

A mn mum WAFr through the screened porch as they sat around the table
Lois, one of the barmaids at the Shipwreck, boa sled of having read
everything Martha Stewart had ever written, and she'd suggested to Joe
that they eat lunch on the porch instead of in the dining room"--Too
stodgy," she'd said.  As for the kitchen"--Too familiar.  The porch is
just right.  Casual elegance.  Even idnda romantic."  Lois had also
suggested that Joe festoon the house with eat flowers, set the table
with cloth napldn rolled and fled with string as if they were diplomas,
and serve deviled eggs and endive salad in a vinaigrette for lunch.
Some of her suggestions were better than others.

Canned tuna fell within his limilxt culinary capabilities, so tuna,
sliced tomatoes and a loaf of seven-grain bread was the menu he went
with.  He knew some women preferred green, cnmchy things fr lunch, but
as eager as he was to make a good impression on Pamela, he wasn't going
to impress her at the expense of his own stomach.

Besides, Lizard considered salads toxic.  Not that that mattered much;
nowadays, the only thing she would consider eating for lunch was peanut
butter and mashed banana on a bagel, accompanied by a glass of milk
flavored with enough strawberry syrup to turn it shocking

She was seated across the table from him, gnawing on her bagel and
glaring at Pamela, who sipped her water-on-the-rocks and pretended
Lizard's flagrant rudeness wasn't getting to her.  Joe was tempted to
haul the brat out of her chair and throttle her.

Instead, like Pamela, he pretended not to notice her testy mood.  "So,
does the house meet with your approval?"  he asked Pamela.

"It's lovely.  It's larger than I expected.  Have you lived here
long?"

"Ever since Lizzie came to live with me.  Before that I lived on a
houseboat."

"A houseboat?"  Pamela looked astonished.

He stifled a reflexive sigh.  Man, but he'd loved that houseboat.  He'd
loved the smell of the gulf surrounding him, clinging to him, and the
way the timbers creaked and the ropes clanked and the wind whispered
its secrets to him.  Most of all, he'd loved lying in bed and being
roclaxt by the waves, caressed by the tide.  Sometimes he'd liked that
even more than the usual rocking and caressing that went on in his
bed.

He supposed it all depended on who--or what--one was being rocked and
caressed by.  For not the first time, he wondered how Pamela would
stack up as a bed mate.  Better than the gulf tides?

He would never know.  And he ought to.  quit thinking about it.  "I
couldn't continue living on the boat with a rowdy little toddler," he
eaplained.  "She could have toddled overboard."

"I'm not rowdy," Lizard protested, then took other lusty bite out of
her bagel.

"Sweetheart, you are the definition of rowdy.  Anyway" -- he turned
back to Pamela "--the fellow who owned this house had just been
divorced and was antsy to remove himself from the scene of his folly.
He wamxl to sail away from all his troubles, and I wanted to put some
terra firma under Lizard's feet.  So he and I swapped homes, with a bit
of cash thrown in to make up the difference."

"I don't need anythin!] under my feet," Lizard announced, then held her
half-eaten bagel above her chin, hiding her mouth behind the
semicircular sandwich.

"Look," she said.  "I'm smiling."

"Don't play with your food."

"I'm not playing.  I'm smiling."  She turned her bagel grin to Pamela.
Her voice emerged from behind the sandwich: "You like our house?"

"I do indeed," Pamela said.

"You gonna move into the spare room upstairs?"  "Maybe."

Lizard's big, dark gaze slid back to Joe.  "What if I don't llke her?"
'

"Now, Lizard"

"No, that's all right," Pamela interrupted, her hand Iv.  aching across
the table to pat his arm.  Her touch was brief but consoling, her
fingers cool and soft against his ski like silk ribbons.  Before he
could react, she retreated, shifting in her seat so she could add re
IJ,and directly.  "You don't have to like me, Ii,and.  And I don't have
to like you.  All we have to do is get along."

I. i. and sized her UlX "You gonna marry my uncle?"

She shot Joe a look even more fleeting than her touch.

Then she turned back to Lizard.  "Maybe."

"Does that mean you love him?"

"It means he and I think we call make a life to " My mommy loved my
daddy.  "

Pamela had been batting a thousand up until then, but Lizard's
fastball whipped past her for a strike.  She fell back in her seat and
glanced toward Joe, evidently expecting him to step up to the plate and
pinch-hit for her.

Not knowing what else to say, he opted for the truth.  "Yes, Liz.  Your
mommy and daddy loved each other."

"Is that the way you love her?"  Lizard asked, tilting her head toward
Pamela, who had somehow managed to twist her napkin tighter than a
nautical rope.

"No two people ever love each other the way two other people do," he
said, relying on vague platitudes.  "Besides, Pamela and I haven't
known each other that long.  But I think she'll he a nice addition to
the household, don't you?"

"I think," Lizard said with titanic self-importance, "she doesn't eat
enough."

Joe had noticed that, too.  Maybe Pamela didn't Yfice tuna.  Maybe she
wanted green, crunchy things.

"It's the heat," Pamela told lizard.  "Tin not used to such hot
weather.  It takes my appetite away."

Lizard slurped her milk, then squirmed into a kneeling position on her
chair.  "What do you do?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What do you do?  Like Megan--she's sometimes my best friend when she
isn't being a dope--her mother is a county at the Casa Marina."

"An accountant," Joe translated, secretly pleased that Lizard had asked
Pamela what he himself had wanted to ask.

"Or like Birdie?  She's a boo doe chief."

Pamela sent a bewildered look Joe's way.  "Voodoo," he mumbled,
recalling that he'd already identified Birdie as Lizard's baby-sitter.
Birdie had immigrated from Haiti back in the seventies, and the older
she got, the quirkier she got.  She made puffy fabric dolls and used
them for pincushions, and she spent hours with Lizard in the backyard,
mixing dirt from the garden and water from the hose, a sprig of this
and a leaf of that, and chanting mum be jumbo.  Joe didn't believe her
routines accomplished anything more useful than keeping Lizard
entertained--which, granted, was no small feat.

Pamela nodded uncertainly, then turned back to Lizard.  "I'm an
architect," she said.

Joe swore under his breath.  Sure, he'd wanted the woman he married to
make a positive impression on anyone who had the power to take Lizard
away from him.  He'd wanted his wife to be educated and affluent and
well put together and all that.  But he didn't want her to be a
hotshot.  He didn't want to be married to an uppity yuppie who would
pontificate on Corinthian columns and Frank Lloyd Wright's genius at
the drop of a hat.

An architect.  Jeez.

He cautioned himself not to panic.  For one thing, there wasn't much an
architect could do in Key West, professionally speaking thor without a
commit ion and some heavy-duty financial backing, neither of which
Pamela was likely to have in her current predicament.  For another
thing, once she married Joe--her savior, her pro-teeter--she would be
beholden to him, wouldn't she?  She couldn't put on airs, not when her
neck was on the block.

Okay.  He could handle being married to an architect.  As long as she
didn't act like an architect.

"What's an ock-attack?"  Lizard asked.

"It's some he who designs buildings," Joe told her.  "Lie with Io?"
"Sure."

"I got lots of Leges.  I guess I'm an ock-attack, too."  Lizard dropped
her haft-eaten sandwich onto her plate and shoved back her chair.  "If
you want to eat the rest of my bagel, go ahead.  I'm done," she
announced, rising and heading for the door out to the yard.

Joe reached out and snagged her wrist.  "Hey, pal, what do you say?"

"May-I-be-excused," she recited as if it were a single word, not a
question.  She slipped out of his grasp and raced outside.

Pamela watched through the screened walls as Lizard bounded across the
backyard, tramping haphazardly through a scraggly herb garden and
vanishing into the denser shrubs beyond.  Then Pamela lifted her glass
and sipped her water.  Her eyes were hard and silver, like the ice
cubes clinking in her glass.

The silence grew as heavy as the thick, warm air.  Joe felt obliged to
say something.  "Lizard has a way to go when it comes to manners," he
explained with what he hoped was an endearing smile.  "She tends to
confuse bluntness with honesty."

"That's all right," Pamela said, though she didn't look all right.  She
looked pale and fragile and uncomfortable-which, under the
circumstances, he should have

Even so, he wanted to vanquish the worry that shadowed her eyes and
pinched her lips.  "Really, she's a great kid.  A little mouthy,
but..."

"She said I was ugly," Pamela announced.

/Ioe opened his mouth and then shut it.  Def'mitely the brat deserved a
throttling.  "Whedid she say that?"

Pamela seemed embarrassed all of a sudden.  "Oh, I know she didn't mean
anything by it.  I don't know why I mentioned it"

"You are not ugly."

"As you said, she's very honest."

"I didn't say that.  She's a little beast, and she'll do anything to
get a rise out of people.  Please."  He wanted to grab hold of Pamela,
hug her, reassure her.  "Trust me.  You're not ugly."

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

Did she mink he was just handing her a line?  Trying to preserve her
ego?  Should he haul her into his arms and kiss her, ravish those
pursed lips of hers until she realized her appearance wasn't a
turnoff?

He swallowed a wry laugh.  ff he tried to kiss her she'd probably slap
his face, or kick him someplace lower.  One wrong move on his part, and
she'd decide she was better off dealing with her Seattle assassin than
marrying Joe.

"You know what?"  he said, trying a new tack.  "I think Lizzie's
biggest problem is that she doesn't have a female role model.  She
needs someone to show her the proper courtesies.  I try--it took me two
years to train her to ask to be excused before she bolted from the
table, and she still doesn't always remember.  Maybe she needs a woman
in her life."

"She has Birdie," Pamela pointed out.

"The boo doe chief."  Joe rolled his eyes and laughed.  "And Kitty.
Kitty told me she adores Lizard."

"Yeah, well... Kitty's a great lady, to say nothing of the best
waitress I've ever had.  But role-modeling isn't her forte.  Are you
sure you don't want some more to eat?  Should I make some coffee, or
tea?"

"After all the trouble you went to to get those tea bags, I suppose I
should have tea."  The smile Pamela gave him was brittle.

Things were falling apart, and/Ioe was having trouble finding the crack
and repairing it.  Lizard had done her part, sure.  And he himself was
still unsettled by the news that Pamela was a member of a highly
esteemed profession, a good two thousand rungs up the ladder from bar
owner.  But more than that was wrong.  There was an undercurrent of
uneasiness, atension between Pamela and him that he needed to fix
before the situation was broken beyond repair.

He had to touch her.  No kisses, no graphic proof that she wasn't ugly,
but he had to connect with her in some friendly way.  If she misread
him, ff she slapped and kicked and otherwise gave vent to her rage at
his toking even the mildest of liberties, well, so be it.  If this
engagement was doomed, better to find out now, while he still had a
little time to hunt down a wife on the mainland before his in-laws
showed up and staked the' it claim on Lizard.

It was unlike him to make such a big deal out of taking a woman's hand.
He'd held her hand last night at the Shipwreck, and no thunderbolts had
descended from the heavens.  But now that his niece--the beast, the
monster, the troublemaker extraordinaire--had introduced the subject of
Pamela's attractiveness, to say nothing of love.  The hell with it.  He
stopped dissecting his impulses, eased Pamela's hand free from her
tortured napkin and sandwiched it between his palms.

Despite the heat, her fingers were as icy as her eyes.  If she'd had
less poise, she no doubt would have been tremb ug.

"Pamela."  He tightened his hold on her, hoping to warm her up, thaw
her out.  "I think we can make this marriage work, as long as we don't
lose track of what's important.  Okay?  The thing isn't perfect, but we
can make it work."

U. Y UINUI.

She flicked her tongue against her lips to moisten them.  Observing the
damp pink tip as it circled her mouth made him far more aware of her
lack of ugliness than he wanted to be.  He lowered his gaze to her
chest to remind himself that her body wasn't his type, but somehow, in
her demure silk shell, the modest dimensions of her chest looked right.
A small bosom became her.  He imagined her breasts would be like ripe
peaches--perfectly round, firm and sweet .  He banished the image with
a quick shake of his head.  "If you're having problems," he continued,
his voice as tame as his thoughts had been wicked, "now's the time to
make them known."

"Well..."  She flexed her fingers against his palm, and he was visited
by more uninvited thoughts: her fingers flexing against his naked back.
Her slim, neat, nude body pressed beneath his.  I his bed on the
houseboat, rocking, rocking.  "I think we ought to spell some things
out first," she said, wrenching him from his fantasy.

"What thingS?"  No rocking.  No bed.  No nude bodies.

He felt her fingers move again--not as ff she wanted to escape his
grip, though.  He loosened his hold slightly, but she didn't slide her
hand out from between his.  Her eyes looked a lit He less sleety.
"Exactly how much of a role model would you expect me to be?"

Lizard.  Damn the kid.  Why couldn't she have behaved better with
Pamela?  "Forget Liz's big mouth," he insisted, cramming his voice with
earnest emotion.  "You aren't ugly."

At that Pamela did slide her hand free.  She inched her chair back,
pivoting it to face him.  "I really don't care whether she th inI a
gorgon," she said.  "I'm more concerned with how much of a mommy you
expect me to be.  I told you last night, I'm not terribly maternal.  I
don't derive pleasure from baking cool des and playing with dolls." '

"Lizard isn't into dolls, either," Joe assured her.  "She's big on
action-adventure games."

Pamela nodded.  "Boo doo and bikers."

"Yeah, that kind of thing."

"Well, I'm not big on boo doo and bike re Understand, Jonas, what my
life was like before I came to Key West.  I lived in a condominium full
of expensive furniture and breakable objects.  I listened to classical
music.  I went to work, and after work I went out to dinner or to the
theater with friends.  I'm not used to clearing my schedule with a
baby-sitter before I make plans.  I'm not used to tripping over toy
arrows."

A few particulars leapt into sharp relief: she went out with friends.
Boyfriends?  Dates?  Had she left a lover behind when she'd fled from
Seattle?  Was she going to cry herself to sleep every night in her bed
at the opposite end of the hall from his?

And Sonas.  Why had she called him that?  Was she trying to maintain a
greater degree of formality in their relationship?  Was she trying to
distance herself from him?  "Most people call me Joe," he reminded her
warily.

"I like Jonas.  It's an unusual name."

Okay.  He'd take his compliments where he could get them.  "Then call
me Jonas.  Can I call you Pain?"

"Nobody calls me Pam," she blurted out.  Then a slow smile crept across
her mouth.  "Sure.  PaTM would be fine."

He supposed that meant she hadn't ruled out their possible marriage. It
also meant that she was allowing Joe to call her what no one else
called her.  Did she con sider him unique?  Or was she just pretending
that who she was in Key West bore no relationship to who she'd been in
Seattle?

Why in God's name was he analyzing every little de, tail?  He ought to
just push the negotiations forward, get the final okay from her and tie
this sucker up.  "All right," he said, wishing he could take her hand
again.  "As far as maternal responsibilities, no sweat.  Birdie takes
care of Lizard.  There are plenty of bakeries in town if any of us
develops a craving for homemade cookies.  And I'm around most days.
I've got two other bartenders working for me, and we rotate shifts, but
I'm usually around the house through midafternoon, so I can take care
of most stuff.  Next September Lizard will start ldn dergarten, so
child care will be even less of a problem."

"Then what am I supposed to do during the day?"

He shrugged.  "That's up to you.  Maybe there's an architectural firm
hiring on the island."

She SCOwled.  "No.  I can't do that.  I'm trying to make it impossible
for anyone to find me.  The architectural world isn't so big.  If a
firm hired me down here, someone might hear about it someplace else."
She shook her head.  "No, I definitely can't go back to work right now.
I can't pursue jobs that would draw attention to me."

He resolved to stop resenting her fancy career.  How could he not feel
sorry for someone who'd had to sacri-rice her job--and so much
more--because some gangster had slipped through the cracks?  "You can
do whaver you want," he said gently.  "I'd only ask that ff a social
services lady comes to call, you try to act domes " I'm never going to
be mistaken for June Cleaver.  "

"Oh, I don't know about that," he ,ased.  "Maybe if you wore a string
of pearls and a starchy dress"

"And baked cookies."  Pamela sighed.  "What about cleaning the house?
Who's responsible for that?"

"Lizard," he deadpanned.  "Can't you tell?"

"Seriously, Jonas--are you going to expect me to vacuum and dust and"

"How about we all pitch in.  You make a mess, you clean it up.  I make
a mess, I clean it up.  Lizard makes a mess, so what's new?"

She fought against a grin and lost.  "Are you sure you want me to marry
you?"

"We need each other, Pain," he said.  That sounded melodramatic, but it
was true.  "I think you can help me convince the social workers that
Lizard's got a good home here.  That's all I'm asking of you."

She moistened her lips once more and averted her eyes, as if what she
was about to say was extremely difficult.

"What about money?"

"What about it?"

"I can contribute something toward room and board.  Most of my money is
tied up in a bank in Seattle, and getting it out of there without
alerting half the world to my whereabouts won't be easy.  But..."

Typical yuppie attitude--distilling everything down to dollars and
cents.  "I'm asking you to marry me, okay?  You're going to be my wife,
not my tenant."

She lifted her gaze back to him.  Her eyes were as moist as her lips.
Oh, God.  He didn't want her to start crying.  Especially over
something as trivial as money.

But before he could think of what magical words he could say to cheer
her up, she spoke.  "I don't want to take advantage of you, Jonas.
You're being so generous.

I think I ought to pay something "A tear skittered down her cheek.

"The hell with generous.  You're doing me a favor."  Why was she
crying?  It couldn't he money, and it sure as hell couldn't be how
generous he was, because he really wasn't that generous at all.  He'd
asked her to marry him for a purely selfish reason: because he wanted
Lizard.  Something else was bothering her, something he couldn't begin
to fathom.  He felt utterly helpless watching her dab at her cheeks
with her tattered paper napkin.  "what if he finds me?  What if he
tracks me down?"  The assassin.  "He won't track you down," Joe
promised, although he had no way in hell of guaranteeing that.  But the
proper manly response to a woman's distress was to swear she was
perfectly safe with him, and when a woman started crying, a man had
little choice but to be properly manly.  "How could he possibly find
you?  You're just going to be a quiet little housewife in the Keys,
right?  Mrs.  Jonas Brenner."

"Because if my marrying you endangered your niece in any way
whatsoever, I..."  She let out a shaky sigh.  "I couldn't live with
myself if anything happened to her."

If anything happened to Lizard, Joe couldn't live with himself, either.
The whole reason he was going through this charade was to prevent
something from happening to her.  Not that his in-laws were as bad as
hit men, but he simply couldn't believe living with them in their
ritzy-glitzy California home would be good for her.

All night long he'd thought about it.  He'd weighed the pros and cons,
the risk of marrying Pamela vetsns the risk of remaining a bachelor, or
marrying the wrong woman.  He'd considered everything Pamela had told
him at the Shipwreck last night.  And he'd concluded she wasn't in all
that much danger.  The cops in Seattle were keeping tabs on the hit
man, right?  They'd know if he left the state.  Besides, a gangster
couldn't mrn up in Key West lx UUL

without everybody knowing about it.  It was a small place.  Everyone
knew everyone--which was why he hadn't been able to find a wife among
the locals.

And if Pamela Hayes the archizzt transformed into Pam Brenner the.
little woman, how would anyone at the opposite end of the continent
track her down?

Except for her weird entanglement with a professional criminal, Pain
was per feet Joe wanlzcl to marry her.  And he wasn't going to let her
apprehension stand in his way.

"Lizzie's going to be fine," he promised.  "We're going to make a great
little family, Pam."

"I hate..."  Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip and dabbed at her
cheeks once more.  "I hate having to impose on anyone."

"Who's imposing on whom?  You're doing me a favor, remember?"

She began to weep freely.  "I hate crying.  I hate being afraid like
this.  I used to dream of getting married, Jonas--all little girls
dream of big white weddings.  Except maybe Lizard..."  She sniffled.
"And instead, here I am, inflicting my danger on her.  If he finds
me... if he finds me..."

That did it.  Joe stood, gathered Pamela's hands in his and lifted her
out of her chair.  Then he closed his arms around her.

She was thin but not skinny.  He felt the sleek padding of her skin
over her shoulder blades, the surprising soft-neas of her narrow waist.
She sobbed into his shoulder, and a strange seine of power stole over
him.

She would be his wife, and he would pro leer her.  "Everything's going
to be all right," 1 whispered.  "The biggest danger you'll face if you
marry me is that Lizard might drive you in sam

He felt her smile, her cheek moving against his shirt, her hands
timidly rising to his sides.  "I guess I didn't really want a big white
wedding, after all."

"Not this time," he said.  "After everything's all squared away, and
you go for tiao real thing, you can make it as big and white as you
want.  Okay?"

She pulled back and gazed up at him.  Her eyes were wet, as if all the
ice had melted.  "Are you sure, Jonas?  Are you really sure this is
going to work out?"

"I'm sure."  And the pope was Jewish.  But what else could he say?  If
he revealed he was as dubious about the whole thing as she was, he'd
lose her--and LiTard, too.  He'd wind up with nothing but sorrow.

Declaring his certainty seemed like the right thing to do.  With a
tenderness he'd thought had been reserved only for Lizard, he wiped the
last of Pamela's tears from her cheeks, brushed a pale strand of her
hair away from her face, and told himself that even if he didn't get to
indulge in the fun-parts of being a husband, he'd do his damned eat to
hide his misgivings from his wife-to-he.

That, after all, was what husbands were supposed to do.

CHAPTER FOUR

"TONY?.  IT'S MCK Morrow."

"Mick!"  Tony's voice boomed through the telephone.  "What are you up
to?  I've got to file a report on you."

"Another report?"

"Hey, you're my job these days, Mick.  I'm supposed to submit a daily
record of your comings and goings.  I didn't know I had such a flair
for fiction.  They don't teach creative writing in the police academy,
you know."

"What have you said about me?"

"According to my xrts, you live the most boring life in the world.  You
go to the supermarket, you go to the post off/ce, you go to the pizza
place for take-out.  You're a model citizen, Mick."

"And you're a model cop."

"Hey, I admire you, Mick.  The way you beat that murder rap--you really
have Lady Luck in your bed."

Mick forced himself to smile.  He hated small talk, but he knew he had
to suffer through it before he could get down to the business at hand.
Tony was a small-talk kind of guy.

"I mean, the way you manage thineos, she's just spreading her legs for
you," Tony went on, obviously taken with his metaphor.

Paiiellce.  Mick ordered him.  lf as he gazed around his modest
kitchen, a room full of unoriginai pine furniture and built-ins, with
white blinds at the window and muffin crumbs on the counter.  He made a
lot of money doing what he did, but he was too smart to spend it all in
one place.  His apartment's decor was the residential equivalent of a
plain brown wrapper, the sort of home that shouted, "No wife, no kids,
no pets, no attachments."  That pretty well summed up Mick's life.

"You and I both know I didn't beat the top," he reminded Tony.  "I'm
still under indictment.  They tossed out the verdict on a
technicality."

"Yeah, right.  One of the jurors went to nursery school with the widow
of the guy that got murdered.  And that never came out until after the
verdict was handed down."

"Don't blame me," Mick said, all innocence.  the DA didn't do a good
job of interrogating the jurors.  " " You'd think that juror would have
disqualified him "Mayhe he figured it wasn't worth mentioning until it
was too late.  Not that I'm saying I had anything to do with it, even
though the whole thing bought me a new trial.  That's the American
system of justice, Tony."  "You're clever, Mick.  Very clever."

Enough chitchat.  "Listen, Tony, I've got a problem.  They're plnnnin.o
to me, you know that.  You also know the district attorney hasn't got
much against me,

other than the word of that woman.  " " Pamela Hayes.  " " She's left
town, Tony.  " " How do you know that?  "

"I know it," Mick said tersely.  He wasn't about to tell the cop who
was supposed to be keeping an eye on him all the things he'd been up to
while the cop wasn't keeping an eye on him.  "She's disappeared, Tony.
And you know damned well she's going to reappear the minute

they put together a new trial for me.  The broad's going to show up in
time to testify against me again.  You see what I'm saying, Tony?  "

"I know, Mick, but"

"She's their whole ease.  Nobody else saw the hit go down.  No evidence
was found at the scene, other than a slug in the guy's body.  But this
Hayes broad swears it was me she saw doing the job."

"And she's taken a powder?"

"Vanished into thin air."

"What else have you got on her?"

Mick pulled out his notes.  His lawyer had done a lot of research
before the first trial--a lot of frustrating research.  Pamela Hayes
had proved to be what in legal circles was referred to as an
unimpeachable witness.  "She's thirty years old.  The only child of
Ronald and Margaret Hayes of Kirkland.  Never been married."

"You wouldn't by any chance have her driver's license number, would
you?"

Mick snorted.  Tony was the cop here; he was the one who had access to
all the data.  "No, Tony.  But I do know she worked for Murtaugh
Associates as an architect.  Did her undergraduate work at Stanford,
graduate studies at UW.  She's skinny and blond--or at least she was
during my first trial.  She could be a brunette now, for all I know.

"I visited her old address and they told me she was out of town.  Got
real antsy when I tried to find out where she was, but if something
happened to her, me and my lawyer would know about it."

"Here I am, supposed to be tracking you, and now you want me to track
her."

"Carefully, Tony.  Not so anyone would find out."

"I'll see what I can do," Tony promised.  "God gave us computers for a
reason, didn't he."

Sure, Mick thought.  And God gave us crooked cops like Tony for a
reason--to make life a little easier for guys like Mick.  "Whatever you
can find will be greatly ap " Meaning, we'll be celebrating Christmas
the usual way?  "

Mick pulled a face.  "Of course, Tony," he said, laboring hard to
filter the irritation out of his voice.  Mick always honored the
holiday by donating a huge sum of money to Tony's favorite charity: the
Tony fund.  These days it wasn't easy to own your very own personal
police officer.  Too many honest cops screwed up Mick's way of doing
business.

But Tony had his price.  And especially now, when a second murder trial
loomed ominously on the horizon, Mick considered his associate worth
every penny.

"I ON' mOW Mary said.

She was seated next to Joe at the table on the screened porch.  Through
the screen they could observe Lizard and Pamela in the backyard doing
what Joe hoped was some extremely quick bonding.  Pamela, as usual, was
dressed too formally, in a linen shirt and pleated slacks and those
gold-button earrings that seemed like the sort of jewelry best suiiixl
for a funeral.  Lizard, as usual, was dressed like a savage, wearing a
pair of b overalls with the legs cut off and multicolored ink
sen3blings all over them, and under the overalls the top half of her
Bart Simpson pajamas.  She scampered barefoot through the herb garden,
identifying various plants to Pamela, who seemed alternately interested
and dismayed.

Sighing, Joe turned to lance at Mary DiNardi.  It occurred to him that
Pamela looked more like a lawyer than his own lawyer did.  Mary had
shown up at his house an hour ago, dressed in a Hawaiian-print shirt
and khaki shorts and carrying a canvas tote with several folders of
documents in it.  He happened to know Mary owned a couple of
suits--he'd seen her in one, once--and a leather briefcase that she
saved for court appearances.  But any lawyer who made house calls
certainly couldn't be expected to resemble a Wall Street
wheeler-dealer, or even an architect from Seattle.

Mary, not Pamela, was the expert when it came to child custody
hearings--and she was the one who'd told him he had to clean up his act
and present himself as a proper family man before his in-laws attempted
to spirit Lizard away.

"What don't you know?"  he asked.

"Whether you and Ms.  Hayes can make this marriage work."

Joe turned back to watch his niece and his bride-to-be.  It wasn't
dismay he read in Pamela's face, he decided: it was disgust.  Evidently
she had an aversion to little girls with mud caulking the cracks
between their toes, graffiti on their butts and the ability to lecture
their elders on the difference between fennel and anise.

So what if Pamela didn't like Lizard?  Joe had never intended the
marriage to work, except as a charade.  When it was time for him to get
married for real, it would be to a woman who was loose and sultry and
buxom, a woman who thought muddy feet were just fine.

"It was your idea," be reminded Mary.  "You told me I had to settle
down if I wanted to convince the courts to let me keep Liz.  You know
as well as I do that most of the single women on the island aren't
settling-down material.  Or else they're into multiple settlings, like
Kitty."

"In other words," Mary said skeptically, "there's not a single local
woman you could marry, even temporarily."

"I would have picked you," Joe said with an ingratiating smile, "but
Frank got to you first."

Mary grinned.  "Even if he hadn't, I would have turned you down.  The
last thing I want is children, whether my own or someone else's.  And
if you ask me" -- she directed her gaze through the screen and watched
as Pamela picked a gingerly path through the rows of sprouts, her arms
akimbo and her nose twitching in distaste "--your fianc doesn't seem
too enamored of children, either."

"She said she was willing to give it her best shot.  That's the most
anyone entering a marriage can do," Joe said as if he were some sort of
expert on the subject.  "All of which is academic, anyway.  I don't
have time to waste.  I've got to get this marriage up and running
before the Prescotts make the scene."

"Which should be sometime in early August," Mary reported, riffling
through the folder of papers she'd pulled from her tote.  "Your in-laws
want to move Liz to California so she can get settled in by the end of
the summer.  They want her to be fully at home in their house before
she starts kindergarlen."

Joe grimaced.

"I've written to their attorney that you aren't going to relinquish
custody," Mary said, separating a paper from the stack.  "This
communication from their attorney arrived yesterday."

Joe took the letter.  Beneath an intimidating letterhead appeared
several paragraphs of neat type, most of which he was able to translate
from jargon into English.  The gist of it was, the Prescotts intended
to fight him for custody.  They considered him unfit as a parent, and
they would do whatever was necessary to remove the Liz Kid from the
pernicious influence of the Brenner half of her family.

The letter only confirmed what he'd already known, but it ticked him
off, anyway.  "What a crock," he grumbled, tossing the sheet onto the
table.  "They're so damned eager to take Lizard, but they couldn't
spare a thought for her well-being while they were raking in the
profits in Indonesia."

"Their position is that although they wanted Lizard right from the
start, they felt it was in her best interest to remain in the United
States."

"Her best interest."  He snorted.  "It was in her best interest to stay
with someone who was willing to turn his life inside out for her.  They
weren't willing to do that.  I was ."

Mary patted his shoulder.  "I'll make sure that argument gets entered
into the record."

But Joe was on a roll, and he wasn't going to let Mary's assurances
silence him.  "They were traipsing around the Far East, making a bundle
on their development deals while I was rocking L/zard back to sleep
when she woke up in the middle of the night screaming for her mother.
They were attending formal dinners at the American g. mbassy in Jakorta
while I was teaching Liz how to pee in the petty and chew with her
mouth closed.

Don't tell me they're better parents than I am.  " " Relax, Joe.  I'm
not telling yOU that.  "

"Of course I'm the better parent.  But it's not enough, is it.  I've
got to have a wife by my side.  We both know that if I appear before
the court as a bachelor, I got a prayer."

"I'll try not to take that as a commentary on your faith in my
abilities," Mary muttered.  "There's no question about it, Joe--you do
need to present yourself as square as a chessboard."  '

"Okay.  So if Pam's so perfectly square, how come you think my marrying
her won't work?"

Mary waved her hand toward the backyard, where Pamela stood rigidly,
her expression one of vague horror, while Lizatrd scampered in circles
around her, yammering about sage as it pertained to assorted voodoo
rituals.  "Perhaps the expression 'fish out of water' means something
to you."

"She'll learn to swim."

"Look at her.  She's dressed like a northerner."

"She/s a northerner."  "She's got a manicure."

"Your nails could use a little TLC, too," Joe snapped, Mary had the
hands of a forty-year-old--which made sense, since she was forty--but
the ting emails of an eight-year-old.  She'd bitten them down to
nothing, a bad habit she'd reacquired afar she'd quit smoking a year
ago.

"Get real, Joe.  Vv'hat do you think people around here are going to
say when you suddenly show up with a woman like Pamela Hayes on your
arm?  They're going to know it's a sham."

He clasped his hand over his heart and gave Mary his most sincere
smile.  "They're going to think I've turned over a new leaf."  Leaning
back in his chair, he extended his legs, too restless to sit still but
unwilling to let Mary see how close to the bull's-eye her darts were
hitting.  "As wives go," he said, "Pamela's not bad.  What makes you
think a woman like her would never be my type?"

Mary's scowl spoke volumes.

He shrugged.  "Before Lizard fell into my lap, the very concept of a
wife was beyond my comprehension.  But I've changed.  Surely you can
see that."

Mary leaned forward and glowered at him.  "It doesn't matter what I can
or can't see.  All that matters is what a judge is going to see, and
the court-appointed advocate for Lizard.  What they're going to see,
Joe, is a Key West lowlife bar owner"

"A small-business entrepreneur," he corrected her.  "With a woman who's
much too classy for him."

"Maybe she finds lowlife bar owners irresistible."  "As the saying
goes, " Tell it to the judge.  ""

"And anyway, I'm not a lowlife," Joe argued.  "I haven't partied hearty
in three years.  I work my tail off and pay my bills.  I've got a car.
I've got a Visa card.  I've got a mortgage."

"Have you got a necktie?"

"I'll buy one," he promireA.

"You'll need one."  Mary slid her folder back into her tote.  "If you
want to marty that woman, I wish you the best of luck."

"Gee, thanks, Mary," Joe grumbled.  "If that's going to be your
attitude, I may not invite you to the wedding."

"If you want a wedding present from me," Mary warned, rising to her
feet, "you'd better invite me."

Chuckling, Joe sWod as well.  "What the hell,

I'll invite you.  I definitely want a present from you.  Something
really bridal.  Sterling silver napkin rings, okay?  Or matching
champagne flutes tied in white satin fib ben

"Watch your step, Brenner, or I'll buy you a marital aid."

"Aagh!"  Joe made a strangled sound.  "Do that and I'll find myself
another lawyer."

Mary smiled smugly and hoisted the straps of her tote onto her
shoulder.  "You need me more than I need you, honey.  Do me a favor"
she inclined her head toward Pamela "--and try not to hurt her, okay? 
She doesn't deserve what you're going to do to her."

Before Joe could think of a clever retort, Mary was gone.

He should have accompanied her around the house to her bicycle, but her
parting words had shaken loose his tenuous grip on etiquette.  What did
Mary think he was going to do to Pamela?  What terrible thing that
Pamela didn't deserve?

He was providing the woman with a new identity, far from a criminal who
might or might not be out to get her.  He was giving her a home and the
use of his name for as long as she needed them.  He was paying her
expenses and offering her a credible excuse to remain on the island.

Why would Mary think that Joe was going to hurt Pamela?

Sure, she wasn't type.  Sure, anyone who knew him well might have
trouble believing he'd mined over a new leaf.  But.  But he still
remembered the way she'd felt in his arms yesterday, her tears
dampen/ng his shirt, her body slim and taut again at his.  He still
remembered the sheer dread that turned her eyes as pale as zinc, the
fear that made her turn to Joe, of all people, for solace.

He still remembered the way she'd called him Jonas.  He stroked the
day-old stubble of his beard, wondering ff being Pamela's husband meant
he would have to shave on a daily basis.  Hell, marriage was supposed
to be about compromise.  If he had to shave every day, he would.  The
truth was, he was doing it--shaving, getting married, compromising--for
Lizard, not for Pamela.

He pushed open the screen door and descended the back steps to the
yard.  Pamela was standing beside the scruffy patch of garden, her
hands on her hips and her eyes wary.  Lizard, up to her elbows in dirt,
was babbling.  "See this?  It's a weed.  Birdie says a weed is just a
plant that didn't get enough love."

"A weed is a plant that isn't happy unless it's choking all the other
plants to death," Joe asserted.

Lizard peered up at him and wrinkled her nose in disdain.  "That shows
what you know," she scoffed.  "Birdie says half the people in the world
are weeds.  They just need a little love."

"I'll go along with the first part--half the people in the world are
weeds.  Maybe three-quarters."  Joe glanced at Pamela, hoping to find
an ally.  Pamela remained impassive, her gaze darting back and forth
between uncle and niece.  "So, Pain, has told you everything yOU ever
wanted to know about chives?"

Pamela managed a feeble smile.  "What did your lawyer have to say?"

"She thinks we're perfect for each other," he lied.

Pamela frowned.  "If she really said that, I think you ought to
consider looking for a smarter lawyer."

Joe laughed.  The comers of Pamela's lips upward, as ff she wanted to
smile but she didn't find' anything amusing in the situation.  If Joe
allowed himself to think about it, he wouldn't find it all that

He watched Lizard race to the side of return dragging the hose.  "I'm
gonna water."  she said less than a second before she aimed the garden
and half at Joe's feet and squeezed the lever.

Joe didn't care about getting his sneakers wet.  He did care about
getting Pamela's pristine outfit splattered, however.  Grabbing her
arm, he yanked her out of the way.

She stumbled against him, then shook free of his el asp and took
another step back.  Her brows dipped in a frown as she watched Lizard
wield the hose as if she were wrestling a boa constrictor.  The hose
seemed to be winning the tussle.  S'fivery arcs of water doused the
rhododendrons, the king pal ma and the rear shingles of the house.

Joe scrutinized Pamela's sour expression and heard Mary's voice echo in
his skull: A fish out of water.  Although, if Pamela stuck around in
the back yard much longer, she would most definitely get wet.

He heard Mary's voice again, haunting, warning: She doesn't deserve
what you're going to do to her.  What he was going to do, assuming
Pamela married him, was saddle her with an obslxelXOns little girl with
a soft spot in her heart for weeds.  And maybe she didn't deserve
that.

"You hate Lizard, don't you?"  he said, so Pamela wouldn't have to say
it.

Pamela meticulously dusted a few flecks of dirt from her hands.  "No, I
don't hate her."

"But the idea of living with her mak you want to run howling into the
night."

"She needs a little guidance," Pamela said.  "And a lot of soap.  But I
can tolerate her."

Tolerate?  It was one thing for Joe to joke about his niece's fetal
proclivities, and quite another for Pamela to imply that Lizard was to
be toleraaxl, like bad weather or a booster shot.  Tolerate.  Arc Hayes
ought to realize that marrying her was the ultimate act of tolerance on
Joe's part.

He wasn't going to get into a competition with her over who was being
forced to tolerate more than whom.  What mattered was that his in-laws
were planning to fight Joe's custody claim, and he had to get his act
together pronto.

Turning his back on the havoc Lizard was wreaking with the garden hose,
he faced Pamela.  She stared past him at Lizard, but Joe took her hands
in his, urging her to look at him.  Her hands felt cool, and once again
he was astonished by how slender and s'dky they felt.

"Pain," he said, gazing directly into her metallic eyes, wishing they
would thaw for him--not melt into tears the way they had yesterday, but
show some warmth, some receptivity.  "I've got to be down at the
Shipwreck in about haft an hour, so we really ought to work some stuff
out.  You've spent two afternoons at the house, and maybe that's not
enough time to get a feel for things.  But time isn't something we've
got a whole lot of.  Do you think we can make a go of it?"

Either she was blushing or the sun had added some color to her face
during the hour she'd spent in the yard with Lizard.  Her eyes, if not
exactly warm, sparkled with ironic humor.  "Is this a proposal?"

He smiled wryly.  "If you've got to ask, I guess I haven't done a very
good job of it.  You want me to get down on my knees?"

"No--the ground is too muddy.  It's a wonder Lizard hasn't washed away
the entire yard with that hose."  She slipped her hands free of his and
crossed her arms, although it looked as if she were actually hugging
herself.

"Okay, so..."  He hated to pressure her, but he was under a bit of
pressure himself.  "Do you want to go forward with this marriage
setup?"

She managed a limp smile.  "No better ideas have presented
themselves,/Ionas.  I guess we may as well."

"Great."  He had to force enthusiasm into his tone.  If only she'd
sounded a little less resigned, a lit He more excited.  Why would she?
He was as excited about the prospect of maria ling Pamela Hayes as he'd
be about scheduling a dental appointment.  He knew it was good for him,
he knew it was necessary, he knew it would make his life better in the
long run, but really, a guy didn't kick up his heels and shout for joy
at the thought of getting his ivo-ties professionally cleaned and
flossed.

He might have only been imagining it, but Pamela seemed to tighten her
grip on herself.  "What sort of time frame are we looking at?"  she
asked.

"The sooner, the better.  I'm friends with a semiretired judge up on
Big Pine Key.  I thin lt wee an get him to do the honors.  You didn't
want a church wedding, did you?"  Cripes, they hadn't even discussed
religion.  For all he knew, Pamela could belong to a cult or
something.

"I think a church wedding would be a bit hypocritical under the
circumstances.  Can we drive up to Big Pine Key and have the judge take
care of the paperwork there?"

"Well, actually, I'd like to make it a little more public than that If
we want to convince the famqy court that it's a real marriage, we
shouldn't be too secretive about the wedding.  What I was thinking, ff
it's alt right with you, is maybe dosing the Shipwreck to outsiders
on--let's say, Monday afternoon--and inviting some folks over and
hosting a small party.  My Ueat, of course.  All you've got to do is
show up and say " I do.  ""

If she hugged herself any fighter, she'd suffocate.  Her smile
glistened with pain.  But he wasn't going to have the chance to comfort
her; her eyes were as dry as cold ash.  Would she have preferred for
him to sugarcoat the deal?  Make it sound like something genuine,
something that

came from Iris heart?  He was offering to pay for the bash.  She
didn't have a right to expect more.

She gazed past him once more, at Lizardwwho, from the sound of her
whooping, was doing some sort of Seminole fertility dance around the
herb garden.  For her, Joe wanted to say.  T/ds isn't for me.  It's for
her.

And for Pameh, too.  For the sake of keeping her head attached to her
body, with no significant holes shot through her vital organs.  This
marriage was for her good as well as his, and if she didn't like it,
she could get the hell off his property and' Are you sure you wouldn't
like me to chip in toward the party?  "

His anger vanl.  qhed before it had a chance to build up much steam. If
that was as close as she could come to a yes, it was close enough.
"Forget it.  My treat."

"Okay."  Her voice was drier than her eyes.  Even her skin was dry. She
should have been sweating in the humid heat, but she was brisk and
crisp, all business, every messy emotion neatly tucked away.

He told him.  qe.  lf that was good.  He told himself it was better
that she refuse to let her feelings out the way she had yesterday.  He
told him.  qolf that this marriage going to serve the function he
needed it to serve.  A cool customer like Pamela Hayes was going to
blow his in-laws' argumen to smithetee.  Everything was go'mE to work
out perfectly.

Even so.  As Pamela broke from him and picked a it looks like your
uncle and I are going to get married Joe couldn't stifle a twinge of .
whtfuln?  Regret?  Ho wasn't sure exactly what he was feeling.

Except that it seemed an awful lot like longing.

BRIDE Nh'I)ED HER MOTHER at a time like this.  Sighing, Pamela leaned
back into the pillows.  She was stretched out on her bed in the dreary
furnished room that was destined to be her address for only a few more
days.  Her eyes burned, and she closed them against the too-bright
light of the bedside lamp.  She wanted to believe her tears were a
result of frustration or even exhaustion.  But she knew they weren't.

Although it made no sense, she believed Jonas Brenner was the cause of
her weepiness.

She couldn't begin to fathom what it was about him that made her want
to cry.  Marrying him was far from the most arduous task she had ever
faced in her life.  Living in the charming room at the end of the
upstairs hall in his house would he a pleasure after the week she'd
spent at the ficky-tacky apax/aient complex.  Lizard was a brat, but an
intriguing one--and without her work, Pamela needed something to occupy
her mind.  Lizard would surely fit the bill.

So why were tears seeping through her lashes and skittering down her
cheeks?  Why was it that she could witness a cold-blooded murder,
survive the ordeal of testifying against a killer in court, comprehend
that she was in danger and flee for her life without shedding a single
tear--and now all of a sudden, when salvation seemed at hand, she was
as touchy as a twelve year-old besieged by puberty?

Perhaps all brides went through this.  Premarriage jitters.  Second
thoughts.  Abject dread.  Wedding-hell blues.  Third and fourth and
fifth thoughts.

If only she could talk to her mother and ask whether it was normal to
experience this strange blend of melan-cholla and exhilaration as she
contemplated the step she

was about to take.  Had her mother been this anxious on the eve of her
wedding?

Of course not.  Her mother had been a sweet young thing, and madly in
love with the man she was about to marry.  She'd known him for two
years, had a long, prop oily public engagement, become a part of his
ily and welcomed him into hers.

None of which descn Pameh's situation.

She fingered the lephone on her nightstand, then shoved it away.  Her
lawyer had warned he, for the safety of her parents, not to try to
contact them directly.  She could convey messages through him.  "It's
easy enough for Mick Morrow to find your parents, if you hones fly
believe he's after you," her attorney had poin,d out.  "Don't put them
in a position where they have to conceal information about you. They're
safer if they don't know anything."

What would her mother say if Pamela called with the news of her
betrothal?

She'd be mi able Pamela liTed.  Miserable because she wouldn't he able
to attend the nupt'mls.  Even more mi.  rable because she would
understand what a desperate step this was.

She would argue that Pamela could change her name and her identity
without getting married.  And Pamela would reason that getting married
would make a name change seem more natural, and that it would be the
last il thing Mick Morrow would expect her to do.  She was iI supposed
to be a high-powered professional woman, not iI a mousy little
hausfrau.

Her father would dwen on the practicalities.  He woukl ii want to know
what financial arrangements had been made, what contingencies had been
planned for.  But mother would focus on matins of the heart.  "How
can!!

you do thh?  " she would wail.  " You don't even love him!  "

And Pamela would have no way to refute that.

She felt a steady stream of lars leak down her cheeks.  She pictured
the hose Lizard had wielded like a mad fire fighter that afire-noon in
the garden.  Her eyes gushed just as freely.

To her amazement, a chuckle slipped through her sobs.  I. izard was a
pint-s/ze lunatic, but how could one not hugh at a little girl spouting
arcana about mint and sage?  Especially a little girl in a pajama top
and jeans that ap-parenfiy doubled as a doodle pad.  Pamela recalled
the solemn expression on Lizard's face as the little girl told her,
"It's called foodilizer because plants eat it," and "Earthworms are
good 'cuz they stick air in the ground, and also 'cuz they're slimy."

Jonas had looked solemn, too--in a very different way.  As Pamela had
listened to L/zard's dissertation on herbs, all the while trying to
lain clean and dry while the wild child dug in the dirt and sprayed it
with water, one part of her mind had remained firmly with Jonas on the
porch with his lawyer, going through papers and planning stra egieso

She didn't know what to of him.  Yesterday, he'd been surprisingly
tender and protective, letting her humiliate herself by crying in his
arms.  Once she'd gotln control of herself, he'd nobly acted as if she
hadn't fallen apart, as if she hadn't blubbered and leaned on him and
all in all behaved like the one thing she never wan led to be: a
helpless female.  When he'd suggested that she return for lunch lo day
she was afraid he would remind her of the feel she'd made of herself,
but he hadn't.

Still, it troubled her to think he had seen her at her weakest.  What
if he only kept all his promises until they

were legally a couple and then took advantage of her--not financially
or even sexually, but emotionally.  He knew how frightened she was, and
how much she hated to be frightened.  He knew what a strain she was
under.  Yet she had to trust him.  She'd run out of options.

She shoved away from- the bed, crossed to the door and stepped outside.
The night sky was dark, laced with pale clouds.  A tropical breeze
floated across the parking lot, thick with the perfume of the ocean.

Three days.  Three days until she would be Jonas Brenner's wife.  Three
days to erase all her notions of white weddings, of the grand organ at'
the Presbyterian church her family had belonged to since before she was
born, of her father proudly bearing her down the satin-covered aisle to
deliver her to the man of her dreams--someone tall, dark and handsome,
with a wall full of framed diplomas and a notable absence of jewelry on
his ears.  Three days to replace her fantasies of a reception dinner at
her parents' country club with the reality that awaited her: a
grung-fest at the Shipwreck.

Three days to come to her senses.

At this point, though, she wasn't sure whether coming to her senses
meant going through with the marriage or climbing into her car and
hitting the road, searching for a new hiding place, a refuge, a haven
not only from Mick Morrow but from Jonas Brenner and all the trouble he
might well turn out to be.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Lr's SEE, NOW.  You've got something old" -- Kitty gestured toward the
gold locket strung on a chain around Pamela's neck.  "And something
new" -- she tapped the white satin headband around which Pamela's pale
blond hair was arranged.  Two more dabs with a cosmetic brush in the
vie'mity of Pamela's eyes, and then Kitty hauled Pamela off the toilet
seat and guided her to the mirror above the sink so Pamela could see
for herself the lush blue eye shadow Kitty had applied.  "Something
borrowed and something blue," she said, snapping shut the cake of
shadow and beaming proudly at her handiwork.

Pamela stared at the borrowed blue makeup, wondering whether two of the
traditional bridal requirements could be met with a single item.  Not
that such details mattered.  This wedding was a farce.  Kitty knew it
as well as Pamela did.

"I should have bought a new dress," she grumbled, scrutinizing the
sleeveless white shift that emphasized the ruler-straight lines of her
physique.  "This thing looks like an overs'zze undershirt."

"It looks wonderful," Kitty assured her, preening beside her in a
strapless flowered sundress.  "Anyway, it's white.  How do I look?"

"Spectacular," Pamela said, meaning it.  Kitty's cleavage bisected her
sun-bronzed upper chest.  The flare of her dress emphasized her narrow
waist.  Her bright blond hair glowed.  Pamela wondered whether anyone
would even notice the bride standing in the shadow of her bridesmaid's
resplendence.

"I'm so excited!"  Kitty squealed.  "I've been married four times, but
I've never been a maid of honor.  Ever hear the expression " Never a
bridesmaid, always a bride'?  " When Pamela didn't smile, Kitty slid
her arm around Pamela's narrow shoulders and gave her a comforting
squeeze.  " Trust me, Pamela--this is going to be the party of the
summer.  A major blast.  You're have a great time.  "

Pamela had never thought of weddings in terms of blasts, major or
otherwise.  She'd certainly never thought of her own wedding that way.
A wedding ought to b' a solemn occasion.  Relinquishing one's freedom
shouldn'l be taken lightly.

Of course, Pamela had relinquished her freedom moment she'd telephoned
the' she'd witnessed a murder.  Compared to that, marrying Jonas
Brenner was hardly significant.

"You did say he cleaned up the Shipwreck," she asked.

"We all did--Lois, Brick, me and a few others.  You'io not going to
recognize the place."  She marched Pamela into the bedroom, deftly
navigating through the ciutr, and lifted two bouquets from her unmade
bed.  Gardenias, Pamela noted wryly.  Not exactly the sort of blossom
she associated with weddings.  When she thought of.  gardenias she
thought of sultry southern weather and fading southern helles, and.
Sex.  Gardenias implied eroticism, something hot and:.  steamy and
private.

With a weak smile, she accepted her bouquet from Kitty and followed her
out of the flat.  The late-afternoon air was sweltering.  Pamela felt
as ff she were wading through sludge as she descended the staffs to the
parking lot.  By the time she reached Kitty's ancient VW Beetle, she
was drenched with sweat.

She settled onto the passenger seat and cranked down the window.  Her
palms were soaked, and she let the bouquet rest in her lap so she
wouldn't accidentally drop it onto the floor, which was littered with
fast-food wrap-pets, bent straws and sand.

"Nuptial jitters," Kitty said sympathetically as she coaxed the engine
to life.  "I had them before my first and third weddings.  Don't
worry--a couple of beers and you'll he feeling fine."

Pamela eyed Kitty warily.  "Jonas promised he'd have champagne."

"Oh, yeah, sure, if you like that stuff.  Me, I find it gives me a
roaring headache.  Plus, it's too sweet.  Tastes like soda pop."

Pamela considered explaining vintages to Kitty, and the difference
between sec and brut, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.  No doubt
the champagne Joe would serve at a place like the Shipwreck would be
just what Kitty predicted--sweet and guaranteed to cause a crippling
hangover.

The drive took only five minutes.  Emerging from the car, Pamela heard
a cacophony of voices through the Shipwreck's screened front door, on
which was hung a sign that read Closed for Private Party.  Judging by
the noise, Pamela doubted the party was all that private.  It sounded
as if Joe had invited the island's entire population to this shindig.

Before Pamela could either march bravely into the bar or come to her
senses and flee, Kitty grabbed her arm and ushered her around the
building, up an alley and into the small back lot where Jonas had
offered his hand in marriage less than a week ago.  "You can't go in
the front door," Kitty reminded her.  "No one can see the bride before
the wedding."

"What are we go' rag to do?  Stand out here roasting in the sun?"

Kitty ignored the exasperation in Pamela's tone.  "I'll sneak you into
Joe's office.  Hang on."  She opened the back door a crack, releasing a
blast of boisterous voices.  It sounded as if the party was already
well under way.

Pamela glanced at her watch.  Four-forty-seven.  The ceremony was
supposed to start at five o'clock.  Jonas had taken charge of the
invitations, and Pamela had no idea what time he'd told people to
arrive.  In Seattle, wedding guests generally came at the hour the
service was scheduled to begin--and early arrivals were not served
liquor.

Who cares?  she muttered inwardly as, baking in the merciless heat, she
waited for Kitty to sneak her into the office.  Who cared if her
wedding guests were three she els to the wind?  Who cared ff she was
getting married in a seedy bar, surrounded by strangers?

To her surprise, Pamela real il that she cared.  If she'd resolved to
get married, she should have asserted berseif a bit about the
particulars: a chapel, not a bar.  A morning service followed by a
brunch for a few closo!  friends--although in Pamela's case, the only
locals could pass for friends, and not close ones, at that--were Joe,
Kitty and Lizard.  But the event should have had at least a modicum of
class.

Tears dampened her lashes.  She hastily wiped her eyes before Kitty
returned to the back lot to fetch her.  "Come on," Kitty whispered, as
if anyone could have heard her over the din in the main barroom.

Pamela let Kitty lead her inside, down the back hall and through a
door.  Jonas's office was a small room taken up with an old chipped
desk, an even older-looking swivel chair, a tatS red sofa and a few
file cabinets.  Crayon drawings decorated the walls, and a cardboard
carton in a comer held assorted toys.  Pamela peeked inside and saw a
tri com hat, a rubber knife and what appeared to be a cheesily
constructed prosthetic hook.

"That's Lizard's staff," Kitty explained.  When Pamela dared to pick up
the plastic hook, Kitty added, "That's part of her pirate come.  You
should see her when she gets all decked out--the eye patch, the peg
leg, the gun .... It's adorable."

I can imagine, Pamela thought wryly.  "Why does she store her toys in
Jonas's office?"

"So she'll have something to play with when she's hanging out here."

"Here?  What on earth would a lit He girl be doing in a bar?"

"Well, it's not like she's knocking back a few," Kitty said.  "But ff
Joe has a baby-sitting snafu or something, he brings her along with
him.  She used to spend lots of time here when she was younger.  He had
a lit He port-a-crib set up in here for her to sleep in.  Although
somo-times it was hard to get her down with the juice box going, or ff
there was an especially rowdy crowd, so we'd bring her into the main
room"

"The bar?"  Pamela couldn't believe it.  An innocent, defenseless
little girl spending her evenings in a bar?

Then again, innocent and defenseless weren't appropriate words to
describe Lizard.  In a brawl among a group of drunken brutes, Pamela
would bet on Lizard to land the most punches.

"Everybody in the bar loves her.  Me and Lois, even Brick.  And the
customers.  And Joe, of course, most of all.  It's not like he wants to
bring her here, but he's got to earn a living and he can't just leave
her home alone.  His more was supposed to be Lizard's baby-sitter, but
sometimes she didn't come through.  Great lady, but less than a hundred
percent dependable.  And now she's off in Mexico digging up bones"

"Bones?"

"That's the rumor."  Kitty swung out the door, calling over her
shoulder, "I'm go una see if we're ready to roll."

Pamela sighed.  She wasn't ready to roll.  She won-de ted if it was too
late to bail out of this charade.  Surely people had been stranded at
the altar with far less cause.  And them wasn't even an altar at the
Shipwreck.

But if she didn't marry Joe, where would she go?  She was tired of
running, and she'd literally reached the end of the road.  Even if
Joe's child-rearing strategies were bit unorthodox, he deserved to his
niece.  And Pamela wasn't a quitter.  She followed through on things,"
flnihed what she started and obeyed the dictates of her conscience.
Right now, her conscience was telling her she' couldn't jilt Jonas
Brenner.

Kitty returned to the office, smiling brightly.  "It's show time," she
announced.  "Brick's got the boom box set up, the judge is here, and
you're about to He the knot."

Swallowing a lump of emotion' part rue, part dread, part sheer
panic--Pamela straighVmed her shoulders and joined Kitty at the door.
They tiptoed out into the hall a t'mny rendering of "The Wedding March"
resounded through the small speakers of a portable stereo atop the
jukebox.

As Kitty had promised, the barroom had been spruced up.  The tables,
pushed to the perimeter of the room, were all draped in white paper
tablecloths, and white satin ribbons had been looped over the exposed
rafters and the steering-wheel dock.  A strip of what appeared to be
unbleached muslin lay along the length of the room.  Although chairs
had been arranged on either side of the iamner, most of the guests were
standing, peering toward the front of the room, where a silver-haired
man in a straw hat and a dapper seersucker suit stood before a table
that was bedecked with flowers.  Pamela assumed he was the judge.

L/zard abruptly appeared at the rear edge of the bar, near where Pamela
and Kitty were standing.  Nudged by a wizened, dark-skinned woman in a
caftan trimmed with feathers, Lizard started down the muslin runner.
She wore a cotton sun suit with a pretty floral patire'n--not a dress,
but infinitely more respectable than a plastic hula skirt or pajamas.
Her hair was half braided, half loose, and she carded a bouquet of
peacock and gull feathers.

Pamela couldn't see her face, a fact for which she was grateful.  She
knew Lizard didn'tcare much for her.  Lizard's reluctant shuffle down
the aisle, her feathers fluttering and her steps making clicking sounds
as her rubber sandals slapped the bare soles of her feet, told Pamela
all she needed to know about the eh/ld's opinion of her uncle's
wedding.

She shifted her gaze from Lizard to the wedding guests.  Perhaps they'd
been whooping it up before, but now they were still and nearly silent,
ing the sanctity of the occasion.  It looked to Pamela as ff at least a
hundred people were crammed into the room.  In her plain white cotton
shift, she seemed to be the most elegantly dressed person present.

It isn't really a wedding, she told herself, but the thought rang false
in her soul.  A thousand-dollar wedding dress, engraved invitations, a
live organi and a sun-filled church weren't what made a wedding.  When
she stared down the long, wrinkled strip of muslin to the judge at the
other end, she knew this was a wedding.  Her wedding.

The comprehension staggered her.  She reached out to grab Kitty, but
she was too late; her matron of honor was already sauntering down the
aisle, flashing her smile to the left and to the right and occasionally
acknowledging a familiar face with a cheerful wave.  Pamela remained
alone at the rear of the barroom, gathering her wits and praying that
going through with this marriage wasn't an even bigger mistake than
testifying against Mick Morrow.

From the front of the bar, Kitty turned and beckoned Pamela with a
crook of her finger.  Pamela felt the assembled guests turn on masse to
stare at her.  She was sure the hushed murmurs she heard as she took
her first step onto the runner were not comments about tho beautiful
bride, but rather Joe's friends whispering, "Who the hell is she? 
Where did he find her?"

Once again she had to resist the urge to bolt.  Holding her head high,
squeezing her gardenia bouquet, she walked sedately down the aisle,
refusing to glance tother side, refusing to admit that she felt queasy.
She concentrated on the judge's benign smile and counted her steps,
maintaining a slow, courtly pace.

The late-afternoon sunlight sifted through the windows, casting the
front of the room in a gold on glow.

When she was nearly at her destination, Joe stepped forward to greet
her.

Pamela froze.  Not from fear, not from panic, but from the shock of her
response to him.  He looked tall, relaxed and absolutely sure of him
serf His hair was brushed back from his face, his cheeks were
clean-shaven, and his glorious blue eyes seemed to connect with her,
communi-eating that this was okay, everything was going to be okay, she
was going to make it to the end of the muslin runner without los' rag
her lunch.  He wasn't quite smiling, but she noticed his dimple.

Clad in a white linen blazer, a brightly patterned shirt and cotton
slacks, with an orchid pinned to his lapel, he was put together as
informally as she was.  But he looked.  if not like a husband, at least
like a man who didn't regret having chosen Pamela for his wife.

He also looked extraordinarily handsome.

Pamela recalled her first impression of him--that he looked like a bum.
Not all that much had changed since then.  His hair was still way too
long, the laughter in his eyes still teasing, and of course he had a
hole through his ear.  And yet.  It wasn't just because none of his
apparel was obviously tom, or because he had suddenly transformed into
a model out of GQ, but in the instant her gaze locked with his, Pamela
honestly believed mar-tying him was the right thing to do.

Joe extended his hand and she took it.  He closed his i%gers around
hers, snug but not fight, just a gentle squeeze of reassurance.  Yet
his eyes changed somehow, darkening slightly.  He almost looked.
glad.

Glad that he was improving his chances of winning permanent custody of
Lizard, Pamela rationalized.  Glad that Pamela had come through, that
she wasn't an embarrassment to him, that she would help him to convince
the family court of his stability as a parent figure.  It was nothing
more complicated than that.

Yet as he turned her to face the judge, he didn't let go of her hand.
His fingers remained woven loosely through hers, as if he and she were
taking a stroll along the beach rather than standing side by side in
front of the man who was going to join them legally together.

The judge cleared his throat and smiled.  "Ladies and gentlemen," he
drawled, speaking past Joe and Pamela to address the entire room,
"we're assembled here today to witness the marriage of Joe Brenner and
Pamela Hayes.  Now, you all know Joe.  He's one heck of a fine fellow.
Generous as the day is long--and right about now, the days are pretty
long.  Joe always fills the glass up to the rim.  He always listens to
a tale of woe, and he always laughs at a joke, no matter how poorly you
tell it.  I don't have to tell you what kind of a guy he is."

This assessment was greeted with a quiet chorus of assent.  Pamela shot
Joe a quick look.  He was grinning and rolling his eyes in
embarrassment.

"Pamela, on the other hand, is new to the island.  I've never met her,
and I reckon most of you haven't, either.  But she seems a charming
young lady, and I'll tell you this--ff Joe loves her, she's aces in my
book, and I think we can all count her as a friend."

"Hear, hear!"  someone at the back of the room shouted.

"TodaY we're here to unite these two special people in matrimony.  I
know Joe's got a lot of refreshment on hand for the celebration, so
let's get on with it.  Is there anyone present who would speak against
Joe and Pamela getting hitched?"

Pamela eyed Lizard cautiously.  Lizard slid her left foot out of the
rubber sandal and used it to scratch the back of her right calf. Pamela
noted that Lizard's toenails had been painted purple.  She also noted
that Lizard was making a great effort not to look at her.  She stared
at her feet, at the door, at Kitty, at her feathers and her uncle. 
Anywhere but at Pamela.

"Well, then," the judge continued.  "Pamela, do you take Jonas Brenner
to be your lawfully wedded husband through the good times and the bad,
the ups and downs, the high tides and low, the calm days and the
hurricanes, to make this marriage a thing of joy and beauty?"

Not exactly the standard lines, but Pamela had to admit she liked them.
They fit what she and Joe were entering into, and the judge hadn't
mentioned "till death dO us part."  She wondered whether Joe had told
him this marriage was going to be parted by a divorce decree as soon as
Joe had permanent custody of Lizard and Pamela had proof-that Mick
Morrow was behind bars to stay.

Whether the judge knew or not, Pamela found it easy to affirm the vow
as he'd stated it.  "I do," she said.

Joe squeezed her hand again, and she smiled at him shyly.

"Joe," the judge said, "do you promise to take Pamela as your lawfully
wedded wife, to honor and respect, to talk to and to listen to, to
share the burdens and the blessings of each day with, to parmer through
the dance of life?"

"I do," Joe said.  The smile he gave Pamela wasn't re merely timid.  He
looked downright pleased.

"The ring," the judge cued him.

A ring?  Pamela cringed inwardly.  She hadn't bought him a ring--she
hadn't even thought of it.  Surely ff Joe hadn't gotten a ring for her,
he would have told the judge to skip this part.  She hoped he wouldn't
make her wear

something cheap and brassy.  A wedding band was a sacred symbol.  A
fake one would be a Wavesty.

To her amazement, Joe pulled a real ting from his pocket, a thick band
of hammered gold.  He slipped it onto her ring finger.  Cool and heavy,
it fit perfectly.  "Joe,"

"Shh," he silenced her, still grinning.

"By the authority vested in me by the state of Florida," the judge
concluded, "I now pronounce you husband and wife.  You may kiss the
bride--and you," he invited Pamela with a wink, "may kiss the groom."

Joe had explained the necessity of pretending in pub-lie that theirs
was a love match.  Obediently, she leaned toward Joe, dosed her eyes
and puckered her lipr, bracing herself for the feel of his mouth on
hers.

His kiss was light, sweet, a Urnder brush of his lips that left her
feeling oddly frustrated.  But before she could lean into him, before
she could submerge herself more deeply in this pretense of affection,
the crowd began to hoot and cheer and demand drinks, and Joe broke away
to step into his role as the host.  "We've got plenty of food and
libation, folks," he shouted above the cheering.  "Brick, Kitty, let's
get some glasses filled."

"Hey, groom," Kitty chastised him as he started ward the bar.  "You're
not supposed to be workin tonight.  You've got a bride to take care of.
Don't the bride and groom have to have the first dance?"

Brick grunted in confirmation.

Joe turned to Pamela with a smile.  "Okay, Someone punch some buttons
on that juketmx.  rigged--no coins necessary."

A group of guests huddled over the jukebox,

about which song would be most suitable under the cir-ore, stances.
Others rolled up the chairs toward the walls, clearing a dance floor at
the center of the room.  Pamela eyed Joe, wondering whether they were
going to be treated to a slow, sensuous dance--and wondering why she
wasn't alarmed by the likelihood that they would be.

The crowd simmered down as a sinuous bass line filled the aft.  "Stand
by Me."  Pamela recognized it even before Ben E. King's soulful voice
began crooning.  Joe seemed delighted by the choice as he drew her onto
the improvised dance floor, into his arms.  "How are you doing?"  he
asked.

He was holding her decorously, one hand resting at the small of her
back and the other folded around her hand.  His eyes sparkled, and his
smile took on a wistfulness as he gazed at her.

"I'm fine."

"Good."  He urged her closer, and she.  relaxed into the rhythm of the
song.  "Do you think we've convinced the world that we're in love?"
Although his smile remained enigmatic, his voice was tinged with
laughter.

"Actually," she chided softly, "you went above and beyond.  Why did you
get such a fancy ring?"

"It's not so fancy.  Just plain gold.  If it isn't comfortable, we can
take it back and get the size adjusted."

"It's very comfortable," Pamela told him, refusing to admit to herself
that its very comfortable hesS made her uncomfortable.  The ring
shouldn't have felt so natural on her finger.  It shouldn't have felt
as if it belonged there.  "But you obviously spent a lot of money on
it, and"

"There you go with the money again," he muttered, although his tone
lacked any real anger.  "What sort of guy would I be ff I'd given you
something from a Cracker Jack box?  You're my wife.  You deserve a nice
finE."  He pulled her even closer, until her cheek was resting
against

the soft linen of his blazer.  "Lord knows you're going to earn it."

She leaned back and glared at him.  "That sounds ominous."

HE grinned.  "You look real nice, by the way."  She.  faltered for a
moment, then managed a smile.  Joe hadn't seen her since the aflnoon
he'd introduced her to his lawyer, three days ago.  The lawyer had
treated her cordially--yet Pamela had hardly found her reassuring.  In
fact, the meeting had made her retreat, giving Joe a chance to lo think
his decision.

If he'd rethought it, his decision had reanalned the same.  Pamela had
talked to Joe several times on the telephone since then, but he had
been busy organizing the wedding and preparing Lizard for the event,
and she had been busy coping with Kitty's exuberance, which tended to
manifest itself in protracted shopping excursions.

Perhaps, during the three days they'd been apart, Joe had forgotten
what Pamela looked like.  Perhaps he'd remembered her to be ho metier
than she actually was, today, all spruced up with something-borrowed,
some-thing-blue cosmetics, she looked better than he'd recol-leaed.

Or else he was just being cordial, h;kc Ilia attorney.  HE must have
read the skeptio'.  n in her frown, cause he elaborated.  "I like your
hair pulled back like i that.  It shows off more of your face."

"Kitty wanted me to wear a veil.  We at Sears yesterday, bickezing over
swatches of lace."

"You don't need a veil."  He tucked her head against his shoulder once
more.  "You look

Okay.  He was in a complimentary mood.

look so bad yourself," she said, returning the favor.

"Wait till you've downed a few glasses of bubbly.  I'll lo0k even
better."

She laughed.  So did he.  His cheat vibrated against her chin, and his
arms drew her closer still.  Through the jukebox speakers, the singer
pleaded with his darling to stand by him.

That would be their song, Pamela decided.  Not a song of love, but a
song of mutual support.  That was what this marriage was truly about:
standing by each other.

was n t'RM, Joe noticed.  She was perched atop the bar, swinging her
bare feet, her peacock feathers sticking out of the waistband of her
shorts and a sea gull feather wedged behind each ear.  She was eating
everything She could get her hands on, even though the only pink
foodstuff being served was strawberry margaritas.

She'd already drtmk one margarita--minus the tequila-and Joe had since
limited her to ginger ale.  "It looks like champagne," he po'mted
out.

As far as food went, he'd gone for quantity over quality: cold cuts,
sliced chee fresh rolls and rye bread, pickles and mustard.  Lois had
insisted that he stock up on those little toothpicks with the colored
plastic ta,2s on them--because Martha Stewart would have done it that
way--and she'd banned onions from the pre mi  es.  "You eat onions and
your bride won't want to kiss you," she'd declared.

He hadn't expected to be so eager for Pamela to want to kiss him.  But
when he'd seen her walking down the aisle, slim and statuesque in her
white sheath, with her hair pulled back and her chin held high, he'd
been really glad he'd listened to Lois about the onions.

Dancing with her wasn't the first time he'd ever held her.  He knew she
was thin.  He knew that when he closed

his arms around her he wouldn't feel pillows of bosom cushioning his
chest.  Yet her body felt good.  Her height worked well with his; their
hips lined up in an unintentionally sensual way.  When Ben E. King
wailed "darling, darling," Joe realized how very much he wanted: Pamela
standing by him.

Without having to budget their spare change, his guests kept the
jukebox playing nonstop--and at least once every fifteen minutes,
someone would select "Stand by Me" and the entire assembly would stomp
their feet and clap their hands and demand that Joe take his new for
another spin around the dance floor.  He and would put up a token
protest, and then they'd defeat and dance--each time a little closer,
each t/me a little slower.

But that one kiss to seal the manage was I

he'd get from her.  Thh marriage wasn't about sex.  the better Pamela
felt in his arms, the more diligent have to be about remembering
that.

"Hey, Joe-babyV' Peter Hyland hell owed as Joe Pamela separated aflr
their seventh dance.  Peter aged a marina in town.  He and Joe had gone
to school together.

"Peter.  Have you met Pain yet?"

Peter Wok Pamela's hand, bowed and kissed knuckles.  "Erichanti," he
said, then straightened "You got yourself a winner, Joey.  Who
thought?"

"There, there," clucked Peter's wife Margie, moseyed over with a couple
of turkey sandwiches.  not that no one ever expected you to take the
plunge, It's that for so long now, Elizabeth has been the woman in your
life.  "

"Well, now Lizzie and I have a woman in our lives."

"Lizzie could use someone in her life.  She's threatening to dive
headfirst into the cake if you don't start serving it immediately."

$oe groaned and excused himlf.  Letting go of Pamela's hand filled him
with a vague sense of loss.  He'd ben holding it for most of the
evening.  He'd jnst'died it with the thought that he didn't want to
lose her in the crush of his effusive friends, none of whom she knew.
But the truth was, he'd held her hand because it felt right.  She was
Mrs.  Jonas Brenner, and he wanl to hold her.

But Lizard needed attention, and that was his job, not Pam's.  Wading
through the crowd to the bar, he spotted the kid hovering over the
tiered white cake Lois and her mother had balaxl as a wedding present.
"Lizard, stop drooling on the frosting," he reproached her, looping his
arms around her waist and swinging her off the bar.

"I'm starved," L/zard whined.  "Birdie said I could have cake."

"Did she say you could have cake this very instant?"

Liar, Joe thought, but he was in too good a mood to give L/z a hard
time.  "All fight, then.  I know bet to mess with a voodoo chief.  Cake
time it is."

Brick placed a knife in his right hand.  Kitty placed Pamela's right
hand in his left.  Lois yelled that someone had better turn tho damned
jukebox off, because tho bride and groom were going to cut the cake.

Revelry easued-- , apphuse, whistles and a boisterous chorus of "The
bride cuts the calre," to the tune of "The Farmer in the Dell."  Pamela
looked abashed; Joe/magined she was used to far lassier re, cepfions.
Her cheeks glowing pinlrshe slid the blade through th top tier of the
cake, rotting a neat wedge.  As she lifted it onto a plate, she
whispered, "If you smear this on my face, I'm having the marriage
annulled to morrow."

Joe had been to a few weddings where the bride and groom had shoved
wedding cake into each other's mouths.  While he could see the
slapstick humor in it, he had to agree it was kind of tasteless.  "I'll
be neat," he pro mi  ed as he took the plate and a fork.  He daintily
broke off a small piece of cake and slipped it between her

Her eyes grew round.  "Whoa!  It's rum cake!"

"In that case, cut me a piece."

She laughed and cut a second wedge for him.

Birdie sidled up to him.  She had helped Lizard with her outfit that
afternoon, making Joe think of the old saying about birds of a feather
flocking together.  "It's too early for cake," she objected.

"Liz told me you said she could have cake.;'

"The truth bends in Lizard's hands," Birdie remarked.  "All right,
then, you and your bride eat your cake, and then you go home and have
your honeymoon" '

Joe glanced at the wall clock.  It was nine-thirty.  Th party had been
in full swing for hours, but he knew it would rage for hours more.  He
wasn't sure he ought to.  leave.

Now he was the one bending the truth.  He wanted to slay at the party
because he knew there was no honeymoon waiting for him and Pain once
they left.

"It's past Lizard's bedtime," he noted.  "I suppose we might consider
getting her home."

"No, no, no."  Birdie wagged a bony finger at him.  "I take her home
with me.  You take your bride and have a honeymoon."

Joe sighed and looked apprehensively at Pamela.  He had introduced her
to Birdie right after the first dance, aware that Pamela and Birdie
were going to have to get to know each other so they could coordinate
Lizard's schedule.  Pamela hadn't blinked at the older woman's odd
attire--she could see Where Lizard got her penchant for
feathers--although she did have a little difficulty understanding
Birdie's speech.  Twenty years after she'd fled to Key West from Haiti,
Birdie still spoke with an accent.

Evidently Pamela wasn't having much difficulty understanding her now.
"You're going to lake Lizard home with you?"  she asked.

"That's right.  You have a honeymoon tonight.  You get Lizard back
tomorrow."

Pamela nodded.  "I think she's right.  It's time for us to say
good-night to all your friends."

It occurred to Joe that Pamela was exhausted.  Her eyes were bleary,
her hair limp.

"Okay," he said, wishing there could be a real honeymoon for him and
Pamela.  He was married; his wife belonged in his bed, didn't she?

No, of course not.  This wasn't that kind of marriage, and he knew it.
If he did anything that even remotely re-serobled what a husband did
with a wife on theft wedding night, she'd have the marriage annulled
quicker than if he'd crammed cake into her mouth.  He'd better keep a
lid on his libido.

It took him and Pamela a good ten minutes to work their way through the
mob.  At the front door, Pamela tossed her bouquet over her shoulder.
Lizard elbowed at least three women out of her way so she could catch
it.

A few guys showered Pamela and Joe with beer nuts as they swept out the
door.  Pamela's laughter was breezy.

"Lord, it's hot out here," she said.  "Does it ever cool down?"

"For three days in January."  He took her hand again, casually, as if
it didn't signify anything.  It truly didn't, he told himlf--other than
the fact that he'd just gotten married and this woman was his wife.

His wife.  What a weird concept.

"Well," she said, her laughter waning as they strolled to his parked
car, "I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

"That champagne was delicious."

He reigned indignation at her implied insult.  "You thought I'd serve
lousy champagne?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"I'll have you know, Pain, that I'm a pretty classy guy."

"You are," she agreed, a serious undertone in her words.  When he
leaned past her to unlock the passenger door, she brushed her finger
across the floppy petals of his orchid boutonniere.  "It was a nice
party, Jonas.  Not like any I've ever been to before, but I had fun."

"I'm glad."  He honestly was.  If she was stuck with being his wife for
the next however-many months, he wanted her to be, if not thrilled, at
least passably He wanted her to feel at home with his friends, in place
of business.

He helped her into the seat, then jogged around to th0 driver's side.
"How about I detour to your apartment and we can pick up your car?"

"An right."

He revved the engine and eased away from the curb.  quick glance at her
informed him that she'd grown subdued.  He couldn't blame her.  Just
the two of them, alon in his car, driving through the darkness.  It was
a heavy dose of reality.  God help them, they were married.

The silence made him uneasy.  "You're a good dancer," he said.

"It's a miracle I can still walk.  That bartender--Brick."  Joe nodded,
and she continued.  "He kept stomping on my toes when we danced."

"He's a good guy."

"He doesn't talk much, does he?"

"One of his finest attributes."

"And Birdie... What is it with the feathers?"

"Why do you think everybody calls her Birdie?"  "Can she fly?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."  He chuckled.  "She and Lizard go down to
the town beach almost every day.  They Me to collect gull feat hem When
Lizard absolutely refused to carry flowers, it was Birdie's idea to
make her a feather girl instead of a flower girl."

"It certainly was original.  And in the spirit of compromise, it
worked."

They had reached the parking lot of the apartment complex.  Pamela
smiled and let herself out of his car once he'd braked to a halt next
to hers.  His car seemed painfully empty without her in it.

He wasn't supposed to be thinking along the lines of a real marriage,
of having Pamela fill his car and his life.  He hardly knew her enough
to consider her a friend, let alone a spouse.  Why should he be so
fixated on the slight shimmy of her hips as she settled behind the
wheel of her own car?  Why should he be inhaling deeply, trying to
capture her lingering scent?

Too much champagne, he supposed.  Too much dane-ing and laughing.  The
party had worked its magic on him, infused him with benevolence, made
him want to

CRY UNCIM

embrace the world and everyone in it.  Especially Pamela.

His wife.

He checked his rearview mirror to make sure her car was directly behind
his.  She knew the way to his house, but even so, he wanted her to
arrive there with him.

He wondered what he was going to do with her once they were home. Kitty
had brought Pamela's suitcases over earlier that day, and he'd put them
in Pamela's room.  When they got home, would she want to unpack and go
straight to sleep?  Or would she be practical and request that he show
her where the utensils and spices were stored in the kitchen and where
the laundry hamper was located?

He would rather talk with her awhile, maybe sit with her in the living
room with a couple of cold drnk.  q--lemonade would do, if she'd
reached her booze limit.  He wanted to get used to her presence in his
house.  Ho wanted to stop thinking of her hips, and her silver eyes,
and the hollows of her cheeks.  He wanted to stop memlxa'ing how soft
her lips had felt beneath his the judge had pronounced them husband and
wife.

He'd left a couple of lights on inside the house so it would look warm
and welcoming.  He into the carport, and Pamela parked hind him.  They
got out of the cars and met on the "Well, Mrs.  Brenner, be it ever so
humble..."  "There's no place like home," she concluded.

He was thrilled that she could think of his house home, even if only
temporarily.  He took her hand, thought better of it and reached around
her, hoisting into his arms.

She let out a shriek, then a giggle.  "Put me

Jonas!  I'm too heavy for you!  "

"You're too light, is what you are," he refuted.  "And I believe
there's some sort of law that says I've got to carry you over the
threshold."

"Well, I wouldn't want you breaking any laws on my account," she said,
1ooping her arms around his neck, settling against his Chest and
smiling up at him.

Maybe it was the champagne.  Maybe it was the bright half-moon or the
spark of playfulness he hadn't glimpsed in her before.  Or maybe it was
Joe, high on champagne and moonlight and just as willing to play the
game.  Because the instant he'd swung open the front door, car-tied her
inside and lowered her to her feet in their house, their home, the
legal residence of Mr.  and Mrs.  Jonas Brenner, he knew he was going
to kiss her.  She was his wife, his mate, his partner in the dance of
life.

And he was going to pretend it was real.

CHAPTER SIX

HE HAD LEFT ONE ARM around her when he set her down.  He lifted his
other hand to her cheek and angled her face to his.  She gazed up into
azure eyes that shimmered with trust.  And then he touched his lips to
hers.

Her mind told her this was a bad idea--but her heart was full of music
and dancing and champagne.  She was a married woman, and Jonas Brenner
was her husband, and married people were allowed to kiss each other.

His kiss was light, tender, questioning.  She answered with a sigh, and
he covered her mouth with his once more, this time less tentatively.
When she sighed again, he slid his tongue between her parted lips.  Her
eyelids grew heavy at the gentle assault of his tongue.

She sensed nothing demanding in the kiss.  He was clever to resort to
fore Instead, he lured, he tempted, he made her want to give so he
wouldn't have to take.  He was, she conceded as her body warmed to his
sensual advances, a sublime kisser.

She wedged her hands under his jacket and waist.  His sides were lean
and hard, ribs and muscle.  Through the soft linen of his shirt she
felt the contours his back, sleek and supple, flexing beneath her
touch.

He lifted his hand to her temple and into her hair combing through it
to the nape of her neck.  surged ago!  o. qt hers, she heard him groan,
and groa again when her fingers dug into his back.  She was that if she
relaxed her hold on him, her legs would buckle, so she clung to him
tightly, kissing him with a passion that matched his.  A voice deep
inside her soul whispered, It's all right.  He's your husband.  It's
all right.

It wasn't all right, her conscience argued--but for the moment she
didn't care.  She cared only about the sweet seduction of his mouth,
the restrained aggression of his lips and tongue, the possessiveness of
his embrace as he pressed his body to hers.

He stroked the edge of her neckline, then slipped his fingers under the
fabric to trace the ridge of her spine.  His hand felt so good on her
skin, too good.  She wished he would move his hand forward to her
throat, to her breasts.  She wished he would touch her everywhere.  She
wished he would tear off his clothing, and hers, so the hard swell of
him would no longer be seeking her, as it was now, through the barriers
of his trousers and her dress.

She heard his breath catch as she, brought her hands down to his hips
and held him against her.  A shudder of yearning rippled through her as
he rocked against her, slowly, sinuously.  She wanted him, wan tell
Jonas Brenner.  Wanted the man with the devilish blue eyes and the
earring.

She wanted her husband.

"Pam," he murmured, his breath caressing her lips.  "Let's go to
bed."

Bed.  Wait a minute!  This wasn't supposed to happen.  She and Joe had
entered into their marriage with the understanding that it wasn't about
love or sex.  It was about social workers and custody hearings, and it
was about eluding a murderer unt'tl the said murderer was brought to
justice.  Having already risked her life, Pamela wasn't about to risk
her heart.

"I..."  She swallowed to clear the huskiness from her voice.  "I don't
think that's a very good idea."

He loosened his hold on her and leaned back so he could view her in the
amber light of the entry hall.  letting out a long, weary breath, he
shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides.  "Sorry," he
muttered, looking supremely disappointed.  "I guess I broke a few
rules, huh?"

No more than she had.  She'd been as caught up in the kiss as he. Until
he'd mentioned the word "bed," she had been quite content to yield to
the mutual desire that had unexpectedly ignited between them.

She averted her gaze and fussed with her hair, which Joe had done an
effective job of tangling into knots--just like her emotions.  "I'm
sorry, too, Jonas .... "

"No.  My fault."  He held up his hands in mock surrender.  He was
smiling, but she saw no trace of his dimple, no glint of humor in his
eyes.  "Why don't you upstairs and get settled in?  I took all your
stuff to your room."  :;

"Thanks," she mumbled, not because he had lugged: her suitcases up the
stairs for her, but because he taken all the guilt upon himself, even
though she d served at least fifty percent of it.  If she had his she
would acknowledge her share.  She would tell him had nothing to
apologize for.  But she'd exhausted supply of courage earlier that
evening when down the aisle to take Joe for her lawfully wedded band.
As craven as it was, she couldn't look at him, alone sham the blame for
the passion that had claimed them.  She could scarcely admit to herself
how much she'd ached for him when his arms and his and his desire had
held her captive.

It was a desire she was going to have to forget.  Once the champagne
were off and she had a good night's sleep, she would come to her
senses.  So would Joe.  They would make this marriage work the way
they'd intended when they'd come to terms, and any errant longings
would be squelched.

That was the way it had to be.

MICK MORROW drove smoothly and calmly out of the parking lot.  After a
few blocks, he steered to the curb, shifted into neutral and reached
under the passenger seat.

It was there, just as Tony had promised: a thick yellow envelope.

Although Tony was supposed to be tailing Mick, he didn't want them to
be seen together in public.  So Mick had traveled to an agreed-upon
suburban mall parking lot at an agreed-upon hour, parked his car in
section 3-A and left it unlocked so Tony could leave the envelope under
the seat.  Mick had gone into a drugstore, browsed for ten minutes and
bought a pack of gum.  When he'd come back outside, there had been no
sign of Tony.

The envelope was exactly where Tony had promised it would be, though.
The guy had come through.  Mick owed him.

He slid it back out of sight under the passenger seat and cruised home,
resisting the temptation to open his special-delivery package until he
was safely inside his apartment.  The dreary drizzle of a Seattle
summer evening couldn't get him down.  In that envelope lay a route to
Pamela Hayes.  let it rain--Mick was too pleased to cam.

"I couldn't get much through her motor-vehicle records and her parents
didn't know anything," Tony had told him over the phone yesterday. "But
you mentioned she owned a condominium, so I thought, maybe she's
sitting on a mortgage.  Sure enough, I got hold of her credit report.
Lots of interesting stuff, Mick.  Stuff you might find useful."

Her credit report!  Her charge accounts!  Her bank accounts!  The most
intimate details of a woman's life, more significant than her height or
weight or hair color, more personal than who she was sleeping with and
what positions she'd rather die than try.  "It could have
possibilities," Mick had agreed, refusing to let Tony hear how thrilled
he was.

"I can get these documents to you tomorrow, as long as we don't have to
come face.  to-face."

"Is anyone gonna be able to trace this to you?"  Mick asked.  His
largess purchased only so much loyalty from Tony.  If the guy got
caught, Mick didn't doubt for a minute that he'd sing like the prover
bud canary.

"I left no fingerprints.  I know how to do thisort of thing."

"That's why I love you" , Mick had said before working out the
arrangements for the drop.

Inside his kitchen, he unlaced the tie that held the manila envelope
shut, and pulled out the papers.  Oh, yes indeed, this was interesting
materiai, very useful.  bank account numbers.  Her credit card numbers.
Previous apaOents she'd lived in before she'd bought condo.  The condo
price.  Her income.  The school loan she'd taken years ago, paid back
in full.  Mick resisted the urge to shout for joy.  One of her charge
accounts was with a local dio!  ed, asked for the credit office, and
said, "Hello, calling about my wife's credit card.  Her name is Pamela
Hayes."  He read off the account number, then con ting ued, "She's out
of town, and I can't make head or tail of her bookkeeping"

"Excuse me, sir, but according to our records, Ms.  Hayes isn't
married."

He suffered a twinge of reflexive anger--it always flared when someone
questioned him about anything.  Smothering his temper, he faked a
chuckle and said, "Well, Pamela is a stubborn feminist.  She kept her
own name, her own accounts and everything else.  She doesn't use my
income to get her credit line higher.  That's the way she likes it."

"I see."  The lady at the other end of the line hesitated.  "What did
you say your name was?"

"Andrew Pitt."  It had been one of his aliases back in the olden days,
when he'd been running errands for a thug out of Newark.

"And your social security number, Mr.  Pitt?"

He made up a number.

"Okay.  Is Ms.  Hayes planning to have a credit card issued in your
name?"

"No.  I'm just trying to sort through her receipts here.  I think she
may have run up some charges on this business trip she's taken, and I'd
like a record of what she's billed so she doesn't bankrupt me.  You
know women," he added with another phony laugh.

The lady in the bank's erect it department didn't share his amusement.
"In other words, you want to know her last few charges?"

"That's right."

"We've received a motel charge of fifty-eight dollars and change in
Boise, Idaho, and a gas station charge of nineteen dollars in Salt Lake
City."

"Great.  Anything else?"

"No.  That's it.  Those charges came in two weeks ago.  Apparently she
hasn't used her card since."

Damn.  "Okay, great," he grumbled, then be red to thank the lady and
say goodbye.

The bitch hadn't used her card in two weeks.  She was smart; she must
have figured out that by charging all her expenses she would leave a
trail for him to follow.  She could be anywhere right now.  How was he
going to track her down ff she'd taken to using cosh ?

On the other hand, how much cash could she possibly have on her?
According to her credit report, she had a cushy Httle nest egg sitting
at the local bank, not to mention the treasury bills and the mutual
fund she was into.  Surely she hadn't liquidated her entire savings
account.  If she was smart enough to have eluded him, she was too smart
to go driving around with tens of thousands of dollars in cash. stuffed
into her bra.

Maybe she d switched to one of her other credit cards once she'd left
Utah.  Maybe she thought she could feel him by u ng one one week and
another

Nobody fooled Mick Morrow for long.  Whistling to himself, he lookl up
the phone number of the company that had issued her other major credit
card.  didn't strike pay dirt there, he'd call back her bank find out
how much money s left town.  If he knew how much she had, he could ca!
-, culate how far she would get before she ran out of tender and had to
start paying her bills with

Oh, he was going to track her down, all right.

once he did, she was going to be one very sorry woman.

PAmsA SAW NO VOIlT in lying in bed any longer.  She hadn't gotten more
than a couple of hours of sleep night; lingering under the sheet for
another half hour wasn't going to cure her of insomnia.

It was hard to sleep in a strange bed in a strange room, she told
herself.  It was hard to sleep after drinking tOO much champagne, and
after not eating enough solid food, and.  Pamela saw no point in
lying--either in bed or to herself.  Her restlessness had nothing to do
with the unfamiliarity of her surroundings or what she'd consumed at
the wedding.  There was only one reason she hadn't been able to sleep
last night, and his name was Jonas Bren Her.

She dragged herself out of the bed in the pretty yellow room and donned
a pair of walking shorts and a camp shirt.  They were among the
garments Kitty had insisted that Pamela buy in the days before the
wedding.  She'd also stocked up on shorts and T-shirts--a Key West
version of a trousseau.  This wasn't a place where any of her
professional suits and dresses were going to do her much good.

Once she was dressed, she brushed her hair and then inched open the
door.  The upstairs hall was silent.  Joe must still be asleep.  If she
was lucky, she would be able to drink a cup of coffee and pull herself
together before she had to confront him.

She tiptoed along the hall to tho stairs and down.  The aroma of coffee
wafi from the kitchen, cheering her until she realized its si?
ificance: Joe was up, probably in the kitchen.  She would have no
caffeine in her when she came face-to-face with the man she'd married
yesterday, the man who had spent his first night as her husband in a
bed at the opposite end of the house.

Inhaling for fortitude, she followed the fragrance into the kitchen.
Joe stood at the sink, his back to her as he

rinsed stray coffee grounds from the basket of the coffeemaker.  He
turned as she entered, and his blue eyes froze her in place.

She hadn't thought he was so terribly handsome the first time she'd met
him, had she?  She had thought he was a bum--and he was, she told
herself.  He hadn't shaved, his hair was tousled, and dressed in a pair
of fraying denim cutoffs and a T-shirt that read It's Better

In

B'nnini, he looked more than a little disreputable.  He also looked
like someone who hadn't slept very well.  His eyes were bloodshot,
underlined with shadow.  The smile he gave her con lid have passed for
a grimace.

"Good morning," she said, trying not to wince at how formal she
sounded.

'"Morning."  He scrubbed his hand through his hair, then turned back to
the sink and set the basket on the drying rack.

When he said nothing more, she ventured timidly into the room.  It was
bigger than the kitchen in her condo, but not as nice.  The cabinets
were varnished pine, the countertops Formica, the floor a checkerboard
of scuffed black-and-white tiles.  Th old, but they'd been augmented
with more up-to-date equipment: a microwave oven, a food processor and
the blessed coffeemaker, its decanter full to the rim.

"I'm usually not up this early," Joe said without looking at her. "What
with the bar and all.  If it's my turn to stay till elos'mg time, I
don't get home till the hours ."  '

"I'm a morning person," Pamela told him.

He nodded, as if he'd expected her to be the an tithes of himself.
"Lizard's a morning person, too.  She knows she's not supposed to wak
me up.  She usually just grabs a box of cereal and goes into the den to
watch TV."

Pamela knew she ought to say something, but the house was too quiet,
the atmosphere too formal.  She eyed the cupboards, wondering which one
held the coffee cups.

He answered her unasked question by pulling two mugs from a cabinet.
Then he swung open another cabinet door to reveal a shelf slacked with
assorted boxes of cereal.  "We've got every sugary cereal known to
man," he told her, smiling sheepishly.

Pamela smiled back, just as shyly.  Looking at him seemed too
dangerous, so she quickly focused direction on the selection of
cereals.  Indeed, they all appeared to be sickningly sweet: chocolate
puffs, honeyed wheat, ugared flakes, frosll corn and something that,
according to the picture on the front of the box, was pink.

"It's supposed to taste like berries," Joe explained, noticing the
angle of her gaze.  "It's Lizard's favorito."

Grimacing, Pamela closed the cupboard door and opened the bread drawer.
"I think I'll just make some toast."

He gestured toward the toaster, then pulled a plate for her from a
shelf and got butter and jam out of the refrigerator.  She felt him
hovering behind her as she made her toast, as if he wasn't sure whether
he ought to be making it for her.  His nearness unnerved her.  She
wantecl him either to give her a reassuring hug or to back off.  Having
him so close yet so distant only emphasized the lsion between them.

"I get the daily pape out of Miami;" he said, indicating the newspaper
on the table "They usually toss it onto the driveway.  I don't know if
you like to read the paper over breakfast...."  He drifixi off
uncertainly, then smiled even more uncertainly.

His words brought home to Pamela how very little they knew about each
other.  Not just the trivia about whether they liked to peruse the
paper over breakfast, whether Joe liked to watch TV with his dinner,
what day he usually did the laundry--but real issues, like whom he'd
voted for in the last election or whether he had a bad temper, whether
he liked sex hot and fast or slow and slinky or.  She felt her cheeks
grow warm. She didn't care how he liked sex.  For that matter, she
didn't care whom he'd voted for.

Her toast popped up, and she carried it to the table and sat.  He had
the newspaper in front of him, but he didn't look at it.  He only held
his mug and watched her.  Shemmmiled basil fully then fussed with her
toast, meticulously buttering it so she'd have something to do.  Her
mind scrambled furiously for something, anything, to latch on to so she
wouldn't have to wonder about how Joe liked sex.

"Bones," she said.

"Huh?"

"Kitty told me your mother digs bones."  When Kitty had mentioned that,
Pamela wasn't sure she'd heard her ormctly.  Now that she given voice
to the notion, was sure she hadn't.

Joe proved her wrong.  "Yeah," he said, relaxing in his chair.  "She's
sifting soft at some old Mayan rain in Yu " Is she an archeologist?  "
" Nab.  She's a dilettante.  " " It's an unusual hobby.  "

He shrugged and lowered his gaze to his coffee.  Pamela studied him
intently.  Now that they were finally talking, she wasn't going to
abandon the subject.  "How did she wind up in Mexico?"

Joe seemed to understand how anxious Pamela was to keep the
conversation alive.  He raised his eyes back to her' and smiled.  "Her
last boyfriend.  They decided to sail across the Gulf of Mexico
together.  According to her, somewhere along the way they had a falling
out, and the last few days were hell.  He was ready to have her walk
the plank, and she was ready to mutiny.  Soon as they reached Cancfin
they parted ways.  I figure she must have hooked up with somebody there
who was on his way to the ruins, and the next thing she knew, she was
digging up ancient a'ffacts."

"Isn't that odd?"  Pamela asked carefully, hoping he wouldn't take
offense.

He looked puzzled.  "What do you mean, odd?"

"Well, I don't know .... " As she chewed a bite of toast she pictured
her own mother, as staid and stable a woman as ever existed.  The only
thing her mother ever dug was the soil in the flower beds in her own
yard.  To sail to another country with a boyfriend, break up halfway
through the voyage and grab hold of another man was simply something
her mother would never do.

"My mother is a character," Joe conceded.  "Headstrong, bitchy and a
whole lot of fun.  You can't always rely on her, though."

"That's more or less what Kitty said."

"Kitty was speaking the truth."

Pamela ate a bit more of her toast.  "How about your father?"

"He died ten years ago."  Joe drained his mug, then stood and crossed
to the coffeepot for a refill.  "Thing about my mother, she was real
loyal and steadfast as a wife.  Then, when my father passed away, she
spent a while mourning and then she cut loose.  She'd had enough of the
loyal, steadfast-wife routine."

"Yes, but then when you got Lizard, your mother wasn't there to help
you."

"She tried," Joe defended her.  "But you know, she'd already raised two
kids of her own.  And then she'd lost her daughter, and she just didn't
want to settle down and deal with it."  He shrugged again.  "So I
settled down and dealt with it instead."

"Your family has had more than its fair share of pain," Pamela
murmured.

"Hey, what's a fair share?  You get what you get."

"How did your sister die?"  "Ballooning."

Pamela almost choked on her coffee.  "I beg your pardon?"

"She and my brother-in-law were ballooning.  They got caught in a Wind
sheer and crashed."

"That's... pretty dramatic."

Joe smiled wistfully.  "What you mean is, it's odd."  "Well... yes."

"They wanted to try ballooning.  It's supposed to be fantastic.  They
didn't expect to die, and they didn't want to, but my sister was
adventurous and nothing her.  She was absolutely fearless.  That was
what brother-in-law loved about her."  His he added, "And that's what
my brother-in-law's family hagd about her.  He was a real stuffed shirt
when she met him.  She un stuffed him.  He was crazy about her."

"Their daughter seems to have inherited their fre spirits," Pamela
noted.

Joe agreed with a grim nod.  "LiTard'll die if she's to go live with
that bunch of stuffed shirts.  They'll sit on her till her spirit dries
up and dies."

"Was your father a free spirit, too?"

His smile returned.  "My father," he boasted, "was a bar owner."

"Oh?"

"He left me the Shipwreck in his will."

"But ten years ago" -- she eyed him speculatively "--wouldn't you have
been too young to own a bar?"

"We got around that."  He grinned.  "This is Key West, Pain.  People
don't bother with the fine print around here."

She finished her coffee, pleased to have learned a bit about her
husband, even if what she'd learned struck her as rather strange.
Through the open window above the sink, she heard the chirping of a
bird.  Sunlight bathed the room in golden warmth.  Joe continued to
grin at her.

It was all too domestic, too cozy.  If last night she'd been raging
with passion, this morning she was awash in the tranquillity of home
and hearth--which, in its own way, was just as dangerous.

Abruptly she stood and carried her empty plate and mug to the slnlc,
"Speaking of small print," she said as she rinsed the dishes, "this
morning I'd like to take care of some paperwork--getting my driver's
license and car registration changed, making sure my name is amended to
Pamela Brenner on all my records and that kind of thing."

"That's what you married me for," he commented.  She tried to interpret
the hint of seriousness in his tone, then decided not to beso
analytical.  Joe was probably just sleepy.  Not that she would dare to
turn around and look at him.  Just as he'd kept his back to her at the
sink when she'd entered the kitchen, she remained at the s'mk with her
back to him now.  Life seemed marginally safer when she wasn't gazing
into his glorious blue eyes.

"I was figuring I ought to go across the street and pick up Lizard
first.  It's important for me to get to know

Birdie a lit He better.  "

"Sure."

"Do you think it's too early to call on them?"  She glanced at the wall
clock.  Nearly nine o'clock.

"They'll be up.  Probably performing some black magic ritual, even as
we speak.  Go on over."

Once again she straggled to interpret the wistfulness coloring his
voice.  Did he want to get rid of her?  Did he feel as awkward with her
as she did with him?  Where had their temporary companion ability gone?
Were they going to be this uncomfortable with each other for the rest
of their married life?

If so, how in God's name was Pamela going to endure it?

She shook the excess water from her hands, then dried them on a towel.
"Well," she said, sounding wooden, "Tn need a key to your door."

"I have a spare upstairs.  You won't need it to run across the street,
though.  I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Okay."  She wanted to say something more: that understood his
discomfort and shared it.  That if they: both put their minds to it--or
took their minds off it-they could keep the strain between them to a
minimum.  That if Joe maintained his derelict grooming, probably stop
experiencing an unwelcome surge of lust every time she looked at him.
That once Lizard was back home, they would have her to distract them
from other and to drain them of energy so completely thought of
sleeping together would vanish.

Then again, Joe might have no interest in sleeping Pamela.  Last night
might have been an anomaly.  morning, his edginess might simply be a
result of wanting to let her down easy, to back off from her without
hurting her feelings.

And perhaps she was analyzing too much again.

She tried to smile, but it was a lame effort and Joe wasn't looking at
her anyway.  "See you later," she said, then raced out of the room with
all the subtlety of an Olympic sprinter, hoping with all her heart thrt
Joe wouldn't be around when she got back.

As soon s -m xq.  m> the screen door clap shut, he rose from the table
and hurried to th front door.  Through the metal mesh he watched her
saunter across the dewy lawn.  She's too thin, he told himself.  No
curves.

But she did have curves, a slight flare to her hips, a nicely
understated roundness to her bottom, an intriguing width at her
shoulders.  Her hair caught the morning sunlight and glittered with
hints of silver and gold.  Her arms were as graceful as a dancer's.

He wanted to be dancing with her right now.  The way they'd danced last
night to "Stand by Me."  The way they'd danced in the front hall, the
way their lips had danced, and their tongues, and their Mps.  He wanted
his wife in his bed.

He felt a painful tug in his groin and cursed.  Last night would have
been perfect.  They'd had the entire house to themselves.  No
five-year-old twerp to consider, no snotty little kid to startle them
awake at the crack of dawn, no nosy young miss to ask how come Pamela
hadn't spent the night in her own room.  It would have been one of the
most fantastic nights in Joe's life--and maybe Pare's, too.

Instead, he'd spent the night kicking his blankets, punching his
pillow, engaging in all manner of bed-linen violence in a futile
attempt to burn off what could be burned off only one way--and that
required a woman in his bed.  Pamela.

But Joe had exercised his scruples last night.  What amazed him was
that he actually had scruples to exer-else.  He never used to be
bothered by right and wrong and all that.  Sure, he had always tried to
avoid bruising a woman's ego, and he was invariably a good boy when it
came to protection, but the rest of it, the "shouldn'ts" and "mustn'ts"
When had he developed a sense of morality?

The day Lizard had become his responsibility, that was when.

How ironic that it was Lizard's fault he was suddenly hung up on
setting a good example, behaving properly, toeing the line.  If it
weren't for the brat, he would have had no compunction about seducing
Pain last night.

But ff it weren't for the brat, Pamela wouldn't have become a part of
his life.

He watched until she was no longer visible.  Turning from the door, he
tried to erase the image of mind, her long, elegant strides, her fair
hair, the curves of her not-too-curvaceous body.

Tried W, but failed.  Pamela was his wife,

ter how much he'd like not to be temp led by her, she was going to be a
full-time, under-his-roof leanptafion quite some time.

/ame on/ra he thought, although he damed guilty b]ming the id or own
passion.  It was Lizard's ault he'd had to get married.  But it was his
own ault Eor choosing Pamela Hayes as wife.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PdVmLA mOULD HAVE expected Birdie's house to be strange.  Any woman who
attended a wedding dressed in feathers would be likely to live in a
peculiar house.

Then again, Pamela conceded, it had been a peculiar wedding.  And
Lizard was a peculiar child, with a peculiar name.  Of course she would
have a peculiar babysitter.

Birdie answered the door wearing a flowing caftan printed with a
tropical-bird pattern.  Her wooden-bead earrings were long enough to
brush her shoulders, and silver bangle bracelets were stacked several
inches deep on each forearm.  When she beckoned Pamela into her house,
the metal loops clanked, sounding vaguely like dragging chains in a bad
horror movie.

Enhancing the spooky mood were the candles that lit the angular
hallway, lending the smell of hot paraffin to the air.  Eerie paintings
of brightly colored frogs adorned the walls, and the floor was covered
with braided straw rugs.  If a candle fell over, Pamela imagined the
entire building would incinerate in less than a minute.

"We're making something," Birdie said vaguely, leading Pamela through
the dim hall and into a kitchen too cramped and narrow to hold a table.
The window above the s'mk looked out onto another room.  Pamela figured
that at one time the sink had stood against an outer wall.  The room
beyond might once have been a

porch, since it featured a floor of painted concrete, and it seemed to
be on a slightly lower level than the kitchen.

Through the smudged pane of glass she spotted Lizard kneeling on a
chair, kneading a pink, doughy substance.  If Pamela were an optimist,
she'd assume it was modeling clay.  But given its color--and everything
else she'd learned about Joe's niece--she suspected that whatever the
stuff was, Lizard was eventually going to eat it.

"Has she had breakfast yet?"  Pamela asked Birdie, speaking in a
whisper even though the child seemed totally oblivious to the two women
spying on her through the window.

"She ate."  Birdie eyed Pamela speculatively.  "You and Joe, everything
okay?"

"Everything's fine," Pamela lied, wondering whether as a boo doo chief
Birdie could read her mind.  "Thank.q for keeping Lizard overnight."

"Lizard and I, we're pals.  You want tea?"

"No, thanks."  Pamela took a minute to survey tho room where Lizard was
playing with the pink dough.  On the far end of the room was another
door, leading to other room.  "This is an unusual house," she met
fully

Birdie shrugged, her voluminous dress billowing in aftershock. "Joe."

"He put it together."

"He did?"  Pamela glanced up at the beamed the two rickety steps
leading from the kitchen into other hallway, the plank floor and
luridly painted nets.  "It's awfully eel eerie

Birdie's eyes narrowed on Pamela.  They were for someone named
Birdie--dark and sharp,

mela with the impression that she was being observed from above, even
though Birdie was in fact shorter than she.  If Birdie were truly a
bird, she would be a hawk, or perhaps something colorfully exotic, like
a mynah.  Certainly not a cute little hummingbird or a domesticated
blue parakeet.

"Eclectic," the older woman enunciated slowly.  "I don't know what that
means.  I know awful."

"I didn't say your house was awful," Pamela clarified.  And really, it
wasn't.  Just strange, with rooms tacked on here and there, floors on
different levels and misplaced windows.  There was something
phantasma-gorie about the place, as if it were a carnival fun house.
Birdie shrugged again.  "It is awful.  But me, I don't car."  '

"It's not awful," Pamela argued.  As an arehiteet, she viewed a
building like this not as a disaster but as a challenge, a puzzle to be
solved.  "Did Joe really build it?"

"No.  He put it together.  He fixes it.  Used to be, it was falling
down.  He propped and patched and painted.  A good man, that husband of
yours.  You take good care of him."

"I'll certainly try."  Refusing to dwell on the subject of her wifely
duties, Pamela returned her attention to the house.  "Mind if I look
around?"

"Sure, you look around.  Just don't step on the ani-mais."

Pamela wasn't sure she wanted to know what sort of pets a woman like
Birdie would keep.  Spiders for her voodoo activities?  Lambs for
ritual slaughter?  Snakes so Lizard would have some of her own spedes
to cavort with?

Moving cautiously, Pamela left the kitchen for the crooked hallway.
The floor dipped in one part, apparently following the contours of the
earth beneath it.  hall veered ninety degrees and ended in a small,
trapezoid-shaped sitting room occupied by a small army of cats.  On the
other side of the sitting room, a door led to a bedroom with a cot
again one wall and an abundance of toys on the floor.  Lizard's room,
Pamela guessed.

Turning, she found Birdie lurking behind her, a tiger-striped kitten
cupped in her hand, her keen, dark eyes observing Pamela.  Her face was
ageless, but her hands showed the ravages of time, her fingers bony and
her knuckles knobby.  The ldtten didn't seem to mind; it curled
contentedly in her palm and closed its eyes as Birdie scratched behind
its ears.

"I don't know if you were aware of it," Pamela said, watching Birdie as
intently as Birdie watched her, "but I'm an arc hi

"Lego," Birdie confirmed.  "Lizard told me."

"Actually" -- Pamela smiled "--I don't work with Lego.  I build
buildings.  More precisely, I design them, But I do know a bit about
construction.  I'm just thinking..."  She weighed the older woman's
silence, wondering if what she was about to propose would offend her.
"Your house has an awful lot of potential."

"Potential I don't understand.  Awfu/, I know that word."

Pamela swallowed a laugh.  "Potential means, well.  something mw
ingredits.  A house like this... If you ii opined a few walls, wideoed
natural light into the rooms, it would really brighten place up.  And
instead of all these tiny cubicles, have wide-open spaces, with flow
and cross ventilation and sunlight and..."  She fallmxi, unable to
interpret Birdie's opaque expression.  "What I'm trying to say,"

she concluded, "is that it's a wonderful house, an arc hi-tct's
dream."

"You dream of a house like this?"  Birdie snorted.  Even the kitten in
her hand seemed to snort.

"Well, not exactly, but..."  The woman's toothy grin heartened Pamela.
"It's just that I've always had a career, but now I'm married and
living here in Key West, and I'm wondering what I'm going to do with my
time while Jonas is at the bar and Lizard is with you.  What

I'm thinking is, I could renovai your house.  "

Birdie frowned.  "Why?"

"To make it brighter and easier for you to live in," Pamela explained.
"I could do that for you, if you'd like."  Please, she implored
silently.  Please let me do this.  For me if not for you.  She needed
something to her busy.  If she didn't come up with an activity to
absorb her time and energy, she would wind up spending that time and
energy in dangerous ways.  If she didn't work, thoughts of Joe would
take over, fantasies of him, memories of his mouth on hers.  Nature
abhorred a vacuum, and ff she didn't find something to fill that
vacuum, Jonas and his wild little niece were going to occupy the empty
space.

And once they did, Pamela would be in big trouble.  How much safer to
pursue a project--and Birdie's house was ideal.  Pamela could . implify
the maze of rooms, make them more efficient and and have omething other
th all Joo to think about.  That the work would benefit Pamela was
clear, but it would benefit Birdie, too.  The woman was getting on in
years.  Her hands were already arthritic; her hips couldn't be far
he-hind.  How was she going to navigate all the uneven hallways and
steps in another decade?

"I'd do it for free," Pamela added.  "How about if I just draw up some
sketches and you can look them over and tell me what you think.  "

Birdie chuckled and shook her head.  "I like you, Pamela," she
declared.  "Another crazy bird, that's you.  No wonder Joe loves
you."

Pamela was too diplomatic to correct Birdie's misconception about their
marriage.  "I don't think I'm such a crazy bird," she said amiably.

"Oh, yes."  Birdie appraised her, then nodded.  "A lOOn, maybe."

"Joe said I was a swan," Pamela murmured, although she had to admit
he'd said that a long time ago.  After her behavior last night, he
probably thought she was a chicken.

"Another crazy bird, like me, like Lizard.  Like Joe.  You want to fix
my house, be my guest.  Joe is always fixing it, and now you're fixing
it.  You and he, you're two of a kind."

"I'm not so sure about that," Pamela said quickly.  She didn't want to
think of herself and $oe as be' rag two of

Again Birdie's eyes took on an annoyingly wise look.  "Oh, yes.  Two of
a kind, you and Joe.  Birds of a

Birdbrains is more like it, Pamela thought.  "We're re ally not that
much alike"

"If it makes you happy to fix my house, go ahead."  Birdie tossed the
kitten onto an old armchair with clawed, frayed upholstery and left the
room, Pamela at her heels.  "For myself, I don't care.  But if you're
happy, you'll make Joe happy, and then Lizard will be happy.  And that
I care about.  So make yourself happy and fix my house."  They had
reached the enclosed porch, where IJivard was hunched over the table
shaping her dough into gooey pink balls and then flattening them into
pancakes with her fist.  "Maybe Lizard can help you.  She's good with
Legos."  '

"She'll want to paint the whole house pink," Pamela warned.

"I don't want the outside pink," Birdie said.

"I may not have to touch the outside.  I'll just tear down some inner
walls " She gazxxl around her, smiling at the prospect of digging in
and making something out of the ramshackle house.  "I won't do anything
without your approval.  I'll scribble some ideas on paper, and then"

Birdie fluttered her hand, waving away an explanation she obviously
didn't wish to her.  She'd already said she thought Pamela was crazy.
"You do what you must do--as long as you make Joe happy.  He's a good
man, your husband."

amela's smile grew forced.  She was supposed to be pretending her
marriage was genuine, so she really shouldn't get all hurry and
defensive when someone commented that she and Joe made a nice couple.
If she could fool Birdie into thinking she and $oe were alike, maybe
they would be able to convince the social workers and the family court
judge.

But it was hard to pretend, hard to smile and nod.  The problem with
Birdle's comments was that they carried too much truth.  No amount of
hammering and tearing and re plastering no reconfiguration of rooms, no
opening and brightening and ventilating, was going to alter the fact
that Joe was Pamela's husband, that he was a good man, and, judging by
her behavior last night, Pamela was a lousy wife, failing to make him
happy.  Sonas Brenner

had taken her as his bride and saved her life.  He deserved better.

Well, she would do what she could.  She would change her name, change
her driver's license and social security data and be as much of a
mother figure to L'umrd as possible.  She would act like a proper,
stable wife and lead the world to believe Lizard belonged with her
Uncle Joe.

Pamela could do that much for him.  She would try her best, within
reason, to fool the world into believing she and Joe were two of a
kind.

HE WANTED TO CLEAR otrr of the house before she got back with Lizard,
but he couldn't.  He had promised to leave the front door unlocked for
her, and he couldn't very well take off while the house was unlocked.
Not that he had much to steal, not that he didn't trust his neighbors,
but Key West had been built by pirates and it was chronically overrun
by ma'mlanders.  People were wise to lock up behind themselves.

He held the spare key in his palm, flipping it over, tracing the
notches and ridges with his thumb.  There were commitments and there
were commitments.  For some reason, giving a woman the key to his home
seemed like more of a commitment than marrying her.

That was a stupid thought.  Pain was his wife, for cry , out ou .  arsa
t pretty little domestic scene he was going to present to court.  He
had to give her a key to the house that, at least for the sake of
appearances, was hers as much as his.  He'd given her a ring, hadn't
he?

And as soon as he gave her the damned key, he could split for the
day.

He needed distance.  Perspective.  A path back to the self-control he'd
felt before last night had whacked him

21Y U. INL'L

upside the head--or below the belt.  Hanging around the house with Pain
all day wasn't going to cure him of lust.  He needed to stay away from
her until he could think of her once again as the too-slim, too-prim
yuppie she'd been before he'd pulled that idiotic newlywed stunt and
carried her over the threshold.

The Shipwreck didn't open for business until noon, but Brick and Kitty
would probably he there this morning, cleaning up.  God only knew how
late the wedding celebration had raged on last night.  Joe's friends
weren't the sort to stand on ceremony.  Just because the bride and
groom had left didn't mean the party couldn't keep going in their
honor.

Things probably hadn't wound down until the wee hours.  If Joe hadn't
gone and gotten himself hitched, he would have remained till the bitter
end.

The hell with it.  So he was hitched.  He could still stay out late--he
had to, and he would.  Not just because his job demanded it, but
because, if he wanted to preserve his sanity, it would be best to steer
clear of Pain until she was safely tucked into her own bed, in her own
room, with her door shut.

He heard voices through the screened front door, Pamela's and Lizard's.
Pamela sounded slm'n; Lizard whined.  "I oh-weez go to the beach. Every
day.  If you don't take me, I'll hate you forever."

"I've already told you, Lizard, I've got to run some errands first.  If
you behave yourself"

"I am behaving myself!"

"Then don't behave yourself.  Behave some other way.

Behave like a nice, quiet girl.  "

"I hate youV'

Joe shuddered.  Things were worse than he'd thought.  Pamela was stuck
not just with a man who had once regarded her as too bony and now only
wanted to jump her bones, but also with a brat whose whine could
shatter crystal a mile away.  Joe could apply the brakes to his sex
drive, but after coping with the Liz Monster for a morning, Pamela
might decide to pack her bags and throw her lot in with the hit man in
Seatfie.

Hearing the screen door slam, he stood and left the kitchen for the
hallway.  "I'll take her to the beach," he offered, recalling that he'd
pro mimed Pamela he wouldn't saddle her with Lizard more than
necessary.  "You can do your errands.  I'll take the kid."

"The kid," Pamela responded, glowering at Joe's pouting niece, "has
been surly and sassy and doesn't serve to be rewarded.  If she wants to
go to the beach, she can earn it by behaving nicely."

"You know what you are?"  Lizard howled, crossing her arms over her
chest and sticking her lower lip out as far as it could go.  "You're a
twit."

Joe relaxed.  Lizard had picked up some nasty language hanging out at
the Shipwreck.  He'd taught her not to use bad words, but given how
prickly she was at the moment, he had expected her to tag Pamela with
some X-rated expression.

"Pam isn't a twit," he said.  "She's my wife, Lizard, and I expect you
to treat her with respect."

Lizard peered up with round, tear-filled eyes, evidently hoping to find
an ally in him.  "You know what she is?  She's a rotten tomato."

"That's enough, Liz."  He wasn't sure whether he should leap right in
and discipline the kid or let her work things out with Pamela.  If he
intergered, they might never establish a truce on their own.

He glanced at Pamela, seeking guidance.  But when his gaze met hers, he
saw only stmning S'Llver eyes, soft pink lips, a delicately sculpted
chin, a slender throat begging to be kissed.

Man, he was bitten.  Here he was, stuck in the middle of the first maj
or quarrel that threatened to disrupt the peaceful domestic unit he'd
worked so hard to achieve, and all he could think about was how this
woman who was absolutely not his type was turning him on like a blender
at the Shipwreck, crushing his resistance and pureeing his best
intentions.

Pamela returned his gaze for a fraction of a second, then glared down
at Lizard.  "You don't win points with me for being obnoxious," she
said in a starchy school-mama voice, "Right now, Lizard, you're being
obnoxious."

"So what?  You're noxious, too."

"We're going to run errands whether you like it or not."

"I don't like it!  I don't like you!  I think you're gross."

"The fe ling mutual."  Pamela headed for the stairs, calling over her
shoulder, "Tm going to get my purse.  If you can convince your uncle
I'm noxious before I return, more power to you."  Her footsteps receded
as she reached the top of the stairs.  The house trembled slightly from
the impact of her slamming her door.

Joe allowed himself a private smile at her long-distance show of anger.
She'd kept her irritation in check downstairs, but Lizard had obviously
pushed her too far.  He kind of liked the idea of Pamela having a
temper.  He liked the idea that she had all sorts of volatile emotions
churning inside her, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Which wasn't to say that Lizard was a slight provocation.  But he liked
imagining Pain in the throes of some wildly passionate emotion, even ff
it was anger.

He shouldn't be imagining Pam in the throes of anything.  Squatting
down, he stared Lizard in the eye.  "Listen up, toots.  You aren't
winning any points with me, either."

"I don't like her."  Lizard sulked.  "I was playing at Birdie's with
this pink clay that Birdie said was magic, and we were going to make
little dolls and bake them and then say chants over them and make curse
and stuff?  And she" -- Lizard pointed accusingly up the stairs "--said
I had to go learn to drive with her."

"She already knows how to drive," Joe corrected Lizard.  "And you're
about ten years too young.  What she's got to do is get a Florida
driver's license.  She has to fill out some forms and pay some money at
the motor-vehicle de pat-,ent."

"Well, she con ida left me at Birdie's."

"What did Birdie say about it?"

Lizard curled her lip.  "She told me to go with her."  She pointed
toward the stairs again.  "They were whispering.

They were plotting behind my back and everything.  " " what were they
plotting?  "

"Something with Leges."  LiZard scuffed her against the rug.  "I wanna
go to the beach, Uncle Make her take me to the beach."

"I can't make her do anything."  How true,

with a sigh.  "Pamela's part of our faro' fly now, and Birdie thought
you ought to spend the day with Birdie must have known what she was
doing.  So my vice, Ms.  Monster, is you go do errands with her, and
you don't drive her nutty, I bet she'll take you to beach this
afternoon."

"Why can't you take me to the beach?"  Because I can't stay around
Pamela.  "Tve the

"Bring me with you," Lizard pleaded, pressing her grimy little hands
together prayerfully.  "I'll help you.  Please, Uncle Joe"

Once again, he was faced with the option of doing the right thing. Like
last night, he chose correctly, even though it broke his heart. "You've
got to spend some time with Pamela.  How else are you two going to
learn to get along?"

"But I hate her!"

"She probably hates you, too.  And given the way you've been acting
toward her, I wouldn't blame her."

"I want her to hate me.  Then maybe she'll go away and leave us
alone."

"She's not going to go away," Joe declared, hoping Pamela wouldn't make
a liar out of him.  "So you'd best make peace with her."

Cocking her head, Lizard scrutinized him dubiously.  "why won't she go
away?  " Cuz she's in love with you?  "

If only, he thought, then scowled.  He didn't want her love.  He only
wanted her help, right?  Her help, her support and her sleek body
wrapped around him at night.  "Yeah," he muttered, unable to disguise
the bitter disappointment shading his voice.  "Pain and I are a real
love match.  So get used to it, Li:,e.  This is the way it's going to
be."

Deflated, Lizard slouched toward the kitchen.  "Well, ff I gotta go do
errands with her, the least she could do is let me eat a cookie first
."

"I don't think she'll kick up too much of a fuss about that."  He
watched his niece trudge away, then gazed up the stairs in time to see
Pamela begin her descent.  She carried her purse and wore sunglasses.

At the bottom of the stairs she faced him.  Her lips formed a grim
line; her skin smelled faintly of a sun screen lotion.  "You mentioned
something about having a key I could use," she said hesitantly.

Unfolding his hand made him aware of how tight his fist had been
clenched.  The key was warm from his grip, and his palm bore its
outline.  "Here," he said, dropping it into her hand so he wouldn't
have to touch her.  "Thank you."

"I'm sorry about Lizard."

"She's going through a lot.  I guess she's entitled to have a snit."

"Sometimes I think she was born with PMS."  Pamela gave him a faint
smile.  "All females are born with PMS, Jonas."  She stashed the key in
the pocket of her shorts, drawing his attention to her long legs.  They
were too pale, but a few more days would rectify that.  Her calves,
while slender, to them, and her knees shaped perfect ovals. thighs'I've
got to go to the bar," he said abruptly.

She looked at her watch.  "It's ten in the morning."

"People in these parts tend to start drinking Especially when they're
in a state of intense sexual tration, he added silently.  " I'll be
home late.  The wreck closes around 2:00 a. m. " depending on customers
are in a take-his-keys-and-call-a-cab state."  Pamela nodded.

"So I won't be home till very late.  No need She nodded again.
Evidently she understood was really saying: that he didn't want to have
to when he rolled home.  " Well," she her thoughts for a minute.  "
Have fun.  "

"You have fun, too."

"I'm sure the Department of Motor Vehicles will be a barrel of laughs,"
she said dryly.  "The next time you see me, all my documents will say
I'm Pamela Brenner."  His wife.  His partner.  His legal mate.

The woman living at the other end of the house.

He strode out without bothering to shout a farewell to Lizard.  Let the
two females with their PMS forge a truce.  Let them find a way to
coexist.  Joe had already found his way to coexist with Pamela: stay as
far away from her as he could.

As rr TURm otrr, arriving at the Shipwreck early had been a wise move.
Lois was the only one there, and she was having a time of it dragging
the heavy tables from the main room back to their usual places.  She'd
already swept and mopped the floor, but the rafters were still draped
with white ribbons, and empty plastic champagne cups kept turning up in
odd places--on a windowsill, under the jukebox, lined up like ducks in
a shooting gallery along the ceramic edge of a urinal in the men's
room.

"So," Lois said, holding a trash bag open for him to toss in his
collection of used cups.  "How's holy matrimony treating you?"

"I'm not sure it's holy," he grumbled, refusing to meet her dark-eyed
gaze.  "Pain and I were married by a judge, not a minister."  He
climbed onto one of the tables and started uncoiling the white
streamers from the rafters.

"Okay, so how's legal matrimony treating you?"  Lois chattered up at
him.  Fortunately she didn't give him a chance to answer, but instead
launched into a monologue about how lovely the wedding had been.  "I
wept through the entire ceremony, Joe--and for hours afterward.  It was
so beautiful.  The judge's words, the ring,

the music.  By the way, who the hell is this Pamela person, anyway?
Where did you meet her?  I mean, really, Joe, how long did you even
know her before you went and got yourself leg-shackled?  Not that it
wasn't one of the most beautiful leg-shacklings I ever saw, and the
cake was incredible if I say so myself.  But hones fly Joe, what the
hell was it?  Love at first sight?  "

Lois's words reminded him how very few people knew the truth about his
marriage.  Kitty knew, and his lawyer, and the happy couple themselves.
"Yeah," he fibbed, trying not to sound too gruff.  "It was love at
first sight."

"I don't know about love at first sight.  It's supposed to be very
romantic, but it doesn't seem all that pr acti " It can be damned
practical," he argued.  If any word described his marriage to Pain, it
was practical.  fully un snagged a thread that had gotten caught on
splinter in the wood, then let the long white ribbon drop

Lois scooped it up and shoved it into the trash "Well, I would never
have guessed her to be your Joe."

Neither would I, he thought uneasily.

"I mean, you always used to go for big bazooms.  Pain person, whoever
the hell she is--ff I may frankly, Joe, she has more class than your
squeeze."  i

"Maybe that's why I married her," he snapped,

ing Lois would shut up.  took the trash bag from her.  "I'll go stick
this in Dumpster."  He would do anything--even volunteer a garbage
ran--to get away from Lois and her fionally annoying banter.

Outside in the alley, he unwound.  What the heck--he couldn't be having
a worse time with Lois than Pamela was having with Lizard.  The notion
of Pam standing in one of those interminable lines at the motor-vehicle
department, with Lizard screeching and moaning and making an all-around
nuisance of herself, brought a smile to his lips.  It wasn't that he
wished Pamela ill.  It was just that if he was going to be m'wable, he
wanted his wife to be mi.  qerable, too.

It turned out that the remainder of his day was more or less
unremittingly miserable.  The early crowd started dribbling in shortly
after noon.  They tended to be mostly dissolute would-be writers, many
of them sporting Hemingway beards and forming at the mouth about the
Great American Novels they were going to write if only they had a free
haft hour.  Yet instead of rambling self-indulgently about their great
oenvres and their chronic writer's blocks as they usually did, they all
spent the afternoon slapping Joe on the back, congratulating him and
dishing out advice on how to keep the little lady in line, or on her
back, or whatever.  Joe had to grin good-naturedly and pretend he
appreciated all their suggestions.

"Never bring her flowers when you've done some thing that would upset
her," one of them admonished him.  "Like, if you fool around on the
side, don't bring her flowers.  It's hanging a neon sign around your
neck saying Guilty."

"You're the boss," another chimed in.  "Don't ever let her forget
that."

"ff things get stale, go the w'brator route," yet another recommended.
"Works every time--as long as you've got fresh batteries on hand."

Joe barely had time to recover from the afternoon regulars when the
evening crowd arrived.  They were worse because they were his friends.
The fishermen and navy guys couldn't stop riding him about his
impetuous marriage.  The ladies seemed 'to think Joe was twice as
irresistible now that he was officially out of reach.  Men shook their
heads and offered their condolences; women whispered that if he had any
problems with his wife, he could unburden himself to them.  A few
romantically in-ciined women played "Stand by Me" on the jukebox so
many times Joe almost stopped liking the song.

No, he still the song.  It was just that whenever he heard it, he
wanted Pamela in his arms, dancing with him, smiling, looking slightly
dazed, slightly amazed and utlexly beautiful in her simple white dress.
The song made him remember how easily he and Pamela had moved together
on the dance floor, how well their bodies had matched, how natural it
had felt to have her in his arms.  It made him remember how much he'd
wanted to take her home, carry her into his house and make her his
wife.

He stayed until closing time, ignoring Brick when he grunlzl that Joe
should go home to the missus.  Joe stayed after Kitty sashayed out the
back door, she was bushed.  He stayed until the last bleary-eyed
drinker shuffled out the door.

The bar's s'nce was eerie.  In the shadows, in the whisper of the
air-conditioning, he could almost hear tl echoing strains of "Stand by
Me."  He contemplated to.  moving that disk from the jukebox, but it in
for now.  By tomorrow night, the novelty of marital status would have
worn off; people him--and the song--alone.

He gave the bar one final wipe, then locked the cash register. Glancing
up, he noticed that the steering wheel clock on the wall read ten past
two.

She had to be safely in bed by now.  He would be able to go home and
get to his own room without running the risk of seeing her and yielding
to temptation.  And he'd sleep late tomorrow, and maybe, if luck stayed
with him, she would go out early and he wouldn't have to see her in the
morning, either.

He drove down Duvai Street, which was still lively with traffic and
noisy pedestrians, and south into his own slumbering neighborhood.  The
front porch light of his house glowed.  Pamela must have left it on for
him.

Damn her for doing something so thoughtful.  The plan was that he'd
dive into bed without thinking about her, without being touched by
anything she did or was or meant to him.

Okay.  $o she was considerate.  As long as he didn't see her, he could
stand a bit of eousidcrafion on her part.

He climbed up the porch steps and let him.  elf into the house.  The
hall light was on, too, but the upstairs was dark and silent. Everybody
was asleep.

He tiptoed down the hall to make sure the back door was locked--and
spotted her on the screened porch, sprawled out on the cushions of the
wrought-iron sofa in the corner.  She was sound asleep, a book open
across her chest.

She must have tried to wait up for him.  Like a good wife, a real wife,
she'd sat up and read, waiting for her man to come home from the late
shift at work.

Damn her all over again.  If she was going to do stuff like this,
leaving lights on for him, struggling to stay awake so she could greet
him when he finally got home.  if she was going to act like a wife, he
was going

to have one hell of a time trying not to act like a husband.

Sighing, he went out to the porch, located a bookmark on the table and
tucked it into her book.  Then he gathered her into his arms.  She
seemed heavier tonight than she had last night, because she was asleep.
But he'd gladly take the cxixa weight.  If she woke up, if she opened
her eyes and smiled and whispered his name, he would turn left at the
top of the stairs, not right, and refuse to release her until he'd
reached his own room, his own bed.

Thinking about it made him hard.  Feeling her silky hair brush against
his arm, her cheek nestle against his shoulder and her knees bend
around his other arm as he carried her up the stairs made hiTM more
than hard.  It made him feel protective and bewildered and--damn her to
high heaven--affectionate.

He blew out a long, weary breath.  Affectionate he could handle.
Protective wasn't li him--at least it came to anyone other than
Lizard--but it was part of the deal he'd agreed to when Pamela told him
about her predicament back in Seattle.  And affectionate and tective
were enough to make him feel bewildered.

But he felt something more, too, something something troublesome,
something

Iy West in July.  It made him walk faster, could without we king her,
and practically !  her bed.  Without even stopping to pull off her he
hightailed it out of her room, sweating wondering how he was going to
survive this stupid ri age without losing his mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"WHEN YOU SAY " BINCK),"" Mick asked, "exactly what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, I got a line on her driver's license."  Mick pressed the
mute button on the remote control and leaned back in the overstuffed
chair.  The silent drama being played out on the lelevision sere en
across the room from him--some gonzo was throttg some lady--was a scene
Mick would ordinarily have found engrossing.  But Tony's news was even
more engrossing, even ff he didn't trust the chump from here till
tomorrow.  Sometimes he wondered whether having Tony on his payroll was
worth it.

Other than keeping the Seattle Police Depa-ent out of Mick's hair while
he tried to put the bitch out of commission, Tony hadn't delivered.  Or
more precisely, he hadn't delivered enough.  Mick had been able to
trace her credit-card charges as far east as St.  Louis, but from that
point on she'd disappeared into the black hole of cash purchases,
leaving no records, no trail.  Where the hell had she gone?  North to
New York?  South to Afianta?  Back to the West Coast?  He knew she
wasn't likely to have flown out of the country; none of her bills was
to an airline.  And besides, ff she'd wanted to go continent-hopping,
she would have booked a ght out of Seattle, not St.  Louis.

It was safe to assume she was still in the U. S. " and sooner or later
she was going to run out of cash.  But where would she be when she had
to go back to living on plastic?  When was she going to stick one of
those gold ear ds of hers into an auto marie teller machine for a cash
advance and send Mick another clue as to her whereabouts?

"Her driver's license," Mick said impassively.  He wasn't going to let
himself get excited about anything

Tony had to tell him.  Not until it panned out.  "More than that, Mick.
Her name."

"I know her name."

"Not anymore, you don't.  She changed it."

Mick squelched the optimism that threatened him.  Until he had
everything--which meant until he had her--he refused to get his hopes
up.  "What did she change it to?"

"This wasn't asy to find out," Tony hedged.  Squeezing me for more
money, Mick thought angrily.  "I don't give a rat's ass how hard it was
to find out," he snapped.  "Tell me her name."

"Brenner."  "Brenner what?"

"Pamela Brenner.  And she's traded in her Washington State license for
a Florida one."

Mick's pulse sped up.  She was in Florida, apparently planning to stay
long enough to have changed her li:i:i cense.  Evidently she Was really
afraid of Mick if she'd changed her name, too.

Well, he'd never taken her for a fool.  ii ill

She had enough brains to recognize that Mick was somebody she ought to
be afraid of.

"Florida's a big state," he remarked.  "Give me ili address."

"I couldn't get the address.  My contact in Florida got the
heebie-jeebies and hung up before I could wring anything more out of
him.  According to Florida's central computer system, someone whose
license number matched Hayes's Washington State license changed her
papers to Florida, but my source wouldn't say for sure that Pamela
Brenner is the same person as Pamela Hayes."

"Don't pull my chain, Tony.  If I've got to travel all the way to
Florida, I need to know where to go.  Miami, Tampa, Orlando.  You've
got to get me her address."

"You aren't allowed to leave the state while you're Out on bail,
Mick."

"That's not your problem.  Your problem is, I need to know if this
Pamela Brenner is the same broad as my good friend Miss Hayes.  And I
need to know where she lives.  And frankly, her plate numbers would be
more usefid to me than her driver's license, which she no doubt will be
tarrying in her wallet where I can't see it.  Like I'm supposed to pick
the pocket of every skinny blond bitch in Florida to see if she's got
the right license?  Get me tags,

pal.  Get me an address.  Florida's a big state.  "

"I'll do what I eau," Tony pro mixt

"Just get me what I need, and we'll all live happily ever after."

Ye aIt Tony pro mi  l again: "That sounds about right to me."  He hung
up without saying goodbye.

Mick lowered the receiver and grinned.  He might have been heavy-handed
with Tony, but the guy was a wimp, and he responded well to being
scolded.  Mick didn't even have to spell out a threat.  He just had to
give a little nudge, and Tony would go back to risking his neck to get
Mick what he was after.  After all, Mick had as much on Tony as Tony
had on him.

Florida.  Pamela Brenner, ne6 Hayes, lived in Florida.  Once again
Mick could taste success.

Still smiling, he lifted the remote control and turned the sound back
on.  The lady on the screen was lying dead, the man looming above her,
looking mighty satisfied with what he'd accomplished.

Jury selection for Mick's new trial wasn't supposed to begin for
months.  If necessary, his lawyer could drag things out even longer.
But it probably wouldn't be nee-essary.  Mick would soon be feeling the
same smug satisfaction as the guy on the TV show, taking pride in a job
well done--and walking free when the state's star witness was unable to
testify against him.

Oh, yes, he thought, gazing at the female corpse on the screen.  Things
were definitely looking up.

IF AN YON HAD TOLD PAMELA she was destined to be married to a man she
never saw, she would never have believed it.  Then again, if anyone had
told her she was going to observe a murder, put herself in jeopardy by
testifying against the murderer in court, and flee to a stgtmy, sticky
island off the southern tip of Florida, where she would take an utter
stranger as her husband and accept his wild little niece as part of the
package, she wouldn't have believed that, either.

None of this had been a part of her life plan.

She wanted to see her husband.  She wanted to talk to Jonas, tell him
how her day had gone, boast about how she'd persuaded L/zard to behave
with the assistance of a dish of peppermint-stick ice cream and a pad
of graph paper that had so pleased the little girl she'd forgotten
about her demands to be taken to the beach.  Pamela purchased pencils,
a ruler, a protractor and the paper so she could begin jotting ideas
for the overhaul of

Birdie's house.  Lizard had insisted that she knew Birdie's house--and
Birdie--better than Pamela did, and therefore she should have some
graph paper to jot ideas On, tOO.

If peace could be bought for the cost of a pad, Pamela wasn't above
spending the money.  More than peace, Pamela had bought victory over
the Liz Monster.  It would have been cheap at twice the price.

Pamela wan ll to tell Joe.  She wanted to brag that, for a single,
professional woman who'd never had any dealings with five-year-old
brats, she had acquitted herself with Lizard rather nicely.  Joe had
told her not to wait up for him, but she'd wanted to see him, so she'd
pulled a paperback novel from the shelf in the den and settled on the
porch to read until he got home from the Shipwreck.  And then,
apparently, she'd fallen asleep.

She hadn't seen Joe, but he'd seen her.  When she woke up the next
morning, she found herself in her own bed.  Who but Joe could have
carried her up the stairs?

She knew he was strong enough.  She knew how easily his powerful arms
could lift her and cradle her against his chest.  He'd carried her
across the threshold, hadn't he?  And embraced her, and kissed her. She
supposed she should be grateful that he'd left her fully clothed when
he'd brought her to her room last night.  It would have been simple
enough for him to undress her when she was too soundly asleep to
protest.  For that matter, it would have been simple enough for him to
have kissed her awake a scruffy Prince Charming arousing Sleeping
Beauty from her century-long slumber.  Pamela wasn't sure she would
have stopped him.

But obviously he hadn't wanted to kiss her, or undress her, or join her
in bed.  Now that the enchantment of their

wedding had worn off, he had come to his senses and d-cided to keep
his hands, and his lips, to him selL

Pulling herself out of bed, she removed her wrinkled clothing, tossed
it into her laundry basket and donned her bathrobe.  She passed the
bathroom to peek at his bedroom door, which was firmly shut.  No doubt
he was still sleeping.

Feeling out of sorts, she showered, returned to her bedroom and dressed
in the Key West uniform: fresh shorts and a T-shirt.  Then she went
downstairs.

Lizard was seated cross-legged on the floor of the den, no more than a
couple of inches from the television, an Open box of sugar-laden cereal
in her lap.  She wore a tank shirt and sweat pants cut off at the
knees, with a feather tied into the drawstring at the waist.  Her
attention glued to the cartoon, she didn't acknowledge Pamela's quiet
"Oood morning."

Pamela could have urged Lizard to put a few more feet between herself
and the screen, or to turn it off altogether.  But Lizard wasn't her
child, and training her not to pig out on junky cereal while watching
junIcy cartoons wasn't Pamela's job.  At the moment, she wasn't really
in the mood to be sod able either.

Abandoning the den, she went outside to get the newspaper.  A light
drizzle was soaking the earth, and the newspaper was soggy despite its
plastic wrapper.  Her spirit felt soggy, too.

Really, she assured herself as she returned to the kitchen and spread
the sections of the paper out to dry, she didn't care about seeing Joe.
He was just her husband, and Lizard was just her niece by marriage.
Nothing important.  Hardly a family.  Pamela would fix herself a pot of
coffee and read the waterlogged paper, and she wouldn't mind a bit if
she was all alone.

As IT ocrr, she didn't see Joe once during the entire day.  After
breakfast, she and Lizard went across the street to Birdie's house to
measure the rooms and make a diagram of the building's foundation on
their graph-paper pads.  When they went back home for lunch, Joe was
gone.  In the afternoon Pamela traipsed through the mud of l. i:,and's
garden, listening to Lizard pontificate on the balance of nature and
the fact that Birdie knew how to make dandelion wine, which proved that
dandelions were just as valuable as grapes, and that if weeds weren't
good, God wouldn't have made them.  Pamela refrained from po'mting out
that God had also made thugs like Mick Morrow, so maybe not all his
cteatious were good.  Lizard was too young to become a cynic.

For dinner Pamela served salmon.  Lizard argued that it was in fact
orange and not pink, but Pamela held firm and the kid ate it.
Afterward, Lizard endured two baths--she flunked Pamela's inspection
after the first bath--and Pamela read her a chapter from a book
chronicling great battles in world history.  "I like the parts about
weapons," Lizard told her.  "Read about the catapults, okay?  They're
neat.  I wanna build one

Pamela read the chapter on catapults, then tucked Lizard in.  "I'll
tell Uncle Joe you said good-night," she said, although heaven only
knew when she would have the opportunity.  Maybe it was just a
coincidence, maybe today had been an anomaly, but Pamela couldn't shake
the suspicion that Joe didn't want to talk to her, didn't even want to
be in the same room with her.

"Oive him a kiss from me," Lizard requested.  Pamela gritted her teeth.
"Okay."

"And tell him I don't really think you're ugly.  Just kinda skinny, is
all."

"I'll tell him."

"And you should grow your hair longer, so you can have braids, like
mlne"

"Okay.  Bedtime, now, Lizard."

"And tell Uncle 3oe we're gonna borrow his tools to build Birdie's ho
uso

"I'll tell him."  If I happen to bump into him anytime in the near
future, Pan!  a grumbled under her breath.  "Have you ever gone a whole
day without seeing him, Lizard?"

Lizard peered up from her pillow.  Her small round face was surrounded
by a mass of hair, and then by a menagerie of stuffed creatures that
included an alligator, a possum and what appeared to be a rot.  "No,
but that's on account of we didn't have you.  Sometimes he'd bring me
to the Shipwreck with him.  But now you're he, and I bet he never
brings me there again."  This prospect clearly did not sit well with
her.  She scrunched her face into a scowl.  "He keeps telling me a bar
is no place for a kid.  I like it, but he doesn't like me hanging out
the.  He says now that I'm older I gotta clean up my act.  If you ask
me, two baths is clean enough."

"Well, I'm glad yon're not going to the bar.  I agree with him--that's
not an appropriate place for a child to be."

"But I Illin it there.  And Kitty's teaching me how mix drln, and she
always mages me pink stuff.  berry daiqulris or lnk ladies, only she
leaves out."  i

"Thank for that," Pamela mutanv better off drinkjing milk?  "

"Milk is yucky.  I like daiquiris better."

"You definitely need to clean up your act,

lady.  " Pamela ruffled Lizard's hair, then smiled

"Don't forget to kiss Uncle Joe for me!"  Lizard called after her.

She closed Lizard's bedroom door and descended the stairs.  The house
was mmervingly quiet, as still and silent as her condominium back home
when she wasn't listening to one of her Mozart CDs.  It didn't seem
fight that she should have changed her residence, her name, her marital
status, her entire existence--and still feel so alone.

She wandered into the den, perused the television listings in the
newspaper and decided there was nothing she felt like watching.  Joe
had a modest stereo system, and she studied his collection of disks and
tapes.  Not a single classical recording among them.  Mostly
rock--oldies as well as an assortment of the latest grunge bands.

She wondered if he owned a copy of "Stand by Me."  The dos est he would
get to standing by her would be a song on a disk, she thought grimly.
Joe was doing exactly what she had once hoped he would do.  He had
married her and now was giving her as much independence as she'd had as
a single woman.

She didn't want a relationship with him, she minded herself.  She
didn't want to become overly involved in his family.  All she wanted
was a disguise, protection from Mick Morrow.  Not a lover, just an
adult to talk to at the end of the day.  Someone to confide in, to
boast to, to describe l. iTard's zany concepts for Birdle's house: "I
think we should build a tree house in the living room, with a rope
ladder.  And then ff the company got boring you could hide up there and
shoot arrows down at them.  And you know what?  We should put a
chimbley in the middle of the kitchen, just in case Birdle's food
catches on fire."

Perhaps, given her voodoo activities, Birdie's food did spontaneously
corn bust Perhaps, given the woman's apparent obsession with all things
arian, she could use a tree house.

If only Joe were home.

Sighing, Pamela picked up the book that had put her to sleep last
night.  She was about to stretch out on the sofa When the telephone
rang.

The shrill sound was so unexpected she flinched.  Her heart thumped
wildly; her breath caught in her throat.  It took her a full minute to
remember that no one who was in any position to do her harm knew where
she was.  Tho call would be for Joe, not for her.

Either that, or the caller was Joe himself.  Calling to say hello,
maybe.  Calling to say he would try to get home earlier tonight, or
wake up earlier tomorrow so they could exchange a few words like a
married couple.

Refusing to give in to pleasure at the thought of getting a phone call
from her absentee husband, she hurried into the kitchen and lifted the
receiver.  "Hello?"

"Mary DiNardi here," said Joe's attorney.  "Is pain?"

Pamela tried to stifle her disappointment.  "Yes," said, recalling the
brisk, dark-haired lawyer few days before the wedding.  She had gotten
sion that Mary didn't like her much--or at least like the notion of her
marrying loe.  Mary with a slightly cool formality totally at humor and
congeniality with Joe.

Well, Mary didn't have to like Pamela, and didn't have to like Mary,
but they were united in Joe and Lizard together.  The least they could
do tolerate each other.

"Hello, Mary.  Joe isn't in right now.  He's"

"At the bar.  I know.  I figured if I called him there, he might get
the message garbled or whatever.  Anyway, since you're the lady of the
house..."  She cleared her throat, as if speaking was a strain.  "I've
rece'nted a correspondence from the Prescotts' lawyer saying they've
filed custody papers with the court.  The court has ap pointed a
guardian for Liz."

"A guardian?"

"A legal representative, basically.  The judge assigns her to make sure
Lizard's best interests are represented during the custody hearing. The
judge named a local social worker, and she's coming to visit you
tomorrow morning, to have a look at Lizard's home life."

Pamela had expected such a visit.  Joe had married her for no other
reason than that he knew the home he provided for his niece was going
to be evaluated, and he wanted that home to have a mommy figure as well
as a daddy figure.  Yet hearing that the visit was actually going to
occur--tomorrow--sent a chill down Pamela's spine.

"Isn't it a little soon for the court to be taking this step?"

"Honey, it was a little late that Joe got around to taking a wife.  I
hope you can pull off this charade."

"As his lawyer, how do you think we should handle this?"

"Don't make the house spotless.  You want it to look clean but
comfortable.  Tell Lizard not to wear any feathers.  And tell Joe not
to wear an earring that dangles.  And for God's sake, pretend you love
each other."

Pamela bit back a retort.  She didn't need Joe's lawyer lecturing her
on how she and Joe were supposed to act.  They had forged their
alliance with a clear understanding, Of course they would pretend they
loved each other.

t. i x ub.

Damn it, there was no "of course" about it.  She and Joe hadn't even
been in the same room at the same time for the past two days--at least
not while she was conscious.  How was she going to act as ff she loved
him?

She'd just have to do it, that was all.  That was the deal she'd made
with Joe.

"Do you know what time we should expect the social worker to show up?"
she asked, filtering all emotion from her voice.  "Joe tends to sleep
late."

"Tell Joe he'd better tend to wake up early tomorrow.  They didn't give
me a time.  They like to drop in unexpectedly, so they can catch you in
your normal routine.  It's the way they do things.  You're lucky you
got this much warning."

"Knock 'era dead tomorrow, Pain.  Joe deserves to keep that little
girl."

Pamela recollected that little girl's whining, her mulo-headedness, her
aggressiveness.  and decided that Joe definitely deserved her.  "I'll
do my best," she pro mi  xi Mary before saying goodbye.

Once again, s'fience swelled to fill the house.  It wasn't a lonely
silence, though; it was a tense, prodding s'nce," a void Pamela
intended to fill with work.

She gazed about her at the kitchen.  She knew whe the food, dishes and
pots were kept, but she had no idea: where Joe stored his cleaning
supplies.  After all, he had assured hex she wouldn't have to take care
of the house.  That had been part of their deal.  She hated
housekeeping, and in Seattle she paid a service to do those chores for
her.  Then again, in Seattle she lived a calm, childless existence, her
condominium tidy and rarely in need major cleaning.

The same could not be said for Joe's house.  The kitchen, while not
filthy, was far from neat.  Weeks-old third-class mail shaped a sloppy
heap on the counter; newspapers lay piled on the floor in the corner
for recycling; the sink was decorated with crumbs and soggy celery
leaves; the calendar hanging from a hook on the broom-closet door
displayed the April page.

She crossed the room, flipped the calendar to July and opened the
closet door.  Not surprisingly, she found everything she needed inside:
a broom, a mop, a bucket and a shelf filled with scouring supplies.
Just the sight of all that cleaning gear made her groan.

She really, truly, did not want to spend her evening putting Joe's
house in order.  His custody baffle with his in-laws wasn't her
problem.

Yes it was.  She was his wife, for better or worse, until they got a
divorce.  She had married him for Lizard's sake, and for Lizard's sake
she was going to have to pr tend she was a devout homemaker, the little
woman, Joe's better half.  Pamela wasn't going to renege on her
obligations.

She permitted herself a few pungent curses, then pulled a can of
cleanser and a few rags from the shelf and got to work.

THRE HOUgS LATfm, the house was indeed clean but comfortable. Tabletops
and shelves were polished.  The dust balls under the sofa had been
harvested.  The chairs had been pushed in around the dining room table,
and Lizard's toys had been transferred from the living room to the den
and arranged to convey that this was a user-friendly house. The few
house plants had been watered, the framed crayon artwork had been hung
straight, and

the utilities bills Joe had left pinned under the base of the food
processor had been tucked discreetly into a drawer.

If Pamela had had the time, she would have looked at the bills.  She
had no idea what it cost Joe to keep his house running.  She would have
liked to contribute to the household expenses, but she'd already fought
that par-ficular battle with Joe and lost, so she had spent this
evening contributing in another way, a stereotypically wife.  ish way.
Surveying the living room, admiring the pimped pillows on the sofa and
inhaling the tangy fragrance of lemon-scented furniture polish, she
acknowl sewnSculd edged that her efforts had given her a greater of
accomplishment than merely writing a cheque have done.

She glanced at her watch and scowled.  Ten past eleven.

Her labor had exhausted her; after a quick shower, she would head
straight to bed.  She would have to be up early i!

tomorrow morning to get Lizard fed and dressed--sam feathers--before
the social worker arrived.  Pamela would have to hold things together
until Joe surfaced.  Heaven knew when he would he getting home
tonight.

She wasn't in the habit of making lab-night calls, buti?  she realized
she ought to try to reach him at the bar let him know abOUt the
court-appointed guardian'8 planned visit.  She should have phoned him
earlier, but: she suspected he wouldn't he easy to connect with w he
was at the Shipwreck, If he were, Mary would have galled him instead of
Pamela.  :

Still, she ought to try.  Swallowing a yawn, Pamela trudged to the
kitchen and dialed the bar's number.

ter five rings, Kitty answered the phone.  "Shipwreck' she shouted
above the raucous din that filled the bar room.

"Kitty?  It's Pamela."

"Pain?  Hi!  How's it going?  Wait, hang on a second " Pamela heard a
scratchy sound as Kitty held her hand over the mouthpiece and screamed
something about being out of Heineken.  Then she came back on the
phone; "So, how are you?  Why don't you come on over and say hello?"

"I'm watching Lizard," Pamela reminded her.  "She's fast asleep."

"Oh--oh, yeah.  Well, we've gotta get together.  I've got to tell you
about this guy I met, he looks just like Ernest Hemingway .... " She
went on and on, occasionally 'interrupting herself to holier something
to someone in the bar.  Through the cacophony of voices Pamela heard
the high-pitched croon of Ned Young warbling "Helpless."

"Listen, Kitty," Pamela said quietly, trying to break Kitty's
stream-ofwonsciousness chatter without raising her voice.  She didn't
want to wake I. i?  and by yelling into the phone.  "I need to talk to
Joe."

"So, how are things with you lovebirds?  Didn't I tell you the man's a
prince?"

"Sure."  If Joe was a prince, Pamela must he a scullery maid, if not
one of the serfs.  "I really do need to"

"But I keep telling him, what he ought to do, once everything dies
down, is tak you on a real honeymoon.  I mean, yeah, I know, the whole
thing is kinda bogus"

"Please, Kitty!  You're in public!"

"My lips are sealed.  Don't worry your little West Coast head, Pam.
Everybody just knows it's a love match."

"Fine.  Can you put my love match on the phone right now?"

"Matter of fact, I can't.  There was a scuffle here.  This guy was
massively stewed, and he took a swipe at some one and lost his
balance.  He hurt himself, is all.  Fell into a chair and needed a few
stitches on his chin.  Joe took him down to the hospital.  The last
thing he wants is to have this bozo suing him."

"Oh, God.  Is there a danger of that happening?"

"Nab.  This sort of stuff happens all the time.  Joe'll just fill out
an accident report and have the cops administer a sobriety test to the
guy.  Once it's established the guy's way over the limit, Joe won't
have to worry about much."

He'll only have to worry about having the court and his in-laws find
out that he earns his living by carting drunks to the hospital to get
stitches, Pamela thought grimly.  "Will he he back soon?"

"Can't say.  Hang on a second..."  Kitty again muffled the mouthpiece
with her hand and shouted, "Lois, get your butt over here!  These
margaritas have been sitting here for years!"  Back to Pamela, she
said, "So, you want me to give him a message?"

Pamela sighed.  "Ask him to get home early if he can."

"Don't hold your breath, honey.  Tonight's been a rough one.  I
wouldn't expect any nookie if I were you.,"

Pamela wasn't expecting any nookie in any case.  considered telling
Kitty the reason she wanted early, but decided not to.  Kitty was
clearly in a garrulous, dangerously indiscreet mood.  If Pamela tioned
the social worker, everyone in the Shipwreck would know about it before
Joe got back from the pit al "Just tell him I called," she requested,
then said good-night and set down the phone.

She pulled open the drawer where she'd hidden bills, rummaged inside
it, came up with a sheet of paper and a pencil, and began to write.

Dear Jonas,

A court-appointed guardian is coming tomorrow morning to check up on
Liz.  Please wake up as early as you can, and don't wear a conspicuous
earring.  I'll do my best to take care of everything else.

Pamela.  She taped the note to the newel post at the bottom of the
stairway, where Joe would be sure to see it.  After double-checking to
make sure the porch light was on for him, she climbed the stairs.

Her back ached.  Her hands were chapped from the cleansers, and the
flesh under her fingernails felt gritty.  Sweat glued her hair to the
nape of her neck.  She grabbed her robe, then trudged down the hall to
the bathroom for a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, her hair still damp from her shampoo, she sank
into bed and closed her eyes.  She thought about the impending visit
from the sod al worker, about Joe's in-laws, about trying to convince
the court that she was a good mother-figure to Lizard when she herself
wasn't terribly convinced of that.  She thought about Joe, staggering
home at some ungodly hour, wearing a dnmkard's bloodstains on his shirt
and finding her note with its unwelcome news.

She had always thought of marriage as a shimmering vision on the
horizon, beautiful yet distant, something to aim toward, to dream
about, to reach for, something that would be waiting for her once she
was ready for it.  She had imagined marrying a man who shared her
tastes, he rhythms, her low-key demeanor and her preference for
intellectual pursuits and aesthetic pleasures.

She had not imagined that it would entail an exasperating five-year-old
child, a mop and an out-of-touch

husband.  She had not imagined that it would result in sleeping
alone.

She had not imagined that being married would compel her to take care
of everyone, putting their needs and concerns ahead of her own.  Yet
deep in her heart, she knew that that was exactly what marriage was all
about.

So much for pretending that this was a real marriage.  Except for the
empty pillow beside her, she felt incredibly married--and not terribly
thrilled about it.  Marriage, she realized as she rolled over and
hugged her blanket to herself, was damned tiring.  She fell asleep
wondering whether she'd gotten more than she'd bargained for, or
less.

CHAPTER NINE

AT SEVEN O'CLOCK the next morning, Pamela emerged from her bedroom, her
head pounding and her nerves twitching like the quills of a porcupine
sensing danger.  She moved quietly down the hall, pan sing at the open
door to Lizard's bedroom and surveying the bedlam within.  The floor
was strewn with toys, clothing, a pillow, peanut shells and, not
surprisingly, an impressive assortment of feathers.  Picture books were
stacked haphazardly on the bureau, several drawers of which hung open.
The he'd's mattress wasn't lined up with the box springs.  The roller
shade hung at a drunken angle.

Lizard herself wasn't there.  Not that Pamela blamed her; she wouldn't
want to spend a second longer than necessary in that room, either. With
a shudder of disgust, she continued down the hall to Joe's room.
Halting outside his dosed door, she listened for sounds of life
within.

She heard nothing.

Wonderfid.  He was sleeping late, and she couldn't count on him to
assist her with Liz's court-appoiml guardian.  The first true test of
the contrived Brenner marriage, and Joe wasn't going to do his part. He
was going to sleep the morning away.

A strange mixture of emotions seized Pamela: disappointment,
exasperation, sympathy for a man who might lose his niece simply
because he worked odd hours--and

a sudden, treasonous pang of doubt.  Perhaps a man who couldn't wake
up early on what was conceivably the most important day of his niece's
life didn't deserve that niece.

As soon as the thought took shape in Pamela's mind, it seff-destmcted.
Joe deserved Lizard because he'd raised the child for three long,
difficult years, because he'd rearranged his entire life around her,
because he'd sold his houseboat for her.  Because he kept her drawings
on permanent exhibit in his living room.  Because he'd taught an
obstinate little girl that before she left the table she had to ask to
be excused.  Because he loved Lizard as much as any parent had ever
loved a child.

Because he was either stupid enough or noble enough to have given his
hand, his name and his protection to Pamela, knowing the threat she was
living under.

For that noble stupidity--or stupid nobility--Pamela would deal with
the social worker.  Vrth or without her I husband by her side, she
would convince the court offi' ;I cial that lizard he longed in ICey
West with her uncle.

Sighing, Pamela U-turned and stalked back down t hall to the stairway.
At the bottom of the stairs she saw that the note she'd left for Joe
last night was gone.  dently he'd read it and didn't care, or he d
slept through?

She wished she had that much faith in hellf.

She located I J-and in the den, seated on the floor front of the
television, gaping at a cartoon shoving fistfuls of dry cereal into her
mouth.  A protruded from the back pocket of her shorts.

"No feathers today," Pamela announced briskly.  "Huh?"

UNCLE

"No feathers.  And," she added, recalling news stories from a few years
back that had revealed a relationship between sugar consumption and
hyperactivity in children, "you're going to have a healthy breakfast
this morning."

Whatever peace she and Lizard might have negotiated yesterday was
dashed by Pamela's announcement.  "I'm not eating anything heaithy!"
the kid shrieked.  "I'm already healthy!  And I'm strong, too.  I bet
I'm stronger'n you.  I bet I could beat you up."

That was a het Pamela wasn't foolish enough to take.  She decided to
rely on her superior intellect and what few scraps of control she still
had left.

She strode purposefully into the den, plucked the feather from I.
iard's pocket and spoke before Lizard could protest.  "Have you ever
eaten pink grapefruit?"

Hearing the word pink gave Lizard pause.  She eyed Pamela dubiously,
obviously searching for a trap.  "Crrapefruit's yellow," she finally
said.  "And it's yucky."

"Pink grapefruit is sweet.  I think Uncle $oe has some in the
refrigerator."

"I won't like it," Lizard said ominously, although she sounded
tentative.

"It's pink," Pamela crooned.  "Pink pink, pink.  Come on, let's have
some pink, pink grapefruit."

Lizard's expression changed from skeptical to incredulous.  "You're
gonna eat some, too?"

"If you're willing to share it.  Once you taste it, though, you may
wind up wanting the whole thing for yourself.  Come on."  Not waiting
to see if Lizard was following her, she strolled into the kitchen,
swung open the refrigerator door and pulled a pink grapefruit from the
bottom shelf.

Lizard might be stronger than Pamela, but she was only five years old
and incurably curious.  Sure enough, she trailed Pamela into the
kitchen and hovered at her elbow, observing as Pamela cut the fruit in
half.  "That's not pink," she scoffed, sounding less than surprised at
Pamela's lame attempt to trick her.  "It's orange, like that icky fish
you made me eat."  She reached around Pamela for her cereal box.

Pamela swiftly lifted the box and set it on a high sheff in one of the
cabinets.  She didn't care whether Lizard ate a healthy breakfast of
any color.  She could eat refined sugar straight from the bowl as far
as Pamela was concerned.  But if the social Worker arrived while Lizard
was stuff' rag her face with junk, she might decide Joe's house wasn't
wholesome, and Lizard would wind up with the Prescotts.

"Pink grapefruit is very sweet," Pamela said, stretching the truth as
much as she dared.  "2j it, and I'll make you some whole-wheat toast.
With strawberry jam."

"Strawberry jam's red, not pink," Lizard muttered,

scowling at the fruit.

"Just try it."

"I don't want it.  It's yucky."

"Try it."  Pamela carried the plate to the table "It's pink.  Try it."
Refusing Lizard the chance to argue further, she turned her back on the
child and slid two slicea of whole-wheat bread into the toaster.

Behind her she heard a slurping noise,--and then a gagging noise. "It's
disgustingl" Lizard whined.

"It's delicious."

"It's poison!  I hate you!"  Lizard dragged her chair across the room,
used it to climb onto the counter and pulled her beloved box of cereal
from its high shelf.

If Pamela weren't so anxious about the social worker's visit, she would
have yielded.  But she was in no mood for Lizard's shenanigans.  "You
can't have cereal today," she said, wrapping her arms around Lizard's
knees to keep her from falling off the counter.  "And you shouldn't
climb up there.  It's dangerous."

"I climb all the time," Lizard retorted, popping open the flaps of the
cereal box.

"Lizard, I'm warning you--put that cereal away and let me get you
down."

"I'm getting down," Lizard acquiesced, kicking free of Pamela's loose
hold on her legs.  But she didn't get down, and she didn't put the
cereal away.  Instead, she dug into the box and pulled out a handful of
sugary pink puffs.

Pamela reached for the box.  Lizard gave a war whoop and hurled it into
the air.  The box overturned, spilling granular pink nuggets across the
floor.  Lizard leapt from the counter, knocking the chair on its side
with her foot and letting out a howl of pain.  "My toes!  Owl I think
they're broke?

Pamela didn't agree with Lizard's diagnosis--especially after Lizard
managed to run across the room when Pamela tried to catch her.  "I told
you climbing up there was dangerous," she scolded, righting the box of
cereal and glowering at Lizard.

"Climbing wasn't dangerous.  Coming down was dangerous.  I hate you!
You wanna poison me and kill me, too!  And the house is on fire,
too!"

As soon as Lizard mentioned the word fire, Pamela smelled something
burning.  Spinning around, she saw a plume of smoke rise out of the
toaster.  Cursing under her breath, she yanked the plug from the socket
and peered

into the slots, almost expecting to see flames.  All she saw, however,
were black crusts and more smoke.

"You're trying to kill me," L'v, and declared, then squatted on the
floor, gathered the cereal near her feet into a small mound, and
scooped it into her mouth.  "When Uncle Joe wakes up I'm gonna tell him
you're a murderer."

"You do that," Pamela snapped, jiggling a knife into the toaster slots
until the two charred slices of bread emerged.  "I'll defend myself by
saying it was justifiable homicide.  I bet he'll believo me, too."

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"  Lizard hollered.  The doorbell
rang.

"Oh, God."  Pamela stared in dismay at the cereal-covered floor and
inhaled the stench of ineineral!  crumbs.  In a firm voice, she said,
"Clean up this mess right now, young lady:'

"I'm not a young lady!  I'm a boo doo chief."

"Not at the moment, you're not.  Sweep up the mess.  There's a broom
and a dustpan in that cupboard."  She pointed to the broom closet.

"It's your mess," Lizard retorted.  "You grabbed the box.  You made me
spill it.  You clean it up."

"Clean it," Pamela spat out.

"I don't got to.  The doorbell's ringing.  I bet it's Birdie, She lets
me eat anything I want?  With that, Lizard flounced out of the kitchen,
Pamela at her heels.

Her heart was racing, her eyes stinging with tears of anger and
frustration.  Hadn't there been a time, not so l-ribly long ago, when
she'd been in comple control of her life?  Hadn't there been a time
when her daily eaia-tence was eaim and orderly?

Lizard's words echoed in her skull: It's your mess.  That said it all,
the ultimate truth.  This was Pamela's

Lizard was already swinging open the inner door when Pamela reached the
front hall.  She smoothed her camp shirt into the waistband of the neat
denim skirt she'd chosen to wear, and arranged her face into a polite
smile for her visitor.

The social worker appeared as calm and orderly as Pamela's life used to
be.  On the far side of middle age, the woman was slim and well groomed
in a cotton sheath, a stylish linen blazer and stack-heeled sandals. In
her left hand she gripped a thick leather briefcase; in her right she
held a business card.

Pamela ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, discreetly
unraveling a piece of cereal from the strands behind her ear.  "Hi,"
she said to the woman, whom Lizard was regarding with blatant distrust.
"I'm Pamela Brenner."  Thank heavens the name glided naturally off her
tongue.

"I'm Mona Whitley from the Depa-iment of Social Services," the woman
introduced herself.  "I'm here at the behest of Judge Roger Ephraim,
who's going to be 'presiding at the custody hearing"

"Yes, I know," Pamela said hastily, shooting a quick look at Lizard.
She didn't want the social worker discussing the custody fight in front
of the child.

Mona Whitley smiled and nodded, apparently understanding Pamela's
des'tre to protect Lizard.  "May I come in?"

"Of course."  Pamela nudged Lizard out of the way and held open the
screen door.  "I was just making some coffee.  As a matter of fact,
we've just barely gotten out of bed"

"I've been up for hours," Lizard declared.  "And I'm starving."

Great, Pamela thought--Mona Whitley was going to think Pamela and Joe
weren't feeding her.  "Anyway," Pamela went on breezily, aecepfiag Ms.
Whitley's card, "the kitchen is a little bit messy at the moment"

"A lit He bit?"  L'and hooted.  "It s a lot messy.  Remember Humcane
Andrew?

"Indeed I do," Ms.  Whitley said, her eyes narrowing

Lizard.  You must be g. lizabeth.  "

n'I'm Lizard," Lard anUy.  " Nobody me gii?  abe th  I'm Lizard, and I
m a boo doe chief, and I can eat whatever I want.  " With that, she
swiveled on her bare foot and stomped back to the kitchen.

Pamela's spirits plummeted.  "Elizabeth is always a little cranky in
the morning," she fibbed, gest ming toward Lizard's retreating form.
"Perhaps I could get you a cup of coffee.  If you'd like to have a seat
in the living room..."  Which I spent last night dusting and polishing
so it would pass muster with you, she wanted to add.  At:

herself was.

Her smile revealed too many teeth.  What I'd really like?  J is for you
to let me just fade into the background y0,u, go about your usual
roues.  "

see.  Well.  As I said, we just had a spill in kitchen, and I'm in the
middle of getting breakfast for.  Liz"-- She silenced herself before
adding -zard.  I'm afraid my husband is"

"Right here," Joe's voice came from the

"Good morning.  Glad you could stop by."

If hearing Joe awake and coherent surprised her,

ing him absolutely astonished her.  She turned glanced toward the
stairs in time to see him descend the last few steps.  Clean-shaven,
his hair parted and damp, he wore a fresh shirt and un tore un frayed
jeans.  His ear was decorated with a gold dot so modest she almost
didn't notice it.

Reaching the bottom step, he extended his right hand toward Mona
Whitley.  His smile was as cool and confident as hers.  "I'm Jonas
Brenner," he said.

Maybe it was because Pamela hadn't seen him for the past couple of
days.  Maybe it was because she felt overwhelmed by the social worker's
visit and her own overwrought mental state.  Mayhe it was just that,
with his riveting blue eyes, his thick, tawny hair, his tall, lean
physique and that smile, announcing that he had nothing to fear,
nothing to hide, nothing to worry about, Joe was like the morning sun,
bright and steady and dependable.

Or maybe the emotion she experienced at his arrival was simply a result
of being his wife.  Because as she gazed at him, she felt exactly what
a wife was supposed to feel when she saw her husband: Comfort.  Relief.
Joy.

HE'D MEANT TO MAKE IT downstairs earlier, but it was hard to get your
ass in gear when you'd been tending bar till 2:00 a. m. Sure, he could
have gotten home earlier--Brick would have ken the closing shift--but
Joe was so damned busy avoiding his wife that he'd turned down Brick's
offer and wail until the last patron had departed before locking up and
rolling home.

He'd been exhausted, and he'd had a few spots of blood on his shirt
from that jerk who'd cut his chin.  But carting an inebriated yahoo to
the hospital had seemed easy compared to the prospect of facing Pamela
and keeping his desire for her in check.

When he'd found her no for him, though, gretted his cowardice.  He'd
regretted it even more as taken a quick walk through the house and seen
neatly everything was arranged.  She must have her tail off to
straighten the place up.  And he'd ised she wouldn't have to take care
of the house.

The least he could do was make sure to solo in the morning, too.  Wha
his alarm buzzed, he'd wrestled against the urge under the pillow, and
he'd gotten himself enough not to send the social worker off in a

He shook hand as she introduced horse If and he casually slipped his
arm around

He had thought his only challenge would be he was a true husband to
Pain.  But the real going to be acting like her husband to the sexy
angularity of her shoulders, the granc of her hair and the gliUmT the
coffee ready yet, honey?  " he nsked, rot rural he vej nearly
frightened himself.

"The kitchen's a disaster,"

clenched eth.

He chuckled.  "The kitchen's always a

Whitley wants to deduct points big trouble.  " May as well own up to
it, not what couldn't be hidden.

He teleased Pamela and sannted down kid hen refusing to let his
apprehension the Liz Monster sitting on the floor, cereal and tossing
it into her wouldn't win her any tryouts with the

Keep it light,

work see you meat.  "Oink, oink,"

and.  "You're a pig this morning, aren't you:'

Lizard leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms.  "Uncle Joe!
You got up!"

"Of course I got up."  No sense letting the court lady know his usual
hours.

"Pamela tried to make me eat burned toast," Lizard wafted.  "And this
yucky staff, some kind of grapefruit that she said was pink but she was
lying, and"

"Well, that's pink grapefruit," he argued gently, hoisting Lizard
higher in his arms and glancing over his shoulder at the fruit on the
counter.  "I know it's got kind of a peculiar flavor, but I bet Pamela
thought you were so mature you could handle it.  Now, do me a favor,

Lizzie, and get that broom, and we'll get this place all spiffed up.  "
He shot an affable grin toward Ms.  Whi-fiey, who was watching from the
doorway.  Little did the lady know, but his kitchen had rarely been as
spiffed up as it was right now, even with all the cereal on the
floor.

He would have to thank Pamela for the unusual cleanliness of the place.
He could have flowers delivered, or take her out to dinner--but then
she might think he was making a Pass at her, putting pressure on her.
And he wasn't truly sure that assessment would be wrong.

She materiali:,ed next to MS.  Whitley, looking wor.  That she should
be so eager to make a good impression on the social worker touched him.
She had her own problems; she didn't have to carry the full weight of
his as well.

"You know what?"  he asked as Lizardhanded him the broom.  "I bet MS.
Whitley would like to see your herb garden.  Why don't you lake her out
in the yard and show her around while Pain and I get the floor
swept?"

Lizard would have agreed to anything that got her out of having to help
clean up.  "Okay," she said happily.

With a skip in her step, she led the way out onto the screened porch
and from there into the backyard.

Pamela watched, her lips pressed together, her eyes a bit too bright.
"She listens to you a lot more than she listens to me," she muttered.

"She's known me a lot longer," he pointed out, handing her the dustpan
and then setting to work sweeping up the cereal.

"Besides which, you let her have her way.  She made this mess--she
should have cleaned it herself."

"And if we didn't have that spy in our midst" -- he angled his head
toward Ms.  Whitley's business card, still in Pamela's hand "--I would
have crazy-glued the broom to the little beast's hands before I'd let
her off the hook.

I just didn't think this was the time or place for a show down.  "

Pamela nodded.  She looked suddenly weary.  "I guess ii

I'm not very good at parenting.  "

"You're fine."  He propped the broom against the table and planted his
hands on Pamela's shoulders.

"You're hetter than fine, Pain.  Okay?"

She peered up into his eyes.  He recalled the anguish he'd seen in her
face the first time she'd come to his house, when her tears had seeped
inside his soul and softened him up.  He really hoped she wasn't weepy
on him again.  If she did, he'd have to hug her,

if he hugged her, he'd kiss her.

"I tried to dress nicely for Ms.  Whirls"

"You look great."

"And I tried to ne aten up the house"

"This house hasn't been so neat since the last moved his staff out.
Really, Pare--you're

Okay?  " ii

Instead of tears, he saw something else in her eyes--a glint of anger.
"ff I'm so terrific, why are you treating me as if I had leprosy?"

He smothered a groan.  "If you had leprosy," he argued, giving her
upper arms a reassuring squeeze, "would I be touching you?"

"This is the first time I've seen you in days, Jonas."

"I work lousy hours," he rationalized.  "You know that."

"I also know when someone is avoiding me.  Where were you yesterday
morning?  Why did you sneak out of the house the minute my back was
turned?"

It occurred to Joe that her words could he taken as good, old-fashioned
shrewishness the stereotypical nagging-wife stuff.  He didn't have to
account for himself or his whereabouts, did he?  Even if this were a
real marriage--especiaHy ff it were a real one--he wouldn't necessarily
tell his wife where he was going, or when, or why.

Yet the way Pamela put it made it sound as if he was stepping out on
her or something.  She had to understand that the only reason he was
avoiding her, sneaking out of the house and all, was because if he hung
around he would start treating her the way a wife should he treated,
and that would destroy their arrangement.

He took up the broom and started sweeping.  "I don't suppose you'd
believe me if I said it was for your own good."

The anger spread from her eyes to encompass her entire body.  Her spine
stiffened, and she brandished the dustpan as if she wanlxl to whack him
with it.  "My own good?  What am I, another little child you've taken
custody of?  My own good?"

He shot a quick look toward the window above me sink, which overlooked
the backyard.  "Can we talk about this some other time?"  he asked
quietly.

"No, we cannot."  She knelt down where he'd amassed a pile of cereal
and held the.  dustpan so he could sweep the cereal into it.  "I
thought we were equal partners in this, Joe.  Equal means you don't
make decisions for me.  If it were for my own good never to see you, I
wouldn't have married you."

There was a compliment embedded in her rage: she wan lEd to see him
sometimes.

The trouble was, a//she wanted was to see him.  When he saw her, he
wanted a whole lot more.

He heard a gale of laughter, Lizard's and Ms.  Whitley's, through the
screen in the window.  If he could hear them, they could probably hear
him and Pamela.  This was no doubt the worst time in the world for them
to be quarreling.  Tactics demanded that he concede for now.

"All right," he said.  "I'll try harder to wake up early."

"Don't do me any favors," Pamela retorted.  Oh, swell.  She really was
a wife, wasn't she?  Here he'd swallowed his pride and given in, and
Pamela refused to accept his surrender.  The woman was asking for a
fight.

Joe would love nothing more than to give her one.  If she wanted to
argue both sides, he would gladly argue right back, He was nimble; he
could take anything she said and throw it back in her face.  She wanted
to be equals with him?  He didn't pull his punches with his equals.

But that damned social worker was he.  "Make up your mind," he
grumbled.  "You want me to wake up early?  Say so.  You want me to
sleep late?  No problem.  Just make up your mind."

"I want you to at me like your parmer, not a pariah."

Whatever the hell did she mean by that?  "Fine," he said, just to be
done with it.

"Because it's ridiculous that I should have to leave you notes, for
heaven's sal.  If I need to talk to you, I should be able to."

"I said fine," he repeated in a quiet growl.

"This is important, Jonas.  I don't want to be brushed off."

He was tempted to take the broom and brush her into the damned dustpan.
But L/zard and Ms.  Whitley came waltzing back into the kitchen,
denying him the chance.  "Well," the socml worker said grandly,
"Elizabeth'certainly knows a lot about weeds."

"She's a smart kid," Joe grunted, relieved to have someone other than
Pamela to think about.

"I also told her we're gonna ock-attack Birdie's house as a project."

"You are?"  This was news to Joe--and garbled news at that.  He sent
Pamela a questioning glance.  Her answer was a smug look, as if to say
his ignorance about this so-called project was just one more thing he
didn't know about because he'd beeo treating his wife with less than
hnsbandly respect.

Lizard nodded vioronsly.  "With a tree house in the living room, right,
Pamela?"

"We still have to run that concept past Birdie," Pamela said, sming at
Li.  and with a warmth Joe wished she felt toward him, even if at the
moment he wanted to throttle her.

"Birdie is your neighbor?"  Ms.  Whitley asked.

"Also Liz's baby-sitter," said Pamela, then gazed around the room.  "I
think we're done here.  Liz, would you like something to eat?"

"Yeah.  Pink cereal."

Pamela pursed her lips but didn't refuse Lizard her choice.  Even
thotlgh he would rather not do ally thing for Pamela, Joe courteously
filled a cup of coffee for her, asked Ms.  Whitley one last time if she
wanlxi some, and when she declined, filled a cup for himself.  Then he
ex-cilsed himself and walked outside to get the newspaper.

The morning was hot, the grass soaked with dew and the air dense with
the fragrance of greenery and sunk/ssed flowers.  His footsieps
crunched on the gravel as he ambled halfway to the street and picked up
the paper.  He stood in the driveway for a long mlnul, the paper tucked
under his arm and his mug balanced in his hand.  The sky was cloudless,
the palm trees motionless.  A single cricket played a lazy tune
somewhere to his left.

As red as he'd been indoors, out here he felt surprisingly buoyant.  He
wasn't the sentimental sort who got all mushy at the s/ght of a butler
fly but the buiefiy he saw flitting above his azaleas mado him smile.
And the lawn the kitchen he'd been in turmoil.  Out here, the mrmofi
was gone.

When was the last t/me he'd actually stood in his front yard and
appreciated a snmmer morning?  Did the tranquillity seem greater than
usual because of what had preceded it?  Or did Joe simply feel it more
deeply he-cause, for some reason, he was feeling everything more deeply
laxly?

So much was on the line: Lizard.  Pameh.  A mar-gage.  A court battle.
His sex life, or lack thereof.  His future.  Behind him his house held
challenges, responsibilities, the life he'd somehow stumbled into.

Yet without that life, without those challenges and responsibilities,
he might not have felt the golden heat of the sun on his cheeks so
keenly.  He might not have recognized the distinct perfumes of the
rhododendrons and lime trees, the wisteria and the magnolias.  Without
the spilled cereal and the heated tempers, he might never have realized
what a gorgeous morning he'd awakened to.

Mayhe it was the contrast between inside and out, his suppressed male
urges, the fear that he was about to lose a lit He girl who meant the
world to him, but suddenly everything seemed precious, worth fighting
for.  Suddenly Joe Brenner felt as if everything mattered.

With a bemused smile, he turned and went back into the house, more than
ready to face off with the social worker, his niece and his wife.

CHAPTER TEN

HER OWN GOOD .  9

The nerve of him, patronizing her that way!  Acting as if he knew what
was best for her!  Pamela Hayes was a mature adult.  She was
intelligent, well educated, the mistress of her own fate.

Well, not exactly.  For the time being, she had to lie low and keep her
cool--and for the time be' rag she had to be Pain Brenner, the happy
housewife.  She had to make this marriage work.

She would begin by playing her surrogate-mother rol as best she could.
She doubted Mona Whitley would be thrilled by Pamela's attempts at
maternal behavior thtm far: dragging Lizard through the bureaucratic
tedium of the motor-vehicle department, measuring the rooms in Birdie's
dilapidated house, bickering over the color of salmon.

Today would be different.  Regardless of how annoyed she was with Joe,
Pamela was going to be the best damned mother-figure she could be.  She
hated failing at anything, and she wasn't going to fail at this.

She filled her cup with fresh coffee, took a sip and set off in search
of l. i. and and Ms.  Whitley.  She found them on the screened back
porch.  Lizard had lugged a carton to the table and was systematically
emptying its contents: glossy white paper and jars of finger paint.

What a perfectly domestic activity.  Lizard might be rude and crude,
but she knew how to impress a social worker.  She and Pamela could
finger paint together, just like a mother and daughter would, and Joe
could sulk outside, for all Pamela cared.

Smiling, she carried her coffee to the porch and de-dared herself ready
to tackle an art project.  "I asked that lady if she wanted to make a
picture," Lizard announced, pointing to Ms.  Whifiey.  "She said she
didn't want to get her hands dirty."

"Well, I certainly don't mind getting my hands dirty," Pamela lied,
accepting a sheet of paper from Lizard's supply.  She stared at the
clean white rectangle for a minute, trying to remember how one went
about finger painting, something she hadn't done since her nursery
school days.

Lizard seemed to realize that Pamela was stumped.  Roiling her eyes at
Pamela's ineptitude, she poured two pools of paint, one red and one
blue, onto Pamela's paper.  "Smear it," she instruclaxt her.

Pamela smeared it--on the paper, on hr palms, on her wedding band.  On
her blouse.  On her chin when ho scratched an itch.  The paint was
thick and slick and viscous.  It was disgusting.  But somewhere in the
midst of all her smearing, she lost track of Ms.  Whitley observing
from the couch.  She forgot about her spat with Joe, the spilled
cereal, the fact that back in Seattle a hit man was undoubtedly still
stalking her.  She forgot all the lmets of architectural design.  There
were no parameters here, no client's specifications, no environmental
impact studies.  This creation was devolaxl to oozing color,
shapelessness, anarchy.

To her utter amazement, Pamela loved it.

She cheeked her watch.  "Gee, it's after ten.  Maybe you ought to be
on your way right now.  It's not as if anyone expects you to be home at
this hour."

Instead of matching her sarcasm, he laughed.  The skin around his eyes
crinkled; his teeth flashed white.  "I'll be on my way real soon," he
promised.  "As soon as Ms.  Whitley is done raking me over the
coals."

Pamela put aside her hostility long enough to consider the woman in the
living room.  "Is that what she's doing?"  she whispered.

"She's trying to get a handle on our marriage," Joe whispered back.
"She's been giving me our whirlwind courtship."

"Courtship?"  Pamela snorted softly, then east an.  other quick look
toward the living room to make sure Ms.  Whitl couldn't hear them.  The
woman was over a notebook, scribbling.  Reassured that she wasn't eave
sopping on their conversation, Pamela turned back to Joe.  "I don't
recall our having any sort of eourlshipi'

"Honey, if I courted you, thi.marriage would be a whole other thing. My
style of courtship doesn't lead

Pamela felt her cheeks grow warm.  She be teased--and she didn't want
to be wondering Joe's style of courtship.  "I'd rather not muttered
through pursed lips.

"I know you wouldn't.  That's why I'll be leaving the bar in a few
minutes.  Meanwhile..."  He index finger lazily along her jawline,
behind her around to the nape of her neck, lea vinE heat on her skin.
"I think we ought to put for the lady, so she'll believe my song and
danoe

, Was

"Is that what you told her?"  Pamela asked, her voice unfortunately
faint.

He slid his other hand along her side to her waist.  "What else could I
have said?"

Certainly not the truth.  Actually, the truth seemed kind of cloudy to
Pamela at the moment.  Every time Joe stroked his fingertips across the
nape of her neck, every time she peered up into his eyes, she became
less sure about truth.

It wasn't love at first sight; that much she knew.  But their marriage
wasn't merely a survival tactic, either.  At least, it wasn't merely a
survival tactic when Joe was this dose to her, his lips an inch from
hers, his gaze boring into hers and his hand molding to the curve of
her hip.

He brushed his mouth against hers, then straightened up and smiled
hesitantly.  "Faking it is easy, isn't it?"  he murmured, drawing his
hands away and clearing his throat.  His eyes were luminous, his breath
uneven.  He didn't seem to be faking anything.  "I'll be on my way as
soon as I'm done with Whitley."

Pamela understood then why he was avoiding her: it wasn't just for her
sake, but for his.  The instant his mouth touched hers, she felt his
yearning.  She felt the air temperature in the hallway rise, the beat
of her heart accelerate.  This must be Joe's style of courtship--and it
definitely didn't lead to separate bedrooms.

"I'm going to go change my clothes," she mumbled, gripping the railing
for support as she startxl up the stairs.

"Yeah, slip into something more comfortable," Joe joked, although she
heard no laughter in his words.  She didn't dare turn around.  She
didn't want to see him.  And she didn't want him to see her all flushed
and flustered.

Reluctantly she acknowledged that he was right.  For her sake--and
his--it was better if he stayed away from her.

"Ba3 mn has changed you," Kitty opined.

Joe avoided eye contact with her, focusing instead on the blender,
watching the rum, bananas and crushed ice turn into a thick beige
froth.

He knew being married had changed him--far more than he'd ever
expected.  It was different from the change he'd undergone after his
sister's death, when Lizard had invaded his life.  That change had
entailed moving real house, developing a certain sense of and devoting
his free time to the kid instead of to ing and flirting.

Pamela had changed him in a completely different

He had always thought the up side of marriage was you could have sex
whenever you wanted, side was that you couldn't have s wife--at least,
if you took the relationship seriously.  stead, he was finding that the
only lady sex with was his wife--and sex was out of the c

Part of his and Pamela's agreement, he recalled, that they could take
lovers if they were discreet But he didn't need Mona Whitley's trusion
into his life to remind him that set, ting with women who weren't
Pamela would'

Even if a stacked, leggy woman sauntered up to right now, handed him a
key and purred, "Meet midnight, I'll bring the condoms," he wouldn't
through.

He poured the banana daiquiri into a chilled gave Kitty a bland look.
"Sure, marriage has me," he drawled.  "Ever since Pain and I tied the
knot, I've been speaking with a British accent."

"Cheerio, old chap," Kitty scoffed.  "You're still talking like the
same guy you always were.  You're just acting different."

Joe studied her through the haze of blue cigarette smoke that clouded
the air.  Her hair looked less brassy in the Shipwreck's muted light,
but her tank top was too snug; her breasts bulged from the scooped neck
like two yeasty mounds of dough.  He used to admire her luscious
curves, but now.  it was too much of a good thing.

Yeah, marriage had changed him, all right.  If he could find himself
looking at Kitty and thinking wistfully about Pamela's modest
proportions, the change was profound.

"Okay, I'll bite.  How has marriage changed me?"

"I don't know.  I'm trying to put my finger on it."  Kitty scooped a
few cocktail napkins from the pile on the bar and set them on her troy.
"It's like you underwent an attitude adjustment.  You seem more serious
or something."

It wasn't that he was serious, he almost argued, but rather that he was
tired.  And hornier than any newlywed ought to be.

"I mean," Kitty persisted, "I want to know if everything is going okay
with you and Pamela.  Because, I mean, I feel kind of responsible, on
account of I set you guys up and all."

"You didn't exactly set us up," Joe said, thinking he was doing Kitty a
favor by letting her off the hook.  She had set them up, but if the
marriage was a mistake, he didn't want her to feel guilty about it.

Actually, the marriage wasn't a mistake.  In terms of proving to the
court that Joe could provide a good home

life for IJizard, the marriage was a stroke of brilliance.  The only
mistake was that he'd gone and married someone he found himself lusting
after.

"I mean, I knew Pamela before you did," Kitty minded him.  "And she's
kind of serious.  Is she making you serious?"

"I've always been serious."  Right.  And the sun always rose in the
west.  "Isn't there a customer waiting for that banana daiquiri?"

"Let her wait.  Brick?  Help me out here.  Doesn't joe seem more
serious to you than usual?"

Brick joined them at the bar, carrying a cutting heaped with the lime
wedges he'd been slicing.  He Joe up and down and grunted.

Kitty pounced on this as corroboration.  "See?  thinks you're serious,
too."

"I am serious.  I'm seriously going to fire you,

if you don't serve that banana daiquiri soon.  " " Come on, Joe, what
is it?  Pamela isn't a good "She's an excellent wife."

"She's not getting along with Li?Je Borden?"

"She and 1.17and are getting along phenomenally.  weird how well they
get along.  This morning finger painting together.  They run errands
Lately they've been collaborating on a vate Birdie's house together."

"No!  You're kidding!  You hear that, Brick?

and Joe's wife are going to renovate Birdie's house.  " " Uh-huh,"
Brick grunted.

"Thing of it is," Kitty continued, then noticed lethal frown and lifted
the daiquiri onto her tray, mela's smart, you know?  She must have had
a good son to marry you.  Something beyond wanting to paint with
Lizard.  "

Joe knew Pamela's reason.  He wondered if Kitty did.  "You think she
had a good reason, do you?"  he asked casually.  "Like what?"

Kitty shrugged.  "Like, you're a great guy."

He was tempted to reveal Pamela's true reason, which had nothing to do
with Joe's greatness.  But, as Kitty had po'mted out, she'd known
Pamela longer than he had.  ff Pamela had wanted Kitty to know about
her Seattle as-ms sing she would have told Kitty herself.

He nudged Kitty's tray, giving her the choice of either lifting it or
letting it crash to the floor at her feet.  Rolling her eyes at his
impatience, Kitty balanced the tray on one hand and moseyed through the
dense evening crowd.

Free of Kitty's badgering, Joe contemplated Pamela's reason for
marrying him.  Ever s'nice they'd tied the knot, she hadn't said a word
about the hit man.  She'd been in a big hurry to change her name and
her legal papers, but that was it.  She didn't behave as if she were
paranoid, barring the windows and carry inga firearm at all times.  As
far as he knew, she wasn't constantly on the phone to Seattle, tracking
the moves of her nemesis.  She didn't act someone with a price on her
head.

What if there wasn't a hit man?  What if she'd made the whole thing
up?

The idea jolted hlmHe gripped the bar, nodding vaguely as Lois hollered
for a malt liquor and a Seven-and-Seven.  Ood, he thought--it was
possible.  Pamela could have invented that cock-and-bull story as an
ex-case to marry him.  She was smart, and anyone as smart as she seemed
to be wouldn't testify publicly against a professional murderer,
right?

But why would Pamela have made up such a yarn?  Why, if her life wasn't
hanging in the balance, would she have married Joe?

Surely not because he was a great guy.  Kitty's concept of what made a
guy great would likely bear little resemblance to Pamela's.  Joe
happened to agree with Kitty that he himself was a great guy, but he
doubted Pamela would agree.

She couldn't have married him for him money.  He was no
millionaire--and if she were a gold digger, she wouldn't hook up with a
guy raising a kid.  Someone like Pamela had enough class to reel in a
stockbroker or a bank executive if finding a sugar daddy had been her
goal.

"Come on, Joe, wake up.  I need a Seven-and-Seven," Lois declared,
rapping the bar with her knuckles to get his attention.

"Oh.  Yeah."  He glanced around and saw to shoe lemons.  "Hey, Brick,
cover for me for a

I've got to make a phone call.  "

Ignoring Lois's flown of bewilderment, Joe hurried the end of the bar
and around it, down the hall his office.  He nearly stumbled against
Lizard's box toys in his haste to slam the door shut.  Even closed, he
heard the noise of the bar, voices, laughter and jukebox music
infiltrating his vate haven.

Tuning out the din, he slumped into the chair the desk, propped his
head in his hands and the telephone.  If he called Pamela, what

"Hi, honey--I crave your body but I don't trust " Hi, Pare--just
checking to see if your life is truly danger.  " " Hi, wife--I want to
know the real reason married me.  "

His uneasiness surprised him.  Why should he damn about her real reason
for anything?  She'd done a favor by marrying him, and she was
continuing to do him favors by making his house presentable and taking
care of his niece.  So what if she'd lied about why she married him ?
He'd gotten what he was looking for.

Even so.  Back in the beginning he'd had a few qualms about marrying
someone with a price on her head.  He'd swallowed those qualms, and,
rational or not, it ticked him off royally to think those concerns
might have been baseless.  Not just ticked him off--it made him wonder
what Pamela was after.  No sane human being would take on Lizard
without expecting something in return.

He fingered the phone, trying to decide whether to call her and demand
proof that her life was in jeopardy.  It didn't seem like something he
ought to do over the phone, but if he faced off with her in person, it
could turn into a nasty scene.  A man couldn't accuse his wife of scum
ming him and expect her to laugh and kiss him on the cheek for being so
perceptive.

One thing Joe couldn't afford was a nasty scene, not when he had Ms.
Whitley breathing down his neck.  He'd rather be conned by Pamela than
let the social worker catch a whiff of trouble between the oh-so-happy
Bren-ners.

He ran his fingers over the phone buttons again, then hauled the phone
directory from the bottom drawer of his desk and looked up the area
code for Seattle.  He dialed directory assistance and requested the
number of the Seattle Police Department.  When the operator asked which
precinct, he faltered for a moment, then said, "The main office,
whatever.  Cop Central."

He jotted down the number she recited and thanked her.  A deep breath,
a brief, silent pep talk about how he wouldn't panic if it turned out
that the woman he'd

married--the woman he lusted after--had invented a cockamaray story
about a hit man for some ulterior purpose, and then he punched the
buttons and lislmd to his

"Seattle Police Department," came a woman's voice.  "This phone call is
being recorded."

Joe took one more deep, steadying breath.  "Hi," he said in a
ridiculously casual voice.  "I'm hoping you can auswer a question for
me.  It's about a woman named Pamela Hayes, who/stified in a murder
case in Seattle a few months ago."

The woman on the other end of the phone didn't spend right away.  "A
murder case?"

"She witnessed a professional murder, and she testified against the hit
man.  I don't know his name, but--', " Who is thi.  "

Now it was Joe's turn to hesitate.  "Do I have to you my name?"

"If you want your call taken seriously, yes."

He sighed and assessed the situation.  These were enforcement folks he
was ta!  lring to.  They were posed to be on Pamela's side.  Joe could
give them name without doing harm to her.  "I'm Joe I'm ... a friend of
Pamela's.  A very good friend.  worried because she thlnim she's in
danger from murderer she testified again."

"I'm going to have to transfer your call to cide," said the woman at
the other end.

can help you.  "

He heard a few clicks as his call was transferred, then a man came on
the line "Detective Wilcox he identified him.  elf " What can I help
you with?  "

Joe star lad all over again.  "I'm concerned friend of mine, Pamela
Hayes.  I mean--she's cerned, and I'm concerned for her."  He was
rambling, and he gave his head a sharp shake to clear it.  "She
testified against a hit man at a trial a few months ago, and she's
worried that the hit man might come after her."

"Pamela Hayes?"

"Yeah.  She's a very good fi'iend of mine, and I want to make sure
she's safe."

"Ah, yes.  I know that case," Detective Wilcox said.  "I understand she
got so spooked after the conviction fell through, she left town for a
while.  The DA says her only contact with Seattle is that she
occasionally calls her lawyer.  No one else knows where she is.  Then
again, eve if I did know where she was, I wouldn't I1 you."

"That's all right," Joe said magnanimously.  He knew where she was, and
he wasn't going to tell Wilcox, which he figured made them even.  "I
was only wondering--is she still in any danger?"

Detective Wilcox chuckled.  "St///in danger?  I don't think she was
ever in any real danger."

"But she d/d testify agnin a hit man?"  Joe ieaiJnded him, although his
voice curled up at the end, turning the statement into a question.

"Yes, indeed she did.  She's a gutsy lady."

"So what makes you so sure she isn't in danger?"

"Look," ve Wilcox said gently, "if I had my dmthers, the perpeWator
wouldn't have been released on bail.  once his conviction was
overturned.  The guy's guilty as sin, but these courts, you know--one
snafu, one minor technicality, and the process has to start all over
again.  That's the American legal syslmn for you."

"I see."  Joe should have been appalled that Pamela's story was
checking out--if she'd lstified against a hit man, then she very might
he in danger, regardless of what this detective was telling Joe.  But
he was too relieved by the knowledge that she hadn't lied to him4 "So
is she in any danger?"

"We have the perpetrator under constant surveillance.  We've got a cop
permanently assigned to him.  He hasn't been anywhere near Ms.  Hayes
since he got out on bail.  He hasn't come within a mile of her.  If he
had, our man would have stepped in."

"She said that when she was in Seattle the creep was following her."

"It's understandable that she's nervous.  Let's face it, she wimessed a
murder.  It could make anybody a crazy, right?  But, no, he wasn't
following her.  He's under watch, twenty-four hours a day.  If she
thought she saw him following her, it was just her' ing tricks on her.
She's perfectly safe.  Our officer making sure of that."

"I'm glad to hear it," Joe said.  Thanking the five, he ended the
call.

So, she was telling the truth--or, at least, the truth it appeared from
her perspective.  The cops in thought she was paranoid--just as she'd
said.  maybe, she was being a little paranoid.  Maybe, as Wilcox said,
she was a little crazy.

Joe could handle that.

to be as close to the absolute, mommy as an know anything about
children could be.  to be a lit He crazy on the side, so be it.

This marriage wasn't made in heaven; it was a handshake.  And within a
reasonably short time would be over.  By then, Joe fervently hoped,
have regained his old taste in women.  He stop fantasi.  ing about a
pale, flat-chest,

shouldered, possly demented woman, and he would stop being so damned
serious, Once he had permanent custody of Lizard, he could forgot
Pamela Hayes had ever entered his life.

He shoved away from his desk, strode across the office and opened the
door.  Someone had programmed the jukebox to play "Stand by Me."
Suppressing a groan, $oe squared his shoulders and returned to his post
behind the bar.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

P,mL SUPPO/IK) EVERY marriage took time to find its routines and
rhythms.  That she and Joe had managed to settle into their own
patterns of functioning after less.  than two weeks of wedded bliss
ought to have satisfied her.

Except that the patterns Joe had set fled into chafed at Pamela's
nerves, leaving her troubled and glum.

He no longer seemed to be going to great lengths to avoid her.  On rare
mornings, he would actually venture into the kitchen before 10:00 a. m.
and mumble a morning to his wife and niece before he buried himself the
pages of the newspaper.

He would spend the morning with Lizard if Pamela wanly!  to run
errands.  She had learned from that grocery shopping was sheer torture
ff Lizard ao-companied her.  Lizard had a habit of rnnning lip down the
aisles, grabbing junk food and tossing it the shopping cart before
Pamela could stop her.  Whea Pamela made her put the junk food back on
the shelves, Lizard whined in a pitch that could shatter fine And when
Pamela got home and emptied the always discovered among her purchases
in lizard had smuggled past her.

In the oons, when Ioe left for the Shipwreck, Pamela would engage in
various activities with liTard.  Sometimes they would to in Lizard's
weed; infested garden.  Sometimes they would go to Birdie's house to
begin their first renovation project: breaking down the windowed
interior wall of the kitchen and turning the room beyond it into a
spacious dining area.  One afternoon they went to see the latest Disney
animated feature at the theater in town.

It rained every day.  The air was thick, sticky, soupy with hmidity.
Every now and then the sun would peek tentatively through the clouds,
and Pamela would feel an answering ray of hope inside her.  But then
another army of clouds would march across the sky, obliterating the
sunlight, and her mood would plummet once more.

The atmosphere inside the house was as overcast as the atmosphere
outside.  Even though Pamela's and Joe's paths intersected several
times a day, he never touched her.  His smiles were reserved, his eyes
lacking the warmth she'd seen in them the last time he'd kissed
her--when he'd been putting on an act for Mona Whifiey's benefit.  Key
West might be in the tropics, but the Brenner household was currently
operating under an arctic freeze.

Pamela told herself Joe was keeping the emotional thermostat set on
zero to avoid complications.  She told herself they would both be
better off ff he never again with her, gazed at her with longing or
indicaaxt in any way that he desired her.  She'd been clear about not
wanting a passionate relationship with him) and he was accommodating
her wishes.  She ought to count her blessings.

What blessings?  None--unless boredom was a hies, sing and isolation,
and resentment.

She recalled how, during her single days, she had imagined that the
ideal marriage would be not all that different from her present
situation: a parmership in which her husband made no demands on her,
didn't

pect her to discuss sports knowledgeably and let her hold the remote
control when the television was on.  She'd dreamed of a husband who
respected her independence and didn't try to change her.  She supposed
Joe fit the bill.

But marriage wasn't supposed to leave her feeling so alone, was it?

Thank God for Lizard.  The little girl kept Pamela company--and kept
her sane.  To her amazement, she was growing rather fond of the Liz
Monster, even though every activity they did together seemed to end up
in a mess: puttering in the garden, sawing through the wall: Birdie's
kitchen, baking brownies, cleaning bedroom and laundering the mildewed
clothing stuffed animals they excavated from the darkest recesses of
Lizard's closet.

After more than a week of rain that transformed yard into a swamp and
Pamela's usually limp hair frizz to rival the bride of Frankenstein's,
Joe lifted nose out of the newspaper one morning to announce the
weather page was forecasting clearing skies temperatures.

"Let's go to the beach," said Lizard.

Cocoa Puffs with her hands, but ating look she emptied her fist into
the curve of her and smiled sweetly.  "I'll eat nicely if you take
beach," she wheedled.

Pamela almost blurted out that Lizard could stuff coa Puffs up her nose
for all she carexl--i was pleasant, they would definitely after day of
rain had left her emotionally She was as eager as Lizard to get out of
into the sunshine.

She wondered what a Brenner family outing like: husband, wife and
child, picnicking in the shade a palm tree, digging in the sand,
romping in the surf.  Briny breezes, laughter, the crash and fizz of
the waves striking the shore.  The fragrances of salt and seaweed,
coconut oil and aloe from the sunscreen lotions of beachcombers around
them.  Buckets and shovels, sand castles with elaborate turrets and
moats, Joe in a swimsuit.  Joe's bare chest.  His broad shoulders.  His
strong, sleek back His muscular thighs and calves.  His lean abdomen.
His windswept, sun-streaked hair.  His eyes as blue as the sky.

"Pain will have to take you; toots."  Joe addressed Li.  and directly,
not sparing Pamela a glance.  "My distributor's coming to the Shipwreck
this morning.  I've got to be there to go over my orders with him."

"Of course I'll take you" Pamela said, clearing the unexpected hoarse
heSS from her throat.  She didn't want to picture Joe undressed. Surely
it was just as well that he couldn't come with them.  If she saw him in
a swimsuit, she would probably wind up hating him for having a
magnificent body--whereas, if he saw her in a swimsuit, all pale and
skinny and gawky, he would probably be cured of any wayward inly rest
in her.

The hell with him.  She and Lizard were going to have a grand time at
the beach, just the two of them, no guys allowed.  Jonas Brenner could
spend the rest of life holed up at the Shipwreck with his distributor,
for all Pamela cared.

Once Lizard was done playing with her Cocoa Puffs, Pamela began
organizing for their outing.  She packed sandwiches, carrot sticks and
boxes of apple-cranberry juice, which Lizard conceded was pink enough
to be worthwhile.  She located two huge beach towels in the upstairs
linen closet and stuffed them into a canvas tote, along with an old
blanket, a paperback novel from the

den and the lunch she'd prepared.  She slathered Lizard with a thick
layer of sunscreen, even though Lizard swore she didn't need it.  "I'm
already tanned," she complained.

"That's not a tan.  That's dirt," Pamela argued, bing the lotion into
the squirming girl's arms and legs.  "Where I come from, you never go
to the beach unless you're wearing sun block."  Where she came from, it
rained ninety-eight percent of the time, but Lizard didn't: have to
know that.

"It smells yucky," Lizard declared.  "Lllm macaroons.  Birdie once gave
me macaroons and I over the place."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"  Pamela muttered, wiping her greasy
palms on a paper towel.  "I want you to wear a sun hat, too.  And no
feathers."

"I always wear feathers at the beach."

"Do you want to go to the beach or do you want give me a hard time?"

Lizard weighed her choices and backed no feathers.  But ff I find
feathers there, I'm gonna them.  "

"As long as they aren't attached to any live animals, Pamela said
before stepping into her bedroom anding the door.

She'd brought one swimsuit with her from

When Kitty had taken her shopping for her seau," Pamela had considered
buying But beachwear in Key West, like nearly the island, breached the
boundaries of good taste.  mela wasn't a prude; she could handle a
bikini, though she believed no woman over five ought to wear one in
public.  But the bikinis for at the boutiques Kitty had taken her to
made O-strin and pasties look puritanical in comparison.  " That's
called a thong," Kitty had told her when she gaped at one swimsuit
bottom, unable to tell the front from the back.

"What it's called is repugnant," Pamela had argued, wrinkling her nose
and hanging the garment back on the rack.

So there she was, a married woman in a modest mail-lot that was faded
from wear and swimming laps in the heavily chlorinated pool at the
health club she belonged to in Seattle.  She would no doubt be the
dowdiest woman on the beach.  Lizard would probably announce, at the
top of her lungs, that Pamela was ugly.

So be it, she thought wryly, slipping a baggy T-shirt on over her suit
and settling a broad-brimmed straw hat onto her head.  If Mona Whitley
had any spies at the beach, they would see Pamela and report that she
was the most demure, primly attired woman there.

Lizard was waiting impatiently on the porch, clutching a bag of plastic
beach toys, when Pamela came downstairs.  She detoured to the kitchen
to got the tote.  Joe was gone.

She suffered a pang of irritation at his having left without saying
goodbye to her.  She wanted to be the one to leave without saying
goodbye to h/re.

Something was bugging him, something more than unfulfilled lust.  She
tried to recall when Joe had transformed from being merely conflicted
to outright icy.  Sure, they'd kissed a few times, and they'd both
responded more passionately to those kisses than was wise, but so what?
They were adults; they could deal with their shared discomfort.  But
Joe had gone from treating Pamela as if she had leprosy to treating her
as if she were irrelevant.

And she couldn't begin to guess why.

"Are you comin' or what?"  Lizard hollered through the screen door.

Sighing, Pamela hoisted the tote off the counter carried it out to the
porch.  She locked up, took Lizard's hand and stepped down off the
porch with her.  "Isn't this sunshine lovelyT' she remarked, savoring
not just the clear sky but the absence of the thick humidity that had
clung to the earth for so many sodden days.

"You know how to get to the beach?"

"I'm not sure.  It's a few blocks from here, right?"

"Yeah.  We can walk if you want."  "I'd love to walk."

Pamela and Lizard strolled side by side down driveway to the street.
Lizard thought for a minute, turned left.  That seemed correct to
Pamela, driven past the municipal beach a couple of times.

"I'm gonna build the greatest sand castle entire universe," !  Jward
boasted.  "Birdie told me this place, it's called Versatile or
something?"  "Versatile?"  Pamela repeatecL "It's this big palace in
France."  "Versailles," Pamela corrected her.  "Yeah, that's it.
Anyway,that's what I'm in the sand.  And I'm gonna decorate it with
seashel dead kelp."

"Just like the original VersailleS," Pamela noted though she knew
Lizard wouldn't get the joke.

The further they journeyed from the house, Pamela's spirits lifted.
Partly it was the weather, pleasant shock of w!  king from sunlight to
shade light again.  For so long the sky had been too dark for i trees
lining the street to cast shadows.  Today, many days of rain, the flora
smelled fresh and green alive.  Cars cruised past with their
convertible tops and their radios blasting.  People coasted by on
bicycles.  The world was drying out and coming back to life.

But part of Pamela's cheerfulness might also have been a result of
getting away from Joe, from the strain of living in his house yet be'
rag totally shut out by him.  "Can I ask you a question, Lizard?"

"You can ask me anything," Lizard assured her.  "I'm very smart."

Pamela mulled over whether she ought to drag Lizard into her problems
with Joe.  But she wasn't expecting Lizard to solve those problems, or
to take sides.  All Pamela wanted was to figure out what the problems
were.  "Is something bothering your uncle?"  she asked,

Lizard nodded somberly, her round little face taking on a mature cast.
"Yup."

"Do you have any idea what it could be?"  "Joyce and Lawton."  "Who?"

"Joyce and Lawton.  They're this other aunt and uncle of mine."

"Ah."  It hadn't occurred to Pamela that Joe's withdrawal might simply
be a result of his stress over the looming custody battle.

"They're these people, they were related to my daddy."  Pamela nodded.
"Jonas has mentioned them to me."

"They're supposed to come and visit me soon.  I don't think Uncle Joe
wants them to come."

"You may be right, L'mard.  I think that's part of what's bothering
him."

"It's up to us to keep him happy.  I figure I'll bring him some gull
feathers from the beach.  There's always tons of gull feathers lying
around.  That might make him happy.  And maybe we could make some more
brown " Your Uncle Joe didn't get to eat too many batch," Pamela
reminded her.  " You gobbled up most of

"And they weren't even pink.  I bet if we made pink brownies... Hey! We
could call them p'mkies!"  wiggled her pinkies in the air and chanted
in a singsong, "Let's bake pinkies!"

Pamela rode out Lizard's s'filincss with a tolerant After a while the
child wound down, and Pamela once again pursued the subject of Joe's
state of mind.  thing else you think might be bothering your uncle? 
"

Lizard meditated for a few minutes.

He doesn't get to do anything fun.  He has to hang with his
d2sliberator instead of coming to us.  I think he needs more fun in his
life.  "

"I agree."  Not that Pamela was volunteering to source of his fun.  But
there were other kinds that.  Family togetherness, for instance.  Trips
to beach.  Lizard was right: Joe ought to spend less time ting in
meetings with his distributor.

"You know what?"  Lizard continued.  "We let him help us with Birdie's
house.  He's always stuff over there.  She had this leaky ceding once,
and fixed it.  And her tot let backed up one time, it was gross.  It
flooded all over tho 1 thing!  You shoulda seen it.  There was soggy
to'fiet gushing out of the toilet, and poop, and"

"Spare me the cletailg."

"Yeah, well, it was really gross."  Lizard let out a lighted laugh.
"Anyway, Uncle Joe fixed it.  to help us fix her kitchen."

"Do you think so?  Do you the new wall with us?"

"Yeah.  He likes getting messy.  He has to.  He's my uncle."

Pamela smiled.  Apparently Lizard didn't know what was wrong between
Joe and Pamela--or even that anything was wrong at all.  But her
suggtion made a certain sense.  Joe had declined their invitation to go
to the beach today, but if they lpt asking, kept trying to in-elude him
in their activities, perhaps in time they could break down the bart
leto he'd erected between him.  qelf and Pamela.  She renembered the
way he'd been at their wedding, .  qmfiing and lxler, dancing with her
again and again as Ben E. King crooned from the jukebox.  Stand by ? 
"// .

If she was going to be married, that was the man she wanted to be
married to.  The dimpled, grinning man, the man who would stand by her.
Maybe, if she and Lizard could somehow entice him to roll tip his
sleeves and join them in their daily mess-making, Pamela and Lizard
could make him happy.

T}m B. ACat WASrT tOO crowded, although Pamela suspected that by
afternoon it would be paelaxl.  She staked out an area in the shade of
a palm tree, spreading the blanket and using her sandals, the towels
and the tote to hold the comers down.  Lizard grabbed her buclt and
shovel and raced down to the waler's edge, eager to build her replica
of the "Versatile Palace."

Pamela arranged herself comfortably on the blanket and sighed
contentedly.  The air was laced with the scent of salt and the gleefid
squeah of children splashing at the water's edge.  The sun glazed the
sand, imbuing it with a gentle shimmer.

Lying in the shelter of the palm tree, absorbing the therapeutic warmth
and the soothing sounds of youthful laughter and the surf, Pamela
could almost forget that anything was amiss in her life.  An
uncommunicative husband?  A murder trial?  A temporarily sidetracked
career?  Who cared?  She had the beach, the sea, a good novel and the
company of a little girl who could obviously entertain herself without
constant adult supervision.  On a morning like this, it was possible to
believe everything was going to work out okay.

The heat tranquili?  ed Pamela.  Above her, the caws and mews of the
sea gulls sounded like a lullaby.  The words of her book blurred; she
closed her eyes and felt the sion drain out of her.  Giddy shrieks amid
the surf nibbled at the frayed edges of her consciousness.

A long moment passed, and she opened her searched the shoreline.  A
shot of pink sprang from foaming waves, then vanished, then sprang up
arms wheeling, hair dripping.

Pamela frowned.  Hadn't Lizard been wearing a green swim snit

There it was, lying on the sand.  The pink bounded out of the waves,
darted along the water's and plunged in with another cheerful shout.

Pamela sprang to her feet and sprinted to the edge in time to see
Lizard soar out of the water stark naked.

She snatched the swimsuit off the sand and into the water, ignoring the
shock of its coldness.  and!  Elizabeth!  Get over here now!  " she
roared fury battling inside her.  The chilly water lapped at knees as
she forged deeper and grabbed hold slippery arm.  " Put this on!  " she
then a quick look around to see how many people seen the nude little
girl.

LiZard stared up at Pamela and blinked with phony innocence.  "How
come?"

"Because I said so!"  Pamela retorted.

"So what?  Birdie says"

"I don't care what Birdie says!"  Pamela reached down and grabbed
lJzard's foot, determined to shove it through the leg hole in her
swimsuit.  Lizard tumbled backward with a shivery splash that sprayed
water all over Pamela.

Lizard obviously found Pamela's outraged sputtering hilarious.  She
leapt backup, giggling and dancing out of Pamela's reach.

"Get over here!"  Pamela chased her through the water and out onto the
beach, scrambling across the sand after the naked child, who continued
to flap her arms and shriek with laughter.  If onlookers hadn't noticed
Lizard before, they certainly noticed her now.

Pamela's long legs compensated for her lack of speed.  After a minute
she caught up to Lizard, snagged her around her wet belly, hauled her
off the sand and lugged her back to the blanket, where she wrapped her
in a towel.  "Don't you ever, ever do that again!"  she chided.  "How
come?"

"Because."  Pamela dried her in brisk, frantic strokes, then yanked the
swimsuit onto her.  Because I said so wasn't going to work a second
time, "Because-you're not supposed to be undressed in public," she
explained.  "Birds don't wear clothes," Lizard pointed out.  "Birds
wear feathers."  Anticipating Lizard,s argument, she continued, "And
no, you can't wear feathers.  Birds are different from people."

"But Birdie said if you strip to your essence you can be as free as the
birds.  You can fly in your spirit... or something like that."

Scowling, Pamela smoothed the straps across Lizard's shoulders.  "Do
you know what essence means?"

Lizard shrugged, the motion jarring one of the straps out of place.
Pamela nudged it back.  "I think it means kinda like your skin or
something."

"Listen to me."  Pamela kept her hands on Lizard's shoulders, holding
the girl in place.  "It's a sad fact of life, Li?and, but you can't go
running around naked in public.  Them are a lot of sick people in this
world."

"What do you mean, sick?  Like, they have chicken pOX?"

"No.  It's more like they're sick in the head."  Pamela took a slow
breath and sorted her thoughts.  In her wildest dreams, she would never
have imagined she would have to have this discussion with a little
girl--someone else's lit He girl, at that.  Itwas the sort of task a
childless professional woman shouldn't have to face.  Pamela had never
studied the subject; she hadn't read instructional articles or
pamphlets on it.

Someone else should have told Lizard these Birdie, or Joe, or Joe's
mother, or someone.  No should reach the age of five without knowing
about perverts.  Nevertheless, it seemed as if the other adults
Lizard's life had failed to warn her.  Pamela was' ing to have to
muddle through on her own.  in-the-head people might want to touch your
parts," she said carefully.  " You know what your parts are, don't you?
 "

"What I keep under my bed?"

"No.  The private parts of your body.  The1

supposed to be covered by your bathing suit.  "

"You mean, like my butt?"

Pamela sighed.  Why bother with discretion?  Lizard.  Like your butt.
"

"why would anyone want to touch my butt?"  "Because they're sick."

"Do they think touching my butt'll make them het-ter?"

Pamela sighed again.  "It doesn't really mat let what they think,
because they're sick in the head.  In any case, Lizard, I want you to
promise me you won't go running around nude anymore."

"Even in the bath?"

"In public, Lizard.  That's what we're talking about.  No nudity in
public."

Lizard looked peered.  Her eyes narrowed and frown lines pleated her
brow.  "What if Uncle Joe says I can?"  she tested.

"If he says you can..."  I'//kill him, Pamela con eluded silently.  He
didn't have the right to say anything on this subject.  He'd
relinquished his rights When he'd decided to meet with his dismbutor at
the Shipwreck instead of coming to the beach with his family.  "If he
says you can, you can," she said.  "But I'm sure he'll say you

Can't.  "

Lizard stuck out her lower lip in a plump little pout.  "I bet he says
I can.  I'm gonna go build a castle.  And you can't help."  She stomped
off in amir

Pamela permitted herself one final sigh that ended in a shudder.  She
would rather have Lizard angry at her than running around in her
birthday suit.  Her gaze glued to Lizard, she felt some of her tension
fade, but not all.  One part of her remained tight with rage--rage that
Joe hadn't taught Lizard how to protect herself.

Damn it.  This had nothing to do with Mona Whitley and the courts.  It
had nothin to do with persuading the authorities that Lizard belonged
in Key West.  This wasn't a game, a staged performance.  This was real
life.  when

Pamela thought about all the weirdos in the world, and all the
terrible things that could have happened to Lizard, she wanted to
weep.

She wasn't going to weep; What she was going to do was give that
husband of hers a piece of her mind about his responsilities as a
family man.

IT HAr AU.  SinIMam SO simple when Mary DiNardi first raised the idea.
You get married, you make a pretty family picture for the judge, you
keep Lizard.  No emotions, no involvement, just a straightforward deal,
as neat and fair as the contracts he drew up with his distributor.

He'd even picked a woman who didn't turn him except that she did.  He'd
picked a woman who had good a reason to stick with him as he had to
her--unless she was simply a crazy lady.  Was it wonder that he wanted
to keep as far from her as ble?

"Go home," Kitty scolded him.  "You look How she could see what he
looked Like in light of the bar was beyond him.  " You used to think
was cute," he shot back.

"You used to look Like you got a few hours every night.  (3o home"

He glanced toward the siring-wh clock on wall.  Nearly midnight--the
busiest time at the wreck.  "The bar's too crowded."

"Nothing the rest of us can't handle.  Go home,

and do us all a favor this time: don't stay up all making whoopee with
Pamela.  Cet some sleep.  "

Making whoopee.  Real fnnny.  "I'li leave in all

"You'll leave right now or Brick'll escort you Right, Brick?"

Brick grunted.  Joe eyed his fellow bartender with re ignafion. Besides
mldng the best tequila sunrises on the island, Brick was built like a
linebacker on the Dolphins, which enabled him to double as a bouncer
when things got too rowdy.  Joe didn't doubt that Brick could "escort"
him from the premises--either by tossing him over one brawny shoulder
or by dragging him out by his feet.

"All right," he relented.  "I'm outta here."

Driving home, he admitaxl to himself that he really was exhausted.  His
fatigue wasn't just a result of the nocturnal restlessness caused by
knowing a woman--an available woman with snow-blond hair and the
sexiest shoulders this side of the Continental Divide--was lying alone
in a bed at the opposite end of the hall from him It was also an
outgrowth of living with doubt.

He'd trusted Pamela once.  He wan ii to trust her again.  But he wasn't
sure how, short of investigating her mental health records.  And what
would he do if he found out she was really messed up?  If he gave her
the boot after less than a month of marriage, the courts sure wouldn't
consider Lizard's home life stable.

He'd gotten himself into jams before.  Jams with women, on occasion.
Given all the women he knew, he'd have had to be God himself not to
have roes.  red up at least a few times.  But he'd never gota mixed up
with mar-riag.  And he'd never had so much at stake.

A light was glowing in the living room window when way Iht on for him,
as well as the light above the front door.  It wasn't Like her to
forget to turn off the other

Fatigue weighed him down as he climbed out of his car, trudged up the
front walk and let himself into the house,

His neck was stiff, his back aching.  Tonight he was going to put his
distrust and desire on hold and get some serious, uninterrupted
shut-eye.  Whatever lay ahead, ho needed his strength to confront it.

What lay ahead, it turned out, was Pamela.  Ht barely closed the door
behind him.  serf when she charged at him from the living room.  She
was wide-awake, so full of energy he recoiled a step as she advanced
toward him, "We've got to talk, Jonas.  This is really important.  so
help me, if you try to avoid me"

"Hey, hey."  He held up his hands to stop her.  He'd just come home. He
wasn't expecting to see her; he wasn't used to seeing her.  He was
tired, he was sore .  and she was a vision of beauty.

She must have been out in the sun all day.  Her cheeks and the tip of
her nose were pink, her arms and legs--exposed by her shorts and a tank
top--more of a golden hue.  Her hair seemed a few shades lighter than
it had been that morning, her lashes and eyebrows bleached to platinum
above her silver-bright eyes.

"This is important, Jonas," she said.

"Fine.  It's important."  He sidled past her, heading for the kitchen.
If it was all that important,

beer to get' him through it.

"It's about Lizard."

Thank God it wasn't about him and Pamela.

paused and turned.  "What about her?"  / "Did you know she likes to run
naked on the beach?"

Actually, he hadn't known that.  But what the hell?  :

was a kid.  A remarkably uninhibited one.  "Naked, " From her head to
her toes.  "

"Well."  He continued down the hall to the

Pamela hot on his trail.  Without mrn/ng, he couple of beers from the
fridge, extended one to her;

then set it on the table when she didn't take it.  He twisted the cap
off the other bottle and took a swig.

She crowded him against the counter, her hands fisted and her eyes
ablaze.  "Damn it, Joe!  Don't you realize what a terrible thing this
is?"

"Terrible thing?"  He'd suspected Pamela of having a prudish
streak--after all, she'd passed up the opportunity to make love with
him.  But jeez, a little kid running around bare-ass on the beach was
no big deal.  "Come on, Pam.  She's five years old."

"Old enough to keep her body covered."

"For God's sake.  So she ran around naked.  It's no big deal.  You know
how kids are."

"I know how adults are."

He knew some of them were prigs.  Pamela, for instance.  "What
happened?  Did some bluenose come over and tell you to cover her up?"

"Bluenose?  Do you think I'm talking about morality?  You think that's
what this is about?"  Pamela's knuckles turned a bloodless white.  The
tendons in her neck stood out.  Slowly it dawned on him that she was
ally in a state about this.

He lowered his bottle and regarded her cautiously.  "I'll admit Lizard
can be wild, but come on.  She isn't even in school yet.  Kids are
always losing their bathing suits at the beach.  They love
skinny-dipping."

"This isn't about Lizard's wildness, or skinny-dipping, or losing her
bathin suit.  This is about the real world, Joe.  It's about creeps who
get their jollies with little girls."

"Oh, God."  His heart lurched in his chest.  Had some creep touched
Lizard?  Had someone approached her?  He'd strangle the guy with his
bare hands, so help him.

He'd tear off his head--and other parts of his body, too.  He'd'Maybe
you don't see the danger.  Maybe you think I'm be' rag hysterical"

"Who touched her?"  His voice emerged low, raw, the rage barely
suppressed.  "Did someone touch her?"

"No.  But you let her run around naked, and you're asking for trouble."
Pamela began to pace the kitchen, not so much burning off steam as
charging herself up.  "I'm not t!king about fun and games, Joe.  I'm
not talking about skinny-dipping.  We were on a public beach, and
Lizard removed her bathing suit because Birdie told her it would free
her essence.  Well, let me ell you something, Joe--I'm 'not going to
let that precious little girl free her essence on a public beach.  The
world is full of creeps.  And Lizard think.  she perfectly safe
exposing herself when who the hell knows what kind of'

beast might be on that beach with her, watching her and getting ideas.
I don't know what you allow, what you think is just children being
children, what you consider acceptable Key West behavior.  And frankly,
I don't give a damn what you allow and what you consider acceptable. As
long as I'm here, as long as I'm Lizard's aunt by marriage, that child
is not going to go naked on the beach.  I absolutely refuse to let her
expose herself to that kind of danger--and ff you disagree with me,
well, tough luck, buster.  "

Her eyes flashed at him, shiny with tears.  Joe realized that this
wasn't about Lizard's lack of decorum, or the hang-loose atmosphere of
the island, or Pamela's arguable paranoia.  She cared about Lizard,
cared about his niece so much she was willing to wait up for Joe, to
rant and rave and wave her fists in the air.  For l. i. and's sal

He still wasn't sure he believed she was in any danger.  But for the
moment, it didn't matter.  All that mattered was that Pamela loved his
niece as much as he did, loved her enough to go to the mat with him
about her, fight for her, worry about her.

How could he not believe in a woman who cared so much about Lizard? How
could he not want her?

One long stride carried him across the room to her.  He snagged her in
mid circuit around the room, wrapped his arms around her and pressed
his lips to hers in a hard, fierce, angry, loving kiss.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kr Wrsr.  Mick supposed it made sense that she would get herself as far
from Seatfie as her car would carry her.  Although she could have
crossed the border into Canada.  More's the pity she hadn't.  If she
had, it would have been a hell of a lot easier for Tony to track her
down, what with certain acquaintances of his who happened to be
affiliated with the border patrol.

Okay, so whatever.  Key West might wasn't inaccessible.  All Mick had
to do was fly to ami, rent a car, scoot down Route I on connected all
those ten fly going under the name of Pamela Brenner and' her.  Easy as
pie.

Mick inventor led the contents of his suitcase one time.  Underwear, to
Retries fake mustache, baseball cap.  Traveler's checks.  Auto club
directory of lodgings in Southern Florida.  Unassembled plastic gun,
the pieces neatly stashed inside the suitcase lining.

He would buy the bullets once he got to Florida.

He couldn't believe how simple it had been, once some homicide
detective had mentioned in passing to Tony that he'd heard from a
friend of Pamela's.  "She's still running scared, according to her
friend," the detective had told Tony, all innocence, all goo-goo
helpfulness.

Tony, bless his little heart, hadn't given anything away.  "A friend of
hers, huh?  Did you happen to catch her name?"

"It was a he.  Let's see, we got it on the tape Joe Brenner."

Bull's-eye.  Pamela Hayes had changed her name to Brenner, hadn't she?
It was easy enough for Tony to trace Joe Brenner's phone number to a
bar on Key West.  From there, a quick flip through the phone directory
had produced Joe Brenner's home address: Leon Street, same address that
appeared on Pamela Hayes Brenner's new Florida license.

Thank you, God.

Mick had considered contacting someone on the East Coast to do the
dirty deed for him.  Technically, he wasn't allowed to leave the state
while he was free on bad.  But technicalities could be smoothed over
with a little cash, and Mick wanted the Hayes woman for himself.  No
one had ever had the guts to stand up to him before.  She was a prize,
and he wanted her scalp on his belt.

He zipped his bag shut, grabbed his car keys and left the apartment.  A
cool drizzle bathed the road and created halos around the streetlights.
A sign, he thought, smiling to himself.  A sign that the angels were
with him on this mission.

Oh, he was going to get her, all right.  He was going to plug her with
so many holes she could do service as a colander.  And he was going to
enjoy it.  Nobody testified against him in court and walked away.

The clock on his dashboard read eight o'clock.  He'd arranged to have a
ticket waiting for him at the airport.  The red-eye's departure time
was nine-fifty.  When he woke up tomorrow, he'd be in the Sunshine
State.

He hummed a tune in time to the clicking of his windshield wipers.
This was going to feel good, he thought.  Pamela Hayes deserved to die,
and not just because she'd fingered him.  Women didn't belong on
construction sites.  It was a man's business: designing, building,
raising capital and keeping the union in line.  What the hell had they
brought in a female architect for?  Female architects ought to be
designing doll houses

Yeah, she deserved to die.  The world would be a better place minus one
uppity professional woman.

He drove onto the highway, southbound.  The asphalt.  was slick with
rain, forcing him to slow down.  He batted down his rising frustration.
So what if he got to the airport five minutes later?  The less time he
hung around the terminal, the less chance some security bozo might spot
him and do a thorough check on his background--or his suitcase.

Up ahead he saw a swarm of red lights.  Brake lights.  Traffic j am.

"Damn!"  He banged his fist against the steering wheel, then struggled
to rain in his t,mper.  Traffic happened.  He was just going to have to
be patient.

This wasn't merely traffic, he realiTed after his caught up to the mass
of motionless vehicles clogging the highway.  No one was moving,
period.  A few driveo' eli robed out of their vehicles to see what was
going on.  i: Mick eli robed out, too.

Around a bend in the road he saw a jacldmifed teen-wheeler, the trailer
of which had skidded to block all three southbound lanes.  Somewhere
behlnd:i him, Mick heard the approaching wail of a siren.

He spat out a few foul words.  It could take hours for: the track to be
removed from the highway.  have hours.

He yanked open his car door, slumped onto the seat and slammed the door
shut.  In his rearview mirror be saw two state troopers cruising along
the shoulder, their blue lights flashing.  Behind them was another
vehicle, with a flashing yellow light.  A tow truck.

Oh, right.  One little tow truck was going to clean up this mess.

Drumming his fingers again.  qt the dashboard, he watched the troopers
and the wrecker cruise past.  He counted to five, then eased his car
onto the shoulder.  Shifting into reverse, he backed up to the exit
ramp, all the while praying that no more cops would be comin along for
a few minutes.

A couple of cars honked at him as he coasted backward past them.  A van
pulled onto the shoulder, following his example.  Oood thing, Mick
thought.  He would b less conspicuous ff he wasn't the only driver
breaking the law to escape the gridlock up ahead.

Slowly, cautiously, he made his way down the ramp to the street.  At
the bottom, he navigated a three-point turn and headed west, leaving
the traffic-snarled highway behind.  "Yes!"  he hissed triumphantly.

Okay.  One disaster averted.  Now he had to find an alternate route to
the airport--and he had to make tracks.  That danm eighteen-wheeler had
cost him twenty pro-cious minutes.

He veered around the block, meandering through damp, dark streets,
weaving his way toward Route 99.  He tried not to look at the dashboard
clock, but its digits glared at him, taunting him.

Damn it.  If he didn't catch thin flight, he'd have to wait a
day--assuming he could even get a seat on the next flight.  The longer
he wailxt, the greater the chance that Pamela Hayes would move on,
change her name again,

do something to screw him up the way she'd up in court.  He just
wanted to take care of her so he get on with his life.

He pressed harder on the gas pedal.  He was a driver than that idiot
trucker.  He wasn't going to Seattle residents knew how to drive in wet
weather; it the only kind of weather they had.

The light ahead turned from green to yellow.  didn't have time for red
lights.  He floored the pedal zoomed through the inrsection.  And heard
a siren as traffic cop turned the corner, switched on his lights chased
him down.

"JONAS?"  Im VOC emerged as a whisper, Just a minute ago she'd been
steaming with rage.  actually wanted to punch him, shake him, force
acknowledge her.

She hadn't been prepared for him to acknowledge like this, though. Even
worse, she hadn't expected spend to his kiss, to feel the steaming rage
ier desire as he twined his fingers through her slid his lips from her
mouth to the bridge of her nose her forehead.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

For what?  Making light of Lizard's nudist proclivities?  Treating
Pamela so cavalierly?  Or kissing her?  :

She hated him for his abfiity to arouse her with his touch, with the
lean grace of his body as he dosed in on her.  She struggled valiantly
to resist her treacherous m-action to him.  "What's going on, Jonas?"
she asked.  "Why are you doing this?"

"You're my wife."  He said it as if it were news to him, a profound
revelation.

"You could have fooled me."

He slid one hand from her hair to her shoulder and down her arm, to
capture her left hand in his.  With his thumb he traced the thick gold
band that marked her as his wife.  "Why did you marry me, Pamela?"  he
asked.

She frowned, momentarily bewildered by both his question and her own
uncertainty as to her answer.  For a strange, unnerving moment she
believed she'd married Jonas Brenner because his eyes were so blue,
Because his smile was so deliciously wicked.  Because deep in some
hitherto unknown part of her soul she'd been longing for a bum in torn
jeans and an earring to become a part of her life.

"I told you," she said, lowing her gaze so she wouldn't have to see his
handsome face, his inteuse stare.

"There's a hit man after me."

"Tell me about him."

Her frown intensified.  She took a step back and found herself pressed
against the counter.  She'd thought--maybe even hoped, in that same
hitherto nnknown part of her soul--that Joe was going to seduce her.
Obviously he was more in the mood for a chat.  But if th were going to
talk instead of make love, they ought to be talking about Lizard, not
Mick Morrow.

"Tell me about this hit man who's after you."  Joe remained close to
her, his thumb gliding across her knuckles.  His chest remained an inch
from hers; his feet remained parted, framing hers.

She didn't want to talk about the murder she'd witness eel Whenever she
talked about it--whenever she even thought about it--dread welled up
inside her, making her feel weak and wretched.

"Pain."  He released her hand and let out a long breath.  "No one is
stalking you," he said, sounding oddly disappointed.

"Someone most certainly is," she retorted.

is Mick Morrow, and he's a cold-blooded killer.  "

"Mick Morrow."  Joe scratched

His fingernails made a rasping sound agoist stubble of beard.  "It
doesn't sound like a hit name."

"What name would you prefer?  Black Jack Homicide Morrow?  AK-47
Morrow?"

"He uses an AK-47?"  This took Joe aback.  automatic?  "

"No.  He uses an ugly lit He pistol.  At least,

what he used to kill Larry Ebersole.  "

Joe regarded her with what appeared to be patience.  "Who's Larry
Ebersole?"

Pamela sighed.  It was going to be a long night.

ing past Joe, she reached for the unopened and gave the cap a sharp
twist.  "If you really want into all this, let's sit down."

Joe nodded, but instead of pulling out a chair at kitchen table, he
took Pamela's hand and his beer and her to the old sofa along the back
wall of the porch.  Light from the kitchen spilled through and the air
was stirred by the songs of the ets, bullfrogs and the whisper of the
wind as it through the fronds of the royal palms house.

Pamela eyed the wrought-iron table on the other side of the porch.  She
remembered the luncheon Joe had hosted there to press his case for
marriage.  Lizard had called her ugly that afternoon, and Pamela had
felt emotionally battered and afraid

She no longer felt battered.  She probably should have felt afraid--the
word from Seattle was that Morrow !  still out on bail--but somehow,
being married to Joe given her courage.  If she could take on Lizard
and win, if she could endure this farcical marriage, if she could
survive the dense, muggy heat of Key West, then surely she could handle
Mick Morrow's be' rag at liberty in Seattle.

Joe sat a couple of feet away from her on the couch, angling his body
so he could view her.  The diffuse light from the kitchen transformed
his face into a study of amber-lighted planes and shadows.

Despite her reservations about him in the past, she knew he was a man
she could trust.  An honorable, caring man, and she owed him nothing
less than the truth.

"I was the architect on a project," she began, then took a sip of her
beer and turned to stare out at the dark backyard.  "A suburban
minimall.  Larry Ebersole was the contractor."

Joe nodded.

"Larry had low balled the project, snagged the contract, and found a
million ways to jack up the price once ground-breaking began.  That's
how contractors work--they write upas cheap an estimate as they dare,
and once the project is under way, they tell the owner, " Oh, you
wanted double-glazed windows?  The estimate was only for single-glazed.
Doubl-glazed is going to cost you more.  " Or, " You want French doors?
Read the small print.  The estimate stipulates sliders, not French
doors.  " And they inflate the price to cover all the specs they
pretend they didn't know about when they'd gone to contract."

"Pretty sleazy."

"That's the way they work.  Anyway, the owner of this project wasn't
having any of it.  He insisted he'd contracted for double-glazed
windows from the start, and if Larry Ebersole didn't bring the job in
at the agreed-upon

Larry was in a financial bind.  "

"What did you have to do with this?"

"Nothing--except that as the architect on the'

I would visit the site every now and then to see how were moving along.
A few times when I was there, I Larry tlking to this fellow, Mick
Morrow.  Larry told Morrow was a money man who could rtend him credit
he needed to get the job done on budget.  That new.  The nanc g of the
proj non of business.  My firm had gown is design fee directly the
owner.  " '

She drank some more beer and glanced at Joe,

derins how such details could possibly interest him.  appeared
fascinated, though, so she lowered her be ji and continued.

"One eveni,g, I was supposed to meet some friends the symphony.  I
decided to detour to the constructi site, just to see how things were
progressing, When I l preached the trailer I heard voices through the
win dO

was y li.  at make timely payments, or some such thing.  I have feeling
Morrow had bankrolled him for a lot more than ii just thi.  one
project.

"In any case, Larry bolted from the trailer, and row followed him.  He
kind of... tackled Larry."  Her voice trailed off, her hands grew
clammy in her hp and shivers traveled the length of her nervous sys'w.
a. scribing the scene forced her to relive it.  She could even feel the
cool evening ai rat the cons reunion site as she hid in the dank
shadows of the construction tractors.  "When Larry was on the ground,
Morrow pulled out this little gun and shot him in the back of the
head."  She had to force out the words.  Her throat was squeA shut,
choking her.

Joe slid along the sofa cushions until he could put his arm around her.
"Not a pretty picture," he said.

"No."  The single syllable slid out on a whimper.  joe ran his hand up
and down her arm, consoling her.

"I take it this thug didn't realize he had an audience."

She confirmed his guess with a shake of her head.  "I stayed in the
shadows.  I probably should have stepped forward, though.  Maybe Larry
would be alive today ff I had."

"Or maybe you ouldn't be alive today.  If the guy could kill one
person, he could kill two.  You think he's still trying to kill you
now.  I'm sure it would have been easier for him to off you then and
there."

She nodded, trying to shrug off the chills that continued to rack her.
Joe tightened his arm around her.  "I suppose I knew instinctively that
I ought to stay in the shadows.  I didn't move until Morrow had driven
away.  Then I went over to Larry.  He... he was..."

Joe spared her from having to say it.  "I get the idea."  His hand
continued to caress her, his palm warm and strong on her bare skin.  It
was the gesture of a friend, a husband.  "You didn't have to testify
against him, did you?"

"Of course I did.  Testifying against him was the proper thing to do.
The moral thing.  He was convicted of first-degree murder, thanks to my
tlmony."

"Which has endeared you to him forever."

"I wouldn't be in trouble today if the conviction hadn't been set
aside."  The chills lost their grip on her, thanks to the warmth of
oe's body.

"How did that happen?  What went wrong?"

"One of the jurors had gone to primary school Larry's widow.  Why that
fact didn't emerge during j selection is a mystery, but the judge had
to throw verdict and schedule a new trial.  And meanwhile, row somehow
got himself released on bail.  He's free roam the streets and hunt me
down."

"Do you have nightmares?"  he asked.

She shot him a surprised look.  Nobody--not even parents--had ever
thought to ask her that.  Yes, admitted.  "Sometimes.  I see Larry
Ebeole lying on t!

ground, with that little hole at the base of his skull.  wasn't much
blood.  It was just .  this hornle little h She closed her eyes, trying
to erase the image her head to rest

Joe eased her agnlnst him, guiding iil his shoulder.  "So ... once ty
put this ass back on you and to tify agnln him again?"

"I have to.  HI don't, he goes free."  b '"

believe th released him on aft.

"I thln he has frien in high places."

"How do you know he's su'll in Seattle?"

I call my attorney on a re!  r basis--and once phone bill comes, I'll
reimburse you for those calls when he asked, "Who keps your folks up

"The Ds office.  He's on my side, at least.  He curve of his arm,
soothed by the pa Urns his traced agsist the skin of her upper arm. She
hadn't felt said, then shook his head.  " Yeah, I do know.  I

he live you:'

She flinched.  Wriggling out of his arms, she twisted to confront him.
"What do you mean?"

"Pan."  Without her to hold, he didn't sem to know what to do with his
hands.  He folded them, then separated them and tapped his fingertips
against his knees.  "You showed up on the island one day, out of the
blue, and when Kitty told you I was looking for a wife, you actually
agreed to meet me.  Look at us, Pam--we'm a total mismatch, right?
You're a fancy-clancy architect and I'm a no-frills barkeep."  He
spread his hands palms up.  "We swapped stories, got hitched,
and--let's face it--you've had proof that my story is true.  Lizard
exists, the social worker's been here, you've talked to my lawyer.  You
know I was ting the truth about why I wanted to marry you.  You've seen
my evidence."

"And you haven't seen mine," she said quietly, her voice edged with
indignation.

"That's right.  I haven't."  All this time--had he thought she was
lying?  Misrepresenting herself?  Marrying him under false pretenses?
Trying to trick him for some reason?

Perhaps she didn't have the rht to esent him for not trusting her--but
for heaven's sahe, he trusl her with his niece.  He trusted her with
his home.  "Maybe ff you were around more ofn, you would have found
plenty of easous to believe me.  You would have seen me telephoning my
lawyer"

"Pamela."  He gathered her hands in his.  "I haven't been around very
much because I want you.  And I kept asking myself, " Who is this
woman?  " I had no auswe, Pare--and it sea me, because even though I
didn't know who the hell you we or what you were up to, I still wantl
you."

"Well."  She wished she could stay angry, but his candor wouldn't
allow it.  "Do you have answers now?"

"I guess I have enough."  His hands were so much larger than hers, his
fingers long and blunt, his palms thick and smooth.  "Tonight, when you
lit into me..."  He grinned and shook his head.  "It didn't matter more
what your story was or how much evidence seen.  All that mattered was
that you cared enough Lizard to fight for her.  You were ready to go
the distance for her, just because you cared.  And damn it, Pain, that
made me want you even more.  More than I thought I'd ever want a
woman."

He kissed her again, slowly this time, not to shut her up, but to open
her.  His lips caressed hers, brushed and brushed again, teasing,
enticing, melting the last vestiges of her resistance.  Joe didn't want
her was pretty.  He didn't want her because he was horny.  wanted her
because she'd cared enough about his niece,--and about what was
fight--to fight him.

And that, she realized, was exactly what she wanted him to want her
for.

He drew her onto his lap and circled her waist with his arms.  His
mouth opened against hers, and she wet-coined the sweet invasion of his
tongue.  He slid his hand across her back, exploring the ridge of her
spine, the width of her shoulders.  "Pain," he whispered, "Pain,."

She felt his tension in his legs, in the motion of his hips as he
shifted under her, in the swift beat of his heart as she smmed her
hands across his chest.  Through his T-shirt she discerned the smooth
lines of his torso, the sleek, firm muscles, the convulsive clenching
of his abdomen when she approached the waistband of his jeans.  And
then he shifted again, lifting and turning her until she was lying on
the cushions, under him.

His kisses grew hungrier, greedJer.  His body, stretched on top of
hers, grew harder.  He pulled her shirt free of her shorts and yanked
it up over her head; she shoved his shirt up until it was bunched
around his arms and then removed it.  This wasn't just about Joe
wanting her, she acknowledged.  This was about her wanting him, wanting
his trust, his friendship, his passion.

His chest was magnificent the muscles cleanly defined, en han by an
arrow of dark-blond hair aimed at his navel.  She ran her hands over
his skin, savoring its warmth, savoring even more the way his breath
caught and then emerged in a low moan when she rubbed her fingertips
across his nipples.  He propped himself up so he wouldn't crush her,
and she took advantage of the space between them to caress his
shoulders, the arch of his ribs, the indentations below his stomach.
When she once again reached the waist of his jeans, he nudged her hands
aside and tugged open the snap of his fly, and then the zipper.

She peered up at him.  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness,
and she could make out the silken tumble of his hair across his brow,
the profound yearning in his gaze--yearning, and desire, and.  trust.
She saw it, recognized it, and knew that even ff they were a total
mlsmatch, even ff this marriage was a sham, an understanding existed
between her and Jonas Brenner, an empathy as precious and binding as
love.

She skimmed her hands up his back and into his hair, and pulled him
down to her.  His lips crushed hers, placated hers, teased and coaxed
and then abandoned hers to trail down her chin to her throat, to the
satin shoulder strap of her bra.  He wedged his hands beneath her to
pluck open the clasp, then pulled the undergarment off and let it fall
to the floor with their shirts.  He continued

grazing downward, pausing to suckle one breast and the other.  She dug
her fingers deep into his hair, him to her, wanting his kisses never to
end.

He nestled one leg between hers, and she rose tively, undulating
against his thigh.  She heard him groa!  l heard herself sigh as
ripples of longing coursed down from her breasts to her hips.  He rose
to strip off her shorts and his jeans, and then settled back into her
brace, warm and naked and aroused.

Her hands roamed along his back,

contours.  Her fingers skimmed the firm curve of bottom, the lightly
haired skin of his thighs.  He sat 1 on his haunches, allowing her to
touch him, and she did, stroking the steel-hard length of him and
smiling as closed his eyes and gasped and surged against her' Control,
she thought, curling her fingers tighter.  loved being in control,
exciting him until he seemed ready to burst.

But she had little time to enjoy her mastery over him.  With a final
shudder, he pulled her hands from him pinned them to the cushions. Then
he kissed her again, traced a line with his tongue along her midriff,
across her belly and down to the points of her hipbones, to the tops of
her thighs, to the soft curls of hair between her legs. His breath
danced over her, his lips, his tongue, and her body lurched, hot,
desperate, melting for him, for Jonas, her husband, her lover.

He slid back up her body, pulling her legs around him, and planted a
fierce, fiery kiss on her lips as he plunged into her.  She returned
his kiss with the same ferocity, her hands tight around his shoulders,
her body moving in rhythm with his.  His thrusts urged her onward,
closer and closer to the edge.  She felt her control slipping, snap
ping, shattering.  With a soft cry, she let go.  " soaring, falling,
lost in the ecstasy Joe had given her.

After a long moment he sank onto her, spent and weary.  His breath was
harsh, his skin slick with sweat.  She closed her arms loosely around
him, savoring the pleasant heaviness of his body and her own
exhaustion.

Another long moment and he eased onto his side, wrapping her in his
arms and looping one leg around hers.  She hadn't realized how narrow
the sofa was, how much she needed him to keep her from tumbling onto
the floor.

Her head rested snugly against his shoulder; her lips were less than an
inch from his collarbone.  Her arms were folded between their bodies;
her hips stayed against his, even as he softened and slid from her.

Slowly, agonizingly, her consciousness returned.  She heard the screech
of the crickets, felt a humid, tropically scented bree wrap around her
body, remembered who she was, who Joe was and what they'd agreed to
when they'd gotten married a month ago.

This wasn't love, she told herself.  She didn't love him, she couldn't
love him.  It was a total mismatch.

His voice reached her from above, muffled by her hair: "Any chance
you'll consider moving down the hall to my bedroom?"

"No."  Her answer popped out before she could give much thought to his
request, and she decided to stick with it.  She needed to rely on her
serf-protective reflexes, and they were warning her that if she moved
into Joe's bedroom, into his bed, she would make love with him every
night, whenever she could.  No man had ever made her feel what he'd
made her feel just now--even if it was only physical, even if he wasn't
her type, even if she didn't like his earring, even if.  "You didn't
have to think long about it, did you?"  he muttered, although she
detected an undercurrent of wry musement in his tone.  she

She couldn't let herself think long about it.  If thought at all, she
would think about how good it felt to lie in Joe's enveloping arms, his
glorious body sheltering hers.  She would think about how she'd never
in her life been given to casual sex, and this sex certainly hadn't
been casual.  Its very seriousness made it dangerous to her.

She would think about how Joe's lovemaking had eradicated her
rationality, obliterated her composure" stampeded her se-control.  Good
God, she hadn't even stopped to ask him to use protection.  She'd been
too

It simply couldn't happen again.  Once his crisis and hers were
resnived she was going to be leaving him.  That was the deal they'd
agreed to.

"Joe."  She sighed, wishing it didn't feel so downright comfortable to
snuggle this way with him.  "You know W haven't got a real marriage."

"I recall signing a legal piece of paper.  Don't you?"  Again she
discerned the mixture of amusement and lemnity in his voice.  "But what
the hell.  I'm not talk inS about marriage.  I'm talking about sex."

And I can't talk about sex th out thinking about love, she almost
retorted.  She forced herself to wriggle out of his embrace.  Sitting
up, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air lemperature
and everything to do with not having Joe's arms around her anymore.

He rolled onto his back and gazed up at her.  His eyes were lucid,
cutting through the midnight gloom like twin blue lasers.  They seemed
to slice right through her, penetrating all her defensive layers and
burning into her soul.

"Jonas," she said sternly, trying but failing to disguise her
exasperation, "you can't just barge into my life after ignoring me and
Lizard for days and days and expect me to welcome you with open
arms."

"But you did welcome me with open arms," he po'mted out with
infuriating logic.  He undercut his words by gathering her hand in his
and touching his mouth to her palm in a tender kiss.  "Not that I'm
complaining.  This was great."

"It doesn,t matter how great it was," she argued, withdrawing her hand.
"And it doesn't matter that we signed a legal document.  We're
praodcally strangers."

He contemplated her charge and shrugged.  "That could change," he said
cry pricey

Only ff he changed it, she thought.  Only if he decided to participate
in Lizard and Pamela's world.  Only if he joined them on outings to the
beach and helped them with Birdie's house and talked to them instead of
hiding behind the newspaper at the breakfast table.

But if the change occurred, if he worked his way into their life, how
would Pamda keep herself from making love with him again?  How would
she keep him from eroding her control?  How would she keep herself from
falling in love with him?

A total mismatch, she reminded herself, swinging her legs off the sofa
and gathering up her clothes.  Maybe she and Joe were a total mi. match
but right now, the worst mismatch she could think of was her head and
her heart--her head warning her to keep her distance from Jonas Brenner
and her heart aching to love the man she'd married.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LONG AFTER SHE'D LEFT the porch he was still sprawled out on the couch,
enveloped in the wee-hours darkness.  His body was spent but his mind
was on red alert, trans-mirting all sorts of scrambled signals.
Fortunately, he was a night owl.  Decoding those signals might have
been impossible for most people at that time of night, but not for

The signals, once he translated them, were telling him how wrong Pamela
was for him.  From the instant he'd seen her, he'd understood that she
was too straitlaced, too prim and proper, too everything that had
always turned him off in a woman--which was what had made her a perfect
wife for his particular needs.  And yet.  in spite of it all, wrong
just didn't seem to be the operative term at the moment.

"Right" didn't fit the bill, either.  She was too skinny for his taste.
She had hardly any upholstery on her.  He'd been too conscious of the
angles of her knees, the sculpture of her shoulders, the delicate
protrusions of her ankle bones.  Her breasts had flattened into nearly
nothing when she'd been lying on her back, just two slight swells
peaked with round, red, alluring nipples that begged to

Start again, he admonished himself.

Too skinny and too pale, even after her day at the beach.  Her
compleion reminded him of milk.  Or maybe cream.  Then, too, her face
had flushed a delicate pink when she'd been aroused, and her lips had
turned crimson from his kisses.  Those gloriously enticing nipples of
hers had been the color of ripe berries and just as sweet, and her
skin--that pale, pale skin--had felt like silk agaimt his hands, and
she'd felt even more like silk, a hot, tight sheath of .  qilk, when
he'd plunged into her .  Damn.  He was hard again.  And she was
planning to spend the night in her own room, in her own bed.  Probably
with the door locked and a chair wedged under the knob, just in case.

Get back to right and wrong.

Okay.  She'd been absolutely right to decline his invitation to spend
the night with him.  The agreement they'd cobbled together didn't
include sex.  And even if it had, Joe didn't have any rights when it
came to making love with her, not after he'd treated her so coldly.  If
he'd wanted her to get friendly, he should have gone to the beach with
her and Lizard today, should have made more of an effort to overcome
his skepticism about her hit-man story, should have been :a number one,
first-class hubby to her.  : Signing that piece of paper hadn't given
him spo-dal privileges.  He'd signed it only because he had to have a
woman like Pamela in his home, the way you had to have a refrigerator
or dependable plumbing.

Requiring her services as if she were a household fixture guaranteed
him nothing in the way of bedroom activity What had happened on the
porch just minu/as ago had been a fluke.  It wouldn't happen again.

What a tragic prospect.  To hell with that stupid notion that Pameh
wasn't his type.  She'd definitely been his type when he'd kissed her,
and touched her, and taken her body with his.  Thinking about her now,
running up a list of all her shortcomings and finding himself getting
more and more aroused with each addition to the list in-dieated that
she was as much his type as any

You know we haven't got a real marriage,

A zeal marriage, he conceded as he pulled himself guorously off the
sofa and tugged on his jeans, would obligate him to make a commitment.
It would mean accepting as fact everything she'd told him about Mickey
Mouse, or whatever the hit man's name was, and including himself in her
life in all sorts of ways.  It would re, quire him to show up every
day, no ex ames

He could do it.  For another chance to experience the most incredible
sex he'd ever had, sure, thing into a real marriage--as long as Pamela
a chance.

And if the sex had been even half as good for her as it had beetl for
him, the odds were pretty decent that she would.

"I'M ooo TO IJ.P you at Birdie's today," he nounced over breakfast the
next morning.

"Oh?"  Pameh flicked a brief glance at him,

drank some coffee, hiding behind the.  mug.  For the time in the month
they'd been married, she olized the newspaper.  Joe had come downstairs
to her immersed in the paper, devouring news of insurrecfion and
international politics along of whole-wheat toast and an orange sliced
into

Lizard was on the screened porch,

version of the Taj Mahai out of modellnE ela} it was supposed to be a
hippopotamus.  Joe couldn't tell and he was too tactful to ask.  As it
was, he', didn't .  i/

want to acknowledge the fact that his niece was crea - i a clay sculptu
of any sort just a few feet from wh :1/

last night, he and Pamela had created the beast with two backs.

Nor did he want to think about the fact that one of the beast's heads
was right that minute facing him across the breakfast table--or would
he facing him/f she ever her nose out of the damned paper.

She seemed to be laboring hard to avoid eye contact with him.  Her
effort not to look at him allowed him an unabashed view of her.  He
could stare at her for as long as she refused to acknowledge his
staring.  As he sipped his coffee, he took in the straight white-blond
fringe of her hair, her elusive eyes, the tension in her pursed lips,
the taut line of her throat.

Had he actually considered her too skinny?  Too pale?  Not his type?

"The way I figure it," he continued, after her s'dence became
unendurable, "is that if you're really tearing down Birdie's walls, you
could probably use a little help."

"We're doing all right without you," Pamela said tersely.

"Since when is 'all right' good enough?"

She flashed a s'er-eyed look his way.  She seemed to be framing her
reply.  "Is that a rhetorical question, Joe,

or do you really want to help us?  "

"I really want to help you:'

He wished her gaze wasn't so guarded, so dubious.  Then again, who was
he to resent her for distrusting him?  Hadn't he been busy distrusting
her for the past few weeks?

She fingered the newspaper nervously.  The pages made a faint rustling
sound.  "It's messy work," she warned.

He chuckled, but the laughter carried an edge.  "Oh, well, in that
case, forget I offered.  A gentleman like me would never want to get
messy."

"Jonas..."  She sighed, and he saw a hot blush rise in her cheeks, as
it had last night when she'd come while he was deep inside her.
"Forgive me for being suspicious, but why, all of a sudden, do you want
to do this?"

"You know damned well why," he answered calmly, then took a healthy
swig of his coffee.  He was actually feeling far less confident than he
sounded.  Not that she could ban him from Birdie's house, but if she
decided to crank up the drawbridge at his first attempt to march 71
across the moat, getting her into his bed was going to be more
difficult than he'd imagined.

"All right," she relented, then frowned in deep concentration as she
perused an article about a crunch in the stat's welfare system.  Her
abrupt der, mixed with a tantalizing measure of evasiveness, appealed
to him as much as her pink cheeks and her shoulders and the small
swells of her breasts beneath fabric of her loose-fitting yellow
T-shirt.

He'd messed up last night with Pamela, and he had no regrets.  He
certainly wouldn't mind getting messy with her today.

Srm HAD TO AvMrr he was an enormous help.

They stood side by side in the erstwhile enclosed removing hue chunks
of the wall that had once rated it from the kitchen.  They had sent
and, along with most of Birdie's cats, across the street Joe's house to
occupy themselves with Lizard's garden.  The absence of Birdie and
Lizard had proved useful to Pamela as the presence of Joe.

dust.  hii)il

The air was warm and cloudy with plaster had supplied Pamela with an
old duck-billed cap of ad o" p,o d ban da n for them to tie around
their noses and mouths to keep from inhaling the dust.

Wearing the bandannas prevented all but the most necessary talk.  When
a slab of plasterboard came loose, Joe lugged it out to the backyard,
freeing Pamela for the more painstaking work of scraping excess plaster
from the counter and removing shreds of drywall from the vertical
studs.  Much as she hal to admit it, they made a good team.

Just like last night.

A treacherous thought.  She tried not to pay attention to Joe's
strength, his lithe movements, the powerful flexing of his back as he
hoisted the heavy debris and hauled it outside.  She tried not to
notice the beautiful blue of his eyes, visible in the space between his
improvised face mask and the visor of his cap.  She averted her eyes.

"Why did you sha-she-booty?"  he asked.

She lowered her chisel and scowled at him.  "Huh?"  He set down the
slab of drywall he'd been holding and enunciated more carefully through
his bandanna.  "Why did you decide to do thi's?"

She turned from him to stare at the tattered rein ins of the wall.  She
could have told him she'd done it to make Birdie's house more livable,
or because it was the dos est she could come to practicing her
profession while she was living in Key West.  She could have told him
she'd done it because she wanted to work hard, sweat hard, keep Lizard
busy and keep her mind off her own problems.  All of that would have
been true.

"It was something to do," she mumbled, then read his perplexed look and
repeated her answer, mouthing the syllables clearly through the soft
cotton fabric.

"I was thinking, maybe it was kind of--what's the word--sublimation?"

She was not going to discuss the matter with him.  "If

I had anything to sublimate, it Was fear.  "

"Are you afraid of me?"

She shot him a quick look.  He appeared to be inspecting a vertical
stud, but she wasn't fooled.  "I'm afraid of

Mick Morrow.  Or are you planning to kill me, too?  "

He laughed.  It didn't sound like laughter through the bandsnna, but
she could by the humor in his eyes and the motion of his shoulders that
he was enjoying a good chuckle.  "Hey, sweetheart, dead ladies don't do
a Osmned thing for me.  I want you very much alive."

She felt her cheeks grow hot beneath the broad tri an De of cloth.  A
laugh escaped her, patay from embarrassment and partly from iv.  he{ at
being able to .  ,t" to Joe again and relax in his company.  Even if he
wash t the man of her dems--although last nit he'd done an estimable
job of redefining those chums--she hadn't lil b6u out by h.

"What we're going to do," she explained, changing the subject, "is
break down the door frame and leave this open."  She paced to the end
of the counter and with her bands to indicate the opening.  "We'll put
a half wall behind the sink to hide the plumbing.  It's going look
wonderful."

"i think it win," he asud, scanning th gaze.  "You've got a knack for
this sort of thing,

you?  "

"It's what I do best."

"I'm not so sure of that," he teased, then grew

His eyebrows dipped in concentration.  "What's knocking?"

"What knocking?"

He touched his index finger to his bandanna to s'dence her.  She heard
it, then--a rhythmic rapping sound.  "One of the cats, maybe?"

"Whatever it is, it's at the front door," he said, tossing down the
hammer he'd been holding and heading down the crooked, narrow corridor
to the front of the house.

Pamela hurried afar him, ready for an excuse to take a break.  They'd
been working for more than an hour, and without air-conditioning,
Birdie's house was beginning to feel like a sauna.

By the time she caught up with Joe, he had the front door open.  Two
people stOod on the small porch.  The man had on an elegant,
unstructured suit of beige linen, the trousers pleated and the sleeves
of the jacket rolled up one cuff.  Despite the summer heat, his
charcoal-gray shirt was buttoned up to his Adam's apple, although he
wasn't wearing a He.  His dark ha/r was so impeccably groomed it might
have been clipped with manicure scissors, one strand at a time.

The woman beside him was equally impressive.  She wore a plain black
shit that was so simple in its lines, Pamela knew it had to have cost a
fortune.  Her hair was shorter than the man's, and it had been moussed
intO a profoundly chic arrangement around her face.  Both she and the
man wore horn-rimmed sunglasses with small, round lenses.  The woman
also wore bright red lipstick.

They looked to Pamela like refugees from some rri-bly precious
boutique.  Having spent the past month in Key West, she'd been lulled
into the prevalent belief that shorts and T-shirts were the ultimate in
fashion.  She hadn't seen anyone dressed with such slavish defemce to
haute couture since she'd left Seattle.

The stylish couple fell back a step at the sight of the two grungy,
dust-covered workers.  "Joyco, Lawton," Joe mumbled through his
bandanna, then tugged it off.  "So, you finally decided to roll into
town."  He doffed his cap and hurled it down the hall behind him.

"We arrived last night," the woman said.  Pamela wished she could see
the woman's eyes, but the lenses of her sunglasses were too dark.
"We're staying at tho Reach Resort.  We went to your house.  A very
peculiar old woman Was the."

"" She had peacock feat he fasmxl to her sleeves," said the man.

"There was a little girl with h. She had feathers brakkd into h hair.
Tl were stumping bafoot in a mud puddle at the back of your house,
bunches of dauddious and chanting strange things.  said we'd find you
h."  The wman regarcl Joe cfifily,

jeans and cmnc his right hand to the man, who shook it without much
enthus'msm.  "That little baoot girl is Lizard.  !  gus you didn't
her;'

The woman turned and glared at the man.  "I told you that was her."

"She didn't look anything like the photo we got last Christmas."  The
man glowed at Joe.  "Whose pill did you send us at Christmas?"

"That was Lizard, without the feathers."  'qiaheth," the woman him.

bana,nna down over her chi" then slid his arm around her waist.  " Pam,
these are the Prescotts, Lizard's aunt to meet my wife, Pain.  "

A long, stinned silence ensued.  "Your wife?"  the woman scoffed.

"Yeah.  My wife.  Lizard's aunt by marriage."

Joyce glared at Lawton again.  "Why weren't we informed of this?"

Lawton, in turn, glowered at Joe.  "Why weren't we informed of this?"

"I didn't know you cared.  Anyway, I figured ff I'd seat you an
invitation to the wedding, you might have felt you had to buy us a
gift.  I thought I'd do you a favor and spare you the expense."

Pamela caught the lint of amusement in his eyes.  He ought to have been
baring his teeth and growling; these were the people who wanted to take
Lizard away from him.

It was her job to see that they didn't.  In spil of the ghastly first
impression she must he making, she wasn't going to let the Preseotts
daunt her.  After all, she was a professional, an upwardly mobile woman
with two university degrees.  A supercRious couple costumed by Ar-mani
couldn't raze her.

"How do you do," she said cordially, extending her hand.  "Jonas has
told me so much about yore"

"He hasn't told us anything about you," Joyce re Joe opened his mouth
to respond, but Pam answered for herself.  "Them really isn't much to
tell.  We met, we fell in love and we got married."

"The impact could have on Rllvabeth"

certainty.  "She's been happier than etet."

"She has feathers in her hair," Lawton muttered.

"And I have plaster dust in mine" Pamela aid sweetly, pulling off her
cap and riffling her F:mgers

through her sweat-damp hair.  "That's why God gave us shampoo."

"As you can see," Joe broke in, "we're in the middle of some work here,
doing repairs on the peculiar old lady's house, because she's a good
friend of ours.  So, Lawton, Joyce" -- he nodded to each in turn
"--it's great seeing you, and why don't you have your lawyer call my
lawyer."

The four of them squared off for another awkward minulE, and then the
Prescotts beat a retreat.  Only when they'd reached the Infiniti parked
at the curb did Pamela feel Joe's hand furl into a fist at the small of
her back.

"Charming folks," she said.

"They've got money," Joe grunted, as if that would be the deciding
factor in who won custody of Lizard.  "They didn't even recognize
Liz:'

"All they, ve seen of her for the past three years is snapshots.  And
they're right--I cleaned her up some for the Christmas photo."

"Jonas, look at them!  Can you imagine them letting Lizard plant herbs
in their backyard?"

He sent her a quick, ironic look and then spun around and entered the
house.  "I'd better call Mary let her know the boom's about to fall,"
he said.

Pamela lingered in the doorway for a moment.  could guess what that
look of his said: that first walked into the Shipwreck one month ago,
been no more prepared to raise a child than were today.

But she'd changed.  She'd put away her silk tailored trousers.  She'd
forgotten about nail polish nights at the ballet.  She hadn't listened
to Mozart month; she hadn't eaten steamed asparagus or properly aged
Bordeaux.  But she'd learned how to tramp through the mud and herd an
unruly child through a store, how to tune out the whining and accept
Lizard's candor without taking offense.

If she could learn, why couldn't the Prescotts?  They didn't have the
same incentive she had, she swered herself.  They would be doing it
only for themselves.  Pamela warn't doing it for herself, or even just
for Lizard.

She was doing it for Joe.

Not because she'd made a deal with him, she realized.  Not because he'd
offered her his name as a shield.  Not because he trusted her--she
wasn't entirely sure he did.  Not even because of last night, which
Pamela was still convinced had been a major mistake.

She was mothering Lizard, scolding her, finger painting, collecting sea
gull feathers-on the beach with her and staying up late at night to
discuss her well-being with Joe because, somehow, Ii=.  and and her
uncle had come to matter more to Pamela than her expensive condomln-ium
and everything that went with her former life-style.

In the past eight years, she had designed buildings, received plaudits,
earned bonuses in her work--but that had all come easily to her.  She
had spent her life training for it, studying, developing her innate
talents as a draftsman and an artist.  Maybe she had a gene for
archilc-ture somewhere inside her, but evetjthing she'd ever
accomplished had been well within her abilities, completely under her
control.

Lizard was different.  Dealing with her didn't come naturally to
Pamela; she had no training, no talent, little control over what Lizard
did and even less control over how Pamela herself felt about it.  But
she was doing it for no other reason than to make another person
happy.

Two other people: Lizard and Joe.  Her temporary, family.  She was
doing it for them.

And no snooty, swanky interlopers were going to convince her to give in
to their wishes without a fight.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tim PRESCOTrS' ARRrVAL on Key West resembled a solar eclipse, blocking
out Pamela's other concerns and throwing the world into shadow.  She
had no time to worry about her relationship with Joe, her situation
back home in Seattle, or even her plans for Birdie's house.  Her
thoughts zeroed in on one subject only: the bat He for Lizard.

Joe spent the afternoon at Mary D'dlardi's office on Eaton Street,
plotting strategies and working out schedules.  Pamela spent the
afternoon with Lizard at the beach.  She supposed there were things she
ought to be doing--cleaning the house, tidying the yard, buying Lizard
a wardrobe of respectable feather-free clothing--but somehow, none of
those activities se caned as important as making sure Lizard had a
happy afternoon.

Pamela wasn't used to exerting herself to make a child happy.  She
tried to remember what her life had been like not so very long ago when
all her energies had been de,-voted to her career, her adult friends,
her memberships in muse ms and subscriptions to the opera.  In those
days, she used to grimace when she saw children enter-a theater with
her or sitting near her on an airplane, she knew they would be noisy
and disruptive.  She used to pride herself on the order in her life,
the de-of her surroundings.  She used to go for

 E CRY

days--for years--without ever considering the cance of pink food.

But now that placid existence had vanished.

could no longer control the flow of events that around her.  She was
geared to the needs of particularly, the needs of a demanding, noxious
and chronically messy little girl.  And the part was, Pamela was too
busy worrying about that l's needs to mind.

The phone was ringing when they got back from beach late in the
afternoon.  During the walk home, and had groused about having to keep
her but Pamela had stood f'mn in her view that Lizard had to behave
modestly--at least when it came to her body.

Modesty in all other matters seemed beyond Lizard.  "I'm the smartest
kid I know," she boasted when Pamela expressed surprise at her ability
to identify the different types of palms bordering the beach.  "I'm
smarter than Megan, even.  She's my best friend, but I'm smarter than
her.  Ask anybody.  Even Birdie, she'll tell you how smart I am.  And
she knows boo doo, so she oughtta knOW."

Pamela heard the shrill, rhythmic peal through an open window and
hustled Lizard up the front walk.  "Maybe you're smart, but right now
you're as slow as molasses.  That could be your Uncle Joe calling us.
Let's pick up the pace."

Just to be contrary, Lizard chose that moment to drop the bag
containing her beach toys and chase after a butterfly flitting among
the rhododendrons.  Ignoring her, Pamela raced up the front steps to
the porch, unlocked the door, charged into the kitchen and dived for
the phone, eager to answer before Joe hung up.

Unfortunately, it wasn't Joe.  "This is Mona Whit ley," the social
worker's voice chirped through the line.  Dear Lord, Pamela thought a
few minutes later, after Ms.  Whitley had explained to her that in
order for her to observe the Prescotts interacting with lizard, Pamela
would have to host a get-together with I J?  and and her long-lost
relatives tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.

Lying through her teeth, Pamela assured Ms.  Whitley that this would be
no trouble whatsoever.  She glanced at her watch.  After five.  Lizard
was still outside; through the kitchen window Pamela could see her,
armed with her plastic bow-and-arrow set, blithely firing arrows at the
butterfly.  Pamela considered calling Lizard inside for a bath, but
wrestling the kid into the bathtub was more than Pamela could handle
right now.  The realization that Lizard's life--or, more accurately,
Joe's life--was about to cave in, zapped Pamela of energy.

She recalled the last time Mona Whitley had paid a call on the
Brenners.  Pamela had knocked herself out to make the house and I J?
and presentable.  Joe had knocked himself out to convince Ms.  Whitley
that he and Pamela were madly in love, even though, at that time, Joe
could barely tolerate her.

Obviously that had changed.  Especially if last night counted for
anything.  Would he kiss her again in front of Ms.  Whitley?  Did he
want to kiss her again?  Did she want him to?  Would kissing him lead
to something more once Ms.  Whitley and the dreaded Prescotts had gone?
Would it throw her emotions into even more disarray?

Had Pamela ever wasted so much mental effort trying to figure out a man
before?

Since Joe hadn't called her, she telephoned him at the Shipwreck, After
three rings, Brick answered.  "Hi, it's Pain Brenner," she said.  "Is
Jonas there?"

Brick grunted something and set the phone on the with a loud thunk.

She heard the sounds of early tavern traffic, a low babble of voices
and the muffled strain of music from the jukebox.  She recognized the
song at once: "Stand by Me."  It sent a tremor of longing through her.
Life seemed so complicated the day she had married Joe--but in fact it
had been much simpler.  Now life was compli-eated, but one thing was
crystal clear.

She had to help keep Joe and Lizard together.  She had to stand by
Joe.

Really, very simple.

She heard his voice through the line.  "Pain?"

"I just got a call from Mona Whitley," she said, then reported on the
following day's agenda.

Joe cursed.  "I've been waiting for this to happen for so long," he
confessed.  "Now that it's finally in the works, I can't stand it."

"I know."  She sensed the sadness and frustration in his tone and felt
a powerful desire to reassure him.  "Joe, those people--the
Prescotts--they aren't cut out for dealing with Lizard.  It doesn't
take much perception to realize they aren't child-oriented."

"They're rich," he said laconically.

"So what?  You're not exactly poor."

"I could shave every day and I'd still be a bum."

"No," she said, refusing to let him label himlf the way she'd once
labeled him.  "You're a good father.  Or uncle.  No, father.  That's
what you are to Lizard."  "Yeah, sure," he muttered.  "What did your
lawyer say?"

He cursed again.  "In twenty words or less?  She said the law was a
funny thing, and she hoped I could hang on to my sense of humor."

"We'll get through thi.q, Jonas," Pamela prorniqed.  "I'll do whatever
I can to convince the courts that Lizard belongs with you."

He said nothing for a minute, then murmured, "Thank you."  Just two
small words, yet they conveyed so much.  She heard the catch in his
voice, the slight waver, and felt a dose hesS to him far more profound
than the closeness she'd felt during those few intense minutes last
night when her body and his were locked together in love.

This was it, the main event, the reason Joe had taken her in and given
her his name.  She would do whatever she could, and he would trust
her.

"Come home early," she urged him.  "You'll need a good night's
sleep."

"I'll try," he said, and hung up.

Pamela lowered the phone into the cradle and let out a long breath. She
felt oddly shaken.  The last part of their conversation had been
strangely personal, the sort of so back-and-forth a husband and wife
engaged in.  She reminded herself once more of the terms of her
narriage to Joe.  They weren't going to become in-volred.  Their
wedding was strictly for show.  Behind closed doors they would remain
separate.

When had she lost control of the ground rules?  When had she lost
control of her own feelings?  Why did she care, to the depths of her
soul, what happened to Joe and his niece?  Why did she feel her heart
wrenching in sympathy for him?  Why did it seem as if his losing Lizard
would hurt Pamela as much as it did him?

And however it ended up, once it was all behind her and Joe, how would
she ever be able to find her way back to the life she had loved in
Seattle?

A thump at the window startled her out of her ruminations.  She glanced
across the kitchen and saw the sue

CRY UNL

tion tip of one of Lizard's arrows sticking to surface of the pane.

She should have been incensed at Lizad's wild play.  The window could
have been shattered, for hear oh sake.  Lizard could have gotten cut by
flying glass.

But all Pamela thought, as she strolled to the back door to call the
girl inside for her bath, was that Lizard was a splendid shot.

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS slid by in a blur.  Joe could hardly remember
going to the Shipwreck, chatting with the onstomem, tapping the kegs
and tallying the receipts.  All he remembered, as he reviewed the
period since the Prescotts had shown their hoity-toity faces on his
island, were the signs, as bright as the neon lights on Duval Street,
that he was going to lose Lizard.

Joyce and Lawton were just so damned nice to Lizard.  The morning they
came to play with her under the watchful eye of Mona Whitley, Joyce
adopted a cloying singsong voice and made such a fuss about each and
every one of Lizard's fatty old stuffed animals, Joe couldn't believe
the kid was in by it.  Usually Lizard had a built-in hypocrisy
detector.  But she fell for Joyce's gushing: "Oh, so this is your
stuffed manateel Why, isn't he just adorable!  What's his name?  May I
shake his hand--or is it a flipper?"

A few minutes of that, and Joe was ready to lose his breakfast.  He
wondered why Lizard played along, but the fact that she did made him
ven more certain the court was' going to decide in favor of the
Prescotts.

Sickened by the prospect--to say nothing of saccharine behavior, Joe
headed downstairs, where discovered Lawton and Mona Whitley seated on
the ing room couch, drinking Joe's coffee and yakking long-lost
friends.  When they weren't exploring their shared passion for golf,
Lawton was describing the school sys/n where he and Joyce lived.  "The
Hillsborough public schools are among the best in the country," Law-ton
bragged.  "But with state budget cutbacks, we might choose to send
FJizabeth to private school instead.  There are several fine
preparatory schools within a reasonable distance of our house.
El/zabeth would receive the best education money can buy.  Do you think
she'd like to be called Betsy?  She seems like such a Betsy tome."

"She likes to be called Lizard," Joe inteected, which won him a
reproachful look from Mona Whitley.

That was the first day, a day Joe dealt with by heading for the
Shipwreck as early as he could and submerging himself in his work.  He
insisted on staying until closing time, hopeful that Pamela would be
asleep by the time be got home.  He didn't want to have to talk to her,
to r-veal how miserable he was.  He didn't want to confront the truth
that it would be much easier for him to get through the night ff he had
her in his arms.

The following day, the Prescotts took Lizard out for while, with Mona
Whitley chaperoning.  "They're goint to win," Joe groaned to Pamela
once he no longer had to smile and wave at his niece as his loathsome
in-laws ushered her down tho front walk to their rented Infiniti.
"They're going to take the Liz Kid away from me."

Pamela patted his shoulder and said, "We're not going to let them." She
was wearing a pair of pleated culottes and a neat button-front shirt,
obviously an effor to compete sartorially with the Presco.  Joe hadn't
seen her dres so well since she'd moved in with him and learned what
life with Lizard could be like.  Turning from the door, she said, "I'm
going to change into some tea' clothes and then take a run to the
supermarket.  We're of strawberry yogurt.  Is there anything you want
me to pick up for you while I'm out?"

He didn't want food.  He wanted .  her.  Not her pity, not-at that
particular moment--her body, but her forgiveness.  Before she could
reach the stairs he snagged her wrist, halting her.  "Listen,
Pare--I've been a real jerk since the Prescotts showed up."

"No more of a jerk than usual," she teased, although there wasn't much
humor in her voice.

"I mean it.  I don't know how you can stand being around me.  I sure
can't stand being around myself."

Sho smiled, a sad, beautiful smile.  "The only thing I can't stand is
your negativity.  I haven't known you very long, but I think it's safe
to say pess'mlism isn't your style.  I wish you'd stop assuming the
worst."

He gazed.  at her in the late-morning light.  She appeared completely
transformed from the frightened, waif like creature who'd entered his
bar little more than a month ago, searching for a husband to hide
behind.  Her eyes were bright with courage, her cheeks elegantly
hollow, her hair brushed back and held behind her ears with
tortoise-shell clips.  The top button of her shirt was undone, and he
could see the delicate fin re of her collarbones at the base of her
throat,

For one strange, fleeting moment, he found himself thinking that the
worst thing in the world would be lose her.

The notion was gone as soon as it registered,

in its wake a quiet warmth that comforted all of Pamela's words,
speeches and smiles.  Joe and wife were friends.  Pamela had become his
partner in

He pulled her gently kiss onto her brow.  She tilted her face to look
at him,

he realized that, while a few minutes with Pamela on !  nearest
horizontal surface would do a hell of a lot to prove his mood, holding
her was nearly as effective.

"I bet you didn't what you were taking on wh you married me," he
murmured.

She met his steady gaze without flinching.  "I was ting on a guy with
an earring and a niece."

"And a double shot of negativity."  He shook his he and grinned.  "Not
to mention a couple of scary in-laws " At least some of your in-laws
are pleasant.  " Thinking of Joyce and all the other pompous, sno bish
relatives of his late sister's husband, Joe could come up with a single
pleasant in-law in the bunch.  1 frowned at Pamela's mark.

"Your mother- and father-in4aw," she explaine "They're quite nice."

"Oh.  Yeah."  He cracked a smile.  "They're thr thousand miles away,
and I have nothing to do wi them.  Of course I love them."

Pamela eased out of his loose embrace and sighed.  think you'd like
them, joe.  I miss them.  "

"Why don't you give them a call?"  he suggested.  He he was, the only
family she had for miles--unless y counted Lizard--and he'd done
nothing to make her fe as if she belonged.  "I'll even say hi to them,"
he add with a smile.  It was the least he could do for Pamela.

She shook her head.  "I haven't spoken to them s'me left Seattle.  I
was afraid it might put them in dang{ Mick Morrow could pressure them
to tell him where Iax and..."  She shuddered.  "It's just safer if they
don't knc anything, so I haven't spoken to them at all."

"Why don't you call them now?"  Even if Paine didn't think she was out
of danger, Joe knew she wE That police detective in Seattle had
convinced him.

oucE

Again she shook her head.  "No But maybe I'll call my lawyer.  I
haven't talked to him in a while, what with the Pxescotts showing up
and all."  She glanced at her watch.  "I could probably catch him at hi
desk.  He tends to get inW his office early."

She departed for the kitchen, leaving him to shake off his lust.  He
stared through the front screen door at the empty yard, trying to guess
what the Prescotts were doing with Lizard fight now, what Mona Whitley
was scribbling in her blasted notebook, what she would report to the
judge.

"What?"  Pamela shrieked from the kitchen.  "My

Joe sprinted down the hnll to the kitchen, wondering what had set her
off.  When she pivoted to face him, the lelephone receiver still
pressed to her ear, her smile was brighter than the Florida sun.  She
looked utterly thrilled--and more gorgeous than a woman who was off
limits to him ought to look.

"What's up?"  he mouthed.

She held up her hand, S'lgllaling that she would tell him in a minute.
"You're absolutely snre?  And he's going to stay there?"  She listened
for a few seconds, then erupted into a joyous lit He jig.  "Okay,
okay," she said into the phone.  "Of course I'll st tight."  She
recited See's phone number, then said, "Keep me posted.  And give my
love to my parents.  Mak sure they know.  about this."  She hung up,
stared at the phone in disbelief for a minute, then launched herself
into Joe's arms.  "Mick Morrow's inja :"

"Huh?"  The impact of her mad dash into his arms knoclxl the bath out
of him--or maybe it was just that her neanx, when she was so radiant
and jubilant, took his breath away.

"M/ck Morrow.  The hit man.  He's in jaiIV' " Really?  "

"He was stopped on a traffic violation, and when re fusel to let them
search his car they impounded They found a gun, so they rescinded his
bail and lock him up!"  She started another jig, but with her an around
Joe, it mutated into a kind of jitrbug.

"They found a gun on him?"  Joe didn't think tl particular detail was
cause for mirth.

"But now s locked up until his new trial.  I'm sa Joe.  I'm safeI"

Joe was glad for her.  but not without certain m givings.  Like, for
instance, what were the implications this hit man driving around with a
gun?  Had hebe trying to track her down when he'd committed them tic
violation?  How the hell had he gotten hold of a g ff he was under
police surveillance?  Had he intended use it on Pamela?

If he had, he waSn't going to have the chance, that God.  She was
thousands of miles away, while he was 1

And Joe was still going to lose Lizard.  Everytiff out perfectly for
Pamda.  She would retu and See was going to wind up alone.

Be'rag alone had suited him well enough for the years of his
life--until he'd discovered that pl

, for a little girl was more fun than being alol discovered that
marriage could turn a guy j out and upside down, make him more willing
to i distance, to have faith in a woman, to take a chan

Losing Pamela and Lizard at the same time was goi ) devastate him.

"So..."  He extricated himself from Pamela's embrace, hating to remove
her hands from him but knowing he had to.  "The creep's in all.  What
happens next?"

"My attorney will let me know," she said, still twinkling, einding Joe
of a sparkler on the.  Fomth of Iuly.  "In all likelihood, they'll push
up the date of Morrow's new trial.  I'll have to go back to Seattle to
testify, but this time there won't be any slipups.  They'll do the job
fight."

"So, you're going back to Seattle."

"For the trial," she said, abruptly growing sober as the implications
sank in.  "Lizard's fate w121 be decided before the DA in Seattle can
start a new trial there.  I'll be with you for the custody hearing. And
if you win, and the Prescotts appeal, I'll be back in time for that. 
I'll only have to be in Seattle a couple of days:' She peered up at
lee.  Judging by her frown, he knew she was worried by what she saw in
his face.  " I'll get you through the custody battle, Jonas.  I
promised I would, and I will.  "

If he won.  But what if he didn't?  Unlike the PllCotts,

appeals.  He would lose Lizard, and Pamela would have no reason to stay
in Key West and pretend to be his wife.  She would go back to Seattle
to lsfify--and she wouldn't come back.

NegatiVity.  Pess'mfism.  That about !  mmed tip Joe's mood.

Without a word, he st aiM out of the kitchen, longer able to be in the
same room with elation was directly related to her chance to clear his
life.  He was angry, resentful, envious--and storming out of the room
he was acting like an ass.

But he wasn't going to stick around heart break.

LIZARD CAME HOME that afternoon with a Barbie i "How nice," Pamela said
through gritted teeth as i and displayed her prize.  "Did the Prescotts
buy that for you?"

Lizard--weed gardener, slduny dipper and feather natic--grinned
proudly.  "Uh-huh!  Look at this, P{ You can put these earrings on her
by just sticking through her ear.  Isn't that awesome?"  She proceechx
poke a doll-s'ze earring through Barbie's ear, as if were slwedng one
of Birdie's voodoo dolls.  "I'm go name her Sneer, and tomorrow I'm
gonna tape featl all over her.  She can be a biker."

"Wonderful."  Pamela regarded the doll, still new I virginal in her
dream-date dress, and sighed.  She her, had owned a Barbie when she'd
been not much el than Lizard.  She had adored dressing her doll in a w
cry of outfits, fitting tiny doll shoes onto Barbie's manently
high-heeled feet and parading her around house.  But Pamela had been a
very different child f Lizard.

What ff Lizard discovered she actually loved play with a fashion doll
more than tmipsing around.  Bird house with an army of cats, or
gobbling pink victuals, romping in the mud?  What ff I i=and turned
into a c!  like Pamda--the' kind who would thrive in the affiu suburban
surroundings of her aunt and uncle's horn California?

"Did you have fun with the Prescotts?"  Pamela asl carefully.

"Yeah.  They bought me lick-fish, too."

Pamela watched Lizard romp back outside.  She v glad Joe'had left for
the Shipwreck early, ff only so would be spared the sight of his niece
waxing rhap so about the Prescotts' generosity.

caCLE

Pamela's euphoria over Mick Morrow's inrceration had been short-lived.
After Joe had left for work, she'd telephoned the Ds office in Seattle.
He'd confirmed her lawyer's news and told her he was hoping to put
together a new trial within a month or so.  "Now that you're safe from
Mr.  Morrow," he snid, "perhaps you'd be willing to ll me your
whereabouts, so I can contact you when it's time to bring you back to
Seattle to testify."

Pamela supplied him with Joe's address and telephone number.  "I'm
using the name Pamela Brenner now," she added.

"Oh?"

"Didn't my lawyer tell you?  I got married."

"Yes, he mentioned something about that.  A phony marriage, to help
hide your identity.  Well, you won't have to worry about hiding
anymore."

Pamela nodded.  In a sense, she felt she'd stopped hiding the minute
she'd told the DA she was married.  Now it was truly public
information, not just in Key West but in Seattle.  Now her marriage
wasn't just legal; it was tea.

Or maybe it had become real the night Joe had made love to her.

No.  That had been an aberration, a bit of foolishness.  And if it had
been an incredibly pleasurable aberration and foolishness, so what?  A
real marriage had to grounded in love, and Joe had never said anything
love.

Refusing to dwell on her own tortured

Joe, Pamela went off in search of Lizard.  through the screened porch,
she spotted the kid weed garden, taping two bright yellow dandelion
sores to her doll's bosom.  A third blossom was between the doll's
legs, giving Barbie the a stripper about halfway through her act.

Pamela stifled a chuckle.  Apparently acquiring a fashion doll had
failed to civilize Lizard.  "Nice outfit," she joked.  "W/hat do you
think your Aunt Joyce would say if she saw it?"

"She'd hate it," Lizard predicted sagely.

Pamela allowed herself a small grin at Lizard's perceptiveness. "You're
right.  I think You'd better make sure Barbie--I mean Snoot--is always
fully clothed when your Aunt Joyce is around."

"Why?  I don't care ff she hates it.  She hates lots of neat stuff."

"Oh?"

"Like, she hates seaweed when it piles up on the sand and gets all
smelly.  She told me she hates that.  And she hates the Three Stooges.
She says the're dumb.  Uncle and I watch the Three Stooges all the
time.  And she name Lizard.  She always calls me Betsy, which is gross.
And she ha strawberry yogurt.  She's icky."

"She loves you very much," Pamela said, not thrilled at having to
defend the woman to Lizard.

"Well..."  Lizard taped a fourth yellow fluff of dan onto Barble's pert
ponytail.  "If she loves me, she doll."

"I agree.  But you should respect her feelings about things, Lizard.
It's important that she sees what a good job Uncle Joe has done raising
you."

"He didn't raise me.  He's just my uncle."

"And he loves you, too, maybe even more than your Aunt Joyce.  So it's
important to make sure your Aunt Joyce and Uncle Lawton and Ms. Whitley
all re, liTe that Uncle Joe has taught you how to respect others and be
polite."

Lizard eyed her askance.  "That's icky."

"Courtesy isn't icky."

cRY taweLm

"No--I mean, all those people who have to realize things.  It's icky.
You know what?  I'm gonna tattoo Shoot.  You know what a tattoo isT"

Pamela suppressed a shudder.  "Yes.  How do you happen to know about
them?"

"Kitty has one on her boob.  Right about ... here," she said, pointing
to the left side of the doll's breast, just above the edge of the
dandelion brassiere.  "She let me see it once.  It was neat.  I think
I'm gonna tattoo Shoot."

"I think you're going to take a bath," Pamela refuted her.  "And then
you and I are going to have some supper.  How about tuna salad?"  She
didn't feel like making a big meal.  The afternoon was hot and muggy,
smothering her appetite.  She felt overloaded, inundated by events:
Mick Morrow's capture, her impending testimony, Joe's impending custody
case, L'mard's gruesome treatment of her doll.  Mixed together and
garnished with a discussion of tattoos, the concoction made Pamela
queasy.

"Okay," Lizard said, swinging her doll by its ponytail and jogging
toward the porch.  "But make sure you put the fight amount of
mayonnaise in.  If you put in too much, it doesn't look p/mk.  And I
want a bagel, too."  With that, she disappeared into the house.

Pamela gazed after her, feeling a tug that was part pride, part
protectiveness and part something she might have called mother-love if
she believed herself capable of maternal sentiments.  L'mard was
exasperating--but in a perverse way, that was one of her most appealing
traits, She was uncouth and sassy and, in a word, icky--and Pamela
honestly loved her for it.

The Prescotts would never view Lizard's bad behavior as lovable.
Neither, Pamela feared, would the court.  Ms.

Whifiey was going to declare Lizard a maniac and tear her from Joe.

Pamela couldn't let that happen.  She would have to work on Lizard some
more--make sure she scrubbed behind her ears in the bath, make sure she
dressed nearly, make sure she didn't call her Barbie doll "Shoot" or
Joyce Prescott "icky" in front of hostile witnesses.  Pamela had
married Joe for better or worse--something along that line, anyway--and
she was now entering the "for worse" stretch with him.

She was simply going to have to make things work out.

"I'M COMING TO the Shipwreck with you," Pamela said.  "You?  At the
Shipwreck?"  Four days had passed since the Prescotts had come to town.
Four days of sunny skies and apprehension, of meetings with Mary
DiNardi and high tension in the house, of Joe spending as much time at
the Shipwreck as he had when he'd been avoiding Pamela.

He wasn't avoiding her now.  Over breakfast he re-with Pamela
everything his lawyer had told him.  seemed to value Pamela's opinions.
He definitely ability to get Lizard to dress in pretty match-shorts and
tops and to braid either all or none of her hair instead of just
plaiting the locks at her ears.

Yet he sought refuge at the Shipwreck every night.  Pamela doubted he
was drinking there.  In fact, the last time she'd seen him partake of
liquor--a single bottle of beer--was the night he'd wound up making
love to her.

She willfully closed her mind to the image.  She didn't want to think
about it, or dream about it, or find herself wishing for a recurrence.
She didn't want to love him.

The Prescotts had taken Lizard to their resort for dinner tonight.  Joe
had protested, claiming that they were

CRYUNCL

getting too much access to Lizard, but his lawyer had insisted that it
was important for Lizard to establish some ties with the Prescotts,
just in case she wound up in their custody.  Hearing his own advocate
mention such a possibility had sent Joe into a funk.

Pamela had no illusions that she could cheer him up by accompanying him
to the bar.  But she didn't want to sit home alone, worrying about him.
She would accompany him to the Shipwreck, speod a couple of hours
catching up with Kitty and nursing a glass of wine and then go home in
time to greet Lizard when the Prescotts dropped her off

"It's a public facility," she pointed out reasonably.  "You can't tell
me not to come."

Joe mulled over her assertion.  "I wasn't go' rag to you not to come. I
just don't know what you'll do there."

"Listen to the jukebox," Pamela suggested.  "Keep you company."

"I'll be working."

"Fine."

Evidently.  he could find nothing more to object to.  "Okay.  But
you've got to be home before the Prescotts get back with Lizard.  If
they come home to an empty hou"

"They said they'd be bringing her back at nine.  I'll be home he fore
then."

"Okay."  He shrugged, then lifted the keys to his car and handed her
the keys to hem.

The bar was already bustling with happy drinkers by the time she and
Joe arrived, a little after five.  Within minutes she lost track of the
number of people who said hello to her--people she scarcely recognized.
They all claimed to be friends of Joe's, or regulars, or former
boyfriends of Kitty who'd been at the wedding.

The noise level rose as one hour shifted into the l The jukebox blasted
an eclectic mix of songs: U2 Pointer Sisters, Tony Bennett, Sting--and,
of cot Ben E. King warbling "Stand by Me."

Seated at a table at the rear of the room, Par sought Joe with her gaze
as that song, their song, ted through the thick, smoky air.  Joe was
apparel searching for her, too, because when their eyes met felt as
much of a jolt as if he'd crossed the room.  kissed her.  She wanted to
prcanim she would stand by forever.  But that was a promise he had no
use for.  he'd ever asked of her was that she stand by him dur the
custody fight.

Yet his gaze remained on her for the duration of song.  Brick seemed to
sense his boss's distraction" cause he picked up the slack and filled
all the orders til the last plaintive notes faded away.  Only then did
J sever the unspoken communication between them.

She approached the bar, but Joe was suddenly vc busy organizing his
whiskey bottles.  "Whenever t song gets played, he thinlm of you,"
Brick confide stringing together more words than Pamela had ev heard
from him.

"Maybe he's just emembering what a good time v had at the wedding."

Brick grunted and shook his head.

Joe finihed inventorying his whiskey.  He shot a quiz glance at the
tacky steering-wheel- clock hanging on t wall, then sent Pamela a
fleeting smile.  "You'd bette head off.  It's a quarter to nir."

"I'm on my way."

"Kiss Lizzie good-night for me."

"I will, Joe."  Pamela was tempted to kiss him good right, too.  She
saw the pensive glimmer in his eyes, an

for a selfish instant wished his emotions were for her.  But they were
for Lizard, she knew.  Lizard was the one who mattered to him.

Forcing a smile, she slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder and
sauntered out of the bar.  The streets were clogged with traffic, but
Pamela made it to Joe's block by five minutes to nine--enough time to
get inside, turn on some lights and wait for Lizard.

Not quite, she amended as she spotted the Infiniti parked in front of
Joe's house.  She accelerated down the street and drove into the
driveway.  By the time she'd turned off the engine and climbed out of
the car, Joyce and Lawton Prescott had emerged from their rental car.
Lawton's hand was clamped firmly around Lizard's wrist; he was
practically dragging her toward Pamela.  Something pink was spilled
across the front of the Liz Kid's sundress.

"Hi," Pamela said in a falsely bright tone.  "I'm sorry you had to
wait.  You got here a little early."

"We got here at eight-ffte," Joyce snarled.  "We've been waiting all
this time.  Another minute and we would have left her at the social
worker's house.  We've had just about all we can talc el Lawton
released Lizard with a slight shove, and Lizard flew into Pamela's
arms.

Ignoring the adults, Pamela inspected Lizard for signs of damage.
Besides the pink splotch on the bodice of her dress, her hair was
matted and her neck was discolored with rings of dirt.  She looked
remarkably dry-eyed, though, and feisty and defiant.

"What happened?"  Pamela asked her.

"Notbin'."

"That child is a beast," Lawton declared Impsely.  "She ought to be
sent to reform school."

"Lizard," Pamela scolded.  "What did you do?  " And whatever it was,
will it persuade the court that Joe's an unfit parent?

"It was her fault," Lizardoaid, pointing a grimy finger at Joyce.  "She
asked me what I thought of her

"This is a Gianni Vetsace," Joyce erupted.  "It was bad enough that she
told me it was gross, but then she deliberately spilled water all over
it.  This is stilt.  Water stai,.  won't come out."

"Perhaps a dry cleaner"

"She ruined this dress for no good reason.  Then she ran around the
restaurant, throwing a tantrum.  She hu-miNa ted us in front of the
other patrons:'

"It was an icky restaurant," Lizard argued.  "They didn't even
havepisketti."

"Spaghetti," Pamela corrected her before addressing the Prescotts.
"She's rather young to be going to fancy restaurants."

"We don't eat at fast-food joints," Joyce sniffed.  "Perhaps your idea
of dining out is shouting your order into a microphone and driving up
to the pick-up window, but we consider dining an important social
experience-and we expect a well-bred child to behave properly in a
restaurant.  Elizabeth was horrible.  She deliberately tripped a
waiter."

"I'm sure it wasn't dehterate," Pamela argued.  "Was it, Lizard?"

"Uh-huh."  The little girl nodded.  "I did it on purpose."

"The waiter was carrying a chocolate souffi6," Law-ton said.

 274 my UNCLE

"Needless to say, it collapsed because of her," Joyce added.  "She's a
spiteful, hateful child.  She has no sense of decorum.  She reduced me
to tears."

"Lizard."  Pamela tried hard to look indignant, but a rebellious smile
stole across her lips.

"She is a heathenish beast," Joyce continued.  "I don't see how we can
possibly fit her into our lives if thi is the way she chooses to
behave."

"She's vulgar," Lawton added.

"Ordering a strawberry milk shake at a three-star res-tau tant And when
the maitre d' came out to see what the rack us was about, she called
him a butt-face.  I thought I was going to die!"  Joyce whined.

"She isn't fit for society," Lawton concluded.  "She's beyond
redemption.  There's nothing we can do for her."

"Excuse me..."  Pamela was afraid of jumping to the wrong conclusion
and then having her hopes dashed.  "Are you saying you aren't going to
ask for custody of Lizard?"

"Joseph can have her.  She's obviously a Brenner."

"Tainted genes," Lawton concurred.  "A hideous child."

"She's a wonderful child!"  Pamela argued, hugging Lizard and not
caring that some of the pink stuff--strawberry milk shake, no
doubt--was rubbing onto her T-shirt.  "And his name is Jonas, not
Joseph."

"And my name is Lizard, not Betsy," Lizard shouted.  "Lizard suits you
well, little girl," Lawton retorted.  "You and your aunt and uncle
deserve one another.  We'll be leaving for Hillsborough in the
morning."

Before Pamela could say another word, the Prescotts, dressed in their
overpriced, water-stained apparel, strode regally back to their
expensive rental car, climbed in and drove off into the hot, starlit
night.

Too stunned to move, Pamela laughed.  So did Lizl Pamela closed her
arms snugly around Lizard, and ] and hugged her just as tightly.

"We ought to telephone your Uncle Joe," Pan whispered, aware that her
cheeks were damp with tea

"Yeah.  And then can I draw a tattoo on boob?"

"You can draw all the tattoos you want on Snoc Pamela promised,
swinging Lizard high into her and carrying her inside the house.

cHApTER FIFTEEN

LIZARD RULt.  the Shipwreck from her perch on the bar.

In one hand she held a nonalcoholic Pink Lady; in the other she held
her Barbie doll, its body wrapped in rubber bands and its hair woven
into a lopsided.  braid with a feather glued to the tip.  "It was
great," she regaled any one who wandered close enough to listen to
her.

"I

tripped a walter and he was carrying this chocolate stuff

'

O0 "

and it went flying everywhere and it looked like p p.

Pamela had heard her tell the story three times al ready that evening,
so she wandered away from the bar to greet Mona Whitley, who was seated
primly by her self at a table near the door.  "I'm so glad you decided
to stop by," Pamela said, settling into a chair across from

Ms.  Whitley.

Dressed in a decorous suit of gray linen, Ms.  Whitley nursed her
bourbon and eyed Lizard with less than complete approval.  "It's past
Elizabeth's bedtime," she ob Lizard frequently stayed up later than
nine o'clock, but even though the custody battle was over, Pamela
decided the social worker didn't have to know that.  "This party is in
her honor, so it would be a shame if she couldn't he here.  Besides,
she can always sleep late tomorrow."

Ms.  Whitley appeared skeptical.  "I'm still not convinced that the
Preseotts wouldn't have provided her with a more stable environment."

"Stability isn't everything," Pamela argued gently, surprising herself.
Her life had been perfectly stable until a couple of months ago when
her car had journeyed the last few miles of Route 1, depositing her on
Key West.  She used to treasure the stability of her existence.  It
indicated that she was in control of things.

Maybe someday she would want stability and control back in her life.
But not tonight.  Tonight belonged to Joe and Lizard.

"I really do think nine o'clock is too late for a five-year-old," Ms.
Whitley persisted, although the words seemed to emerge from a great
distance, through a dense fog.  Pamela wondered how many bourbons the
social worker had consumed.

"We'll be getting her home soon," Pamela promised, then rose and
sauntered across the room, grinning and nodding as Joe's numerous
friends shouted greetings and good wishes at her.  A month ago they'd
been toasting her wedding to him.  Today they were toasting something
much more significant.

Standing behind the bar, his earring glittering and his chin scruffy
because he'd skipped shaving that day, Joe wore a quiet smile.  He
looked as if he couldn't quite he-lie ve his good fortune.  Every now
and then he glanced at his niece, who swung her legs, kicking the
vertical panels of the bar, and who danced her Barbie doll among the
glasses and bowls of pretzels until the doll's molded, high-heeled feet
landed smack in the middle of a plate of sliced lemons, squirting
citrus wedges and juice in all directions.

Joe didn't scold He was obviously too happy to be upset about a mess
that was meager by Lizard's usual standards.

Noticing Pamela's approach, he signaled Brick to cover for him and
strolled to the end of the bar.  With a flick of his head, he signaled
for Pamela to join him at the back door.

She edged past the crowd of revelers lining the bar until she reached
Joe's side.  He looked formidably handsome, and his blue eyes glowed,
but not with lust, not for Pamela.

She could accept that.  The fact was, Joe and Lizard were a team, a
family, the rationale behind just about every step he had taken over
the past few months--the past few years.  Pamela had never been more
than a means to an end, a peripheral part of the story.

Touching her elbow lightly, he ushered Pamela down the hallway to the
back door and out into the small lot at the rear of the building.
Pamela recalled the first time he'd brought her there--to propose
marriage.  The spotlight above the door still flooded the lot with a
silver-white glare, highlighting the coppery streaks the sun had
painted into Joe's tawny hair and casting his deep-set eyes in
shadow.

They stood in the hot, sea-scented evening, enjoying the fresh breezes.
A horde of souped-up motorcycles rumbled down the street, and Joe
waited for the noisy caravan to pass before addressing Pamela.  His
smile became sheep'h, yet there was an edge to it, something she
couldn't identify.  "It's a good party, isn't it?"  he said.

"It's a wonderful party.  How did you organize it so quickly?"  She
knew Joe had spent most of the day at Mary DiNardi's office, finalizing
the paperwork that would enable him to adopt Lizard formally.  Pamela
her-serf hadn't even known there would be a party until Joe had called
her at five that oon and told her to bring Lizard down to the Shipwreck
for the festivities.

"Kitty threw it togetlfer.  She was almost as excited by the news as I
was."  He shook his head, disbelief rising to the surface again.
"Pretty amazing, isn't it?"

"What's amazing?  Kitty being excited?"

"Life in general."  He seemed to wrestle with his thoughts.  He gazed
past Pamela, as if unable to look directly at her.  "I got Lizard
without a fight, and your thug is in the slammer.  It turns out you and
I didn't have to get hitched after all."

The thought hadn't occurred to Pamela, yet she couldn't deny it.  The
very issues that had compelled her and Joe to latch on to each other
had resolved themselves.  She and Joe wouldn't have to pretend to be
mar-fled any longer to satisfy judges and social workers.  Pamela
wouldn't have to stay in Florida to elude Mick Morrow.  With the
reasons for this marriage dissolved, the marriage itself could be
dissolved as soon as she and Joe agreed toit.

His thoughts apparently paralleled hers.  "So, what happens now?"

She peered up at him.  He'd shifted his gaze back to her, and she
understood what was lurking beneath his hesitant smile.  Lizard's
custody was settled; now he wanted everything else settled, too.

Pamela wasn't ready to settle things with Joe, not until she knew which
way to settle them.  She had made love with this man, weathered his
moods, bonded with his niece.  She'd tanporarily abandoned her
career--and ever since she'd crossed paths with Jonas Brenner she
hadn't given a thought to the strip-mall project she'd had to give up
when she left Seatfie.  That realization startled her.  Her career had
once meant everything to her.  But now things weren't quite as
simple.

She wished she could read Joe's mind.  He wasn't asking her to stay; he
wasn't telling her to leave.  If he did either, she wasn't sure how she
would respond.  He wanted to know her plans, but for once in her life,
she didn't have any.

"I'd like to complete work on Birdie's house," she said.  "I can't
very well leave it half done."

He continued to stare at her, his face inscrutable.  She wished he
would ask her to stay--and then she recoiled from the thought.  How
many times did she have to convince herself that theirs wasn't a real
marriage, that her home and her life were at the other end of the
country?

"I'll help you finish it," he offered.  "The two of us working
together, we ought to be able to do the job in a week."

"Well, then there are the uneven floors.  And I wanted to widen that
front hall .... " As long as she kept tinkling with Birdie's house, she
wouldn't have to go home.

"Whatever you want," Joe said, as if once again keying in on her
thoughts.  "You want to stick around, it's no problem.  You're welcome
to stay for as long as you want."

That wasn't what she longed to hear.  She didn't want to be
welcomed--she wanbd to be needed.  She wanted Joe to beg her to stay
because she was good for Lizard, because he liked having her around.
Because he loved her.

Oh, God.  She must be insane, yearning for something so inappropriate,
so illogical.

"Well," she said briskly, "let's finish Birdio's kitcheil and then
see."  Perhaps if she stuck around long enough to complete the
construction job, Joe would decide he wanted her to stay after all
Perhaps she could seduce him, and.  The hell with that.  She wasn't
going to knock herself out trying to convince him that he needed her.
She would i. h Birdie's kitchen because a professional didn't walk away
from a project until it was done.  But given Joe's lackadaisical
attitude, she con chuted that he didn't serve a part of her future.
She'd do her job at Birdie's and

UNCLI

leave.  She wouldn't let herself mourn over it, either.  She would
remain in control, her old, pre-Jonas self.

Joe seemed on the verge of speaking--although Pamela wasn't sure she
wanted to hear anything else he might have to say.  Before he could
utter a word, Kitty swung open' the back door and announced, "The Liz
Kid fell asleep."

Joe laughed.  "Impossle.  How could she fall asleep when she's got a
captive audience?"

"Maybe she was tired.  I think you better tako her home, Joe--she's
sprawled out on the bar and we can't work."

"All right."  He checked his watch and gestured for Pamela to accompany
him back inside.  "Let's get the monster home."

Lizard was, indeed, sprawled aoxss the bar, one of her braids lying in
a bowl of cocktail peanuts.  The raucous voices and thumping music had
no effect on her.  Her slow, rhythmic exhalations caused the feather in
her doll's hair to quiver.

"Keep partying," Joe urged his friends.  "I've got to dispose of the
body and then I'n be back:' He heaved the slumbering child into his
arms and balanced her over his shoulder.  Her arms dangled down his
back; Pamela caught the doll as it dropped from Lizard's limp fingers.
He glanced at her over Lizard's rump.  " You want to stay?  I could get
Birdie to stay with Lizard till we leave the party.  "

"No, I'll go home with Lizard," Pamela said, sud-demy anxious to
distance herself from Joe and all his friends.  "I'll stay with her,
and you can party all night long if you want."  She pressed her lips
together, repressing her anger.  No matter how hurt she was by oe's
faihue to express any emotion for her, she didn't want to interfere
with his celebration.

Acknowledging the crowd with more smiles and nods, they made their
clumsy way out of the bar and down the street to Joe's car.  Joe
arranged Lizard across the back seat, somehow managing to get a seat
belt around her, while Pamela took her place in front and struggled to
suppress her bitterness.  Really, she shouldn't resent Joe.  He was
offering her the escape he assumed she wanted; he probably thought he
was doing her a favor.  If she would rather stay in Key West, it was up
to her to let him know.  And even ff things had been perfect between
her and Joe, she wasn't sure she'd rather stay.

Joe cruised through the lively downtown boulevards to his quieter
neighborhood.  It was nearly ten o'clock.  Anyone still awake at that
hour was no doubt carousing in Old Town.  The houses lining the
residential streets were mostly dark and peaceful.

Reaching his house, he pulled into the driveway and turned off the
engine.  "Why don't I run ahead and open the front door?"  Pamela
suggested.

"Thanks."  Joe climbed out and opened the back door to attend to
Lizard.

Pamela removed her key from her pocket and strode up the front walk.
She had forgotten to leave on the porch light--not surprising, since
the sun had still been high above the horizon when she and Lizard had
left for the Shipwreck.  She scaled the porch steps carefully in the
dark and tugged on the screen door latch,

A gloved hand reached out from the shadows and clapped over her mouth
before she could scream.  The cold barrel of a revolver jammed into the
vulnerable skin beneath her chin.  A rumbling voice rasped, "Greetings
from Mick."

ONE OF TI-IE GREAT mysteries of the world, as far as $oe was concerned,
was why a kid weighed more asleep than awake.  He hoisted Lizard over
his shoulder, where she joggled and shifted like a forty-pound sack of
potatoes.  Her feet pounded against his ribs; her hair snagged in the
stubble of his beard.  He couldn't wait to dump her onto her bed--and
then maybe talk to Pameh some more, away from the noisy activity of the
bar.

One of the other great mysteldes of the world was the way a woman's
mind worked--or didn't work.  As he lugged Lizard up the front walk, he
reviewed the few minutes he'd spent with Pamela in the lot behind the
bar.  What did she want?  Why couldn't she tell him?  Her eyes said she
wanted to stay on in Key West, but her words implied the only reason
she wanted to stay was to work on Birdie's house.

And that wasn't much of a reason.

As soon as he got rid of Lizard, they'd talk it out.  Or make love.  If
the past was any indication, they'd understand each other just fine
once they had their clothes off.

Why hadn't she turned on any lights?  he wondered as he neared the
house.  The porch was black with shadows, and he worded about tripping
on the steps and jostling

Lizard.  "Pam?"  he called softly.

Pamela said nothing.

When he was just a few yards from the bottom step, his eyes adjuslgd to
the gloom and he saw her--standing beside a goon wearing a ski mask and
leather gloves and holding a gun to her throat.

Joe froze.  Above the gloved hand clamped over her mouth, Pamela's eyes
glistened with terror.  She stood very still, locked inside the curve
of the goon's arm.  "Don't move," the goon orded him.

"Tin not moving."  Joe's voice came out a breathless croak.

"No need to get you and the little girl involved," the goon said. "Why
don't you go back to your car and clear out, and Miss Hayes and I will
take care of business."

Joe shifted his gaze to Pamela again.  Besides terror, he saw
resignation in her eyes, and resolution.  "Pain"

She moved her jaw and mumbled something.  The goon lowered his hand to
permit her to speak.  "Just go," she whispered.  "If you stay he'll
hurt Lizard."

"This is between the lady and me," the goon said reasonably. "Actually,
it's between the lady and a friend of mine, Mick Morrow. You and the
little g'rrl have nothing to do with it.  Why don't you get going so I
don't have to hurt you."

"Take Lizard and go," Pamela pleaded.  "Just do as he says, Jonas.  I
don't want anything to happen to Lizard."

Deep in Joe's gut, emotions began to churn.  Pain, rage, dread and a
hefty dose of selfqoathing at the possibility that his phone call to
the Seattle police--his distrust of Pamela--had brought this villain to
his doorstep.  But he kept his tone calm and even as he said, "Okay,
we're outta here."

It tore him apart to leave Pamela, to turn away from her fearful gaze.
What would she think of him for walking away?

But he had to consider Lizard.  He couldn't do anything as long as he
had his niece slumped over his shoulder.  Lizard's safety was the most
important thing.  Joe was sure Pamela would agree.

He strode back to the car in quick but measured steps.  His brain raced
ahead at breakneck speed, considering strategies, discarding them,
wondering how in Ood's name he could save Pamela without jeopardizing
Lizard Behind him he heard nothing more than the sk of crickets.

He lowered Lizard gently onto the back seat of his and closed the door.
Glancing toward the porch, he the gunman ushering Pamela down the
steps.  The tw them moved awkwardly, the gnnman king her pin to his
side with one huge gloved hand and the gun aga her neck with the
other.

Joe slipped in behind the wheel and started the glue.  Pamela sent him
a searing look, and he knew in t instant that she despised him for
abandoning her.  wantr, xl to roll down the window and remind her thal
couldn't have dropped Lizard on the lawn and taken an armed killer with
his bare fists.  He wanted to beg not to give up.  He wanted to tell
her that if any th happened to her he would die.

Instead, he jammed his foot down on the gas per jerked the steering
wheel to the left and careered ac the front lawn, aiming straight at
the gunman and pI ing that Pain would be able to get out of his way in
th

The sudden swerving of the car tossed Lizard off back seat, waking her.
"You're driving on the grass!"  yelled.

"Hush," he said.  "Get down."  Joe forced himseli concentrate on the
thug who held Pamela hostage.  i stead of releasing her, he was trying
to drag her across 1 yard toward the rhododendrons abutting the porch.
l yanked the steering wheel the other way, chasing 1 masked man.  The
cat's headlights offered perple glimpses of trees and flowers; the
tires bumped a skidded on the grass.

The thug still had the gun, although he no longer h it to Pamela's
neck.  His fingers circled her upper arm he dragged her away from the
porch, toward the stre Joe noticed the unfamiliar car parked at the
curb.

He also noticed a few other cars on the street.  Some of his neighbors
must be home.  Joe slammed his fist against his car horn, figuring it
couldn't hurt to rouse some at-tenfion.

The sudden bleat of the horn startled the gunman.  He flinched, and
Pamela at last wriggled free of his grasp.  Joe assumed she would flee,
but he didn't stop to follow her progress.  His attention was on the
thug.

Lizard clutched the back of the front seat.  "Blast the horn again,
Uncle Joe!  Hit the guy!  This is fun!  Kill the sucker !  '

"You're a bloodthirsty little brat," Joe muttered, although he shared
her vindictiveness a hundred percent.  As the thug lunged toward his
own car, Joe gunned the engine and headed after him.  Frantic, the man
tried to climb up the side of his car, but Joe plunged forward, closing
his eyes an instant before impact.  Sure, he wanlxl to kill the sucker.
He just wasn't sure he wanted to watch himself do it.

His car hit the thug's with a loud crunch of metal that flung Joe
against the steering wheel, causing the horn to blare into the night.
"Lizard?"  he wheezed, wrestling with his breath.  "Lizard, axe you all
right?"

Her answer was a giggle of delight.  "That was awesome!  Let's do it
again!"

Joe coughed a few times.  "Not a chance, toots.  You stay here.  I'm
gonna get out and check the damage and see if I'm going to be charged
with vehicular homicide."

"What'S vick-you-ler home-side?"  Lizard asked.

"You don't want to know."  Joe moved slowly, mentally inspecting each
limb and joint to make sure he hadn't done any serious harm to himself
in the collision.  He was only slightly relieved to discover, as he
emerged from his battered car, that the thug was alive, trapped between
the mangled chassis of his car and Joe's.  He was moaning, though, and
cursing a blue streak.  His ski mask was askew, revealing the lower
half of his face.  A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his
mouth.

"What the hell is going on?"  An irate male voice reached Joe from the
street.  Straightening up, he noticed several neighbors swarming down
the block to witness the excitement.

"Would somebody call the police?"  Joe asked, still sounding a bit
breathless.

"I already did," Birdie squawked.  "This is how you celebrate?"

Lizard took Birdie's question at face value.  "This was better than the
party," she squealed in delight as she leapt from the car.  "Isn't it
awesome?"

Joe heard the whine of a siren in the distance.  Assured that the thug
wasn't going to get away, he staggered across the lawn in search of
Pamela.  He found her seated on the porch steps, her head propped in
her hands and her cheeks stained with tears.

He dropped onto the step next to her, arched his arm around her and
drew her against him.  A tremor of panic seized him, then vanished. She
was alive.  He hadn't lost her.

"You okay?"  he whispered into her silky blond hair.  She sighed.  "I
threw up."

"I don't blame you."

"I thought..."  A low sob escaped her, and she covered her eyes with
her hands, as if she didn't want him to see her weep.  "I thought you
were really going to go away and leave me."

Joe tightened his hold on her.  "Just because that was what you told me
to do?  Since when do you think I'd actually listen to you?"

She issued a soggy laugh.  "I told you to leave because I was afraid
for Lizard."

"Well, if anyone came close to killing her, it was me, not him.  Looks
like I did some major damage to the lawn, too."

"The lawn looks beautiful."  Pamela nestled closer to him.  "And
I.iward's pretty tough.  Tougher than me, for

Sure.  " '

"You're the toughest woman I've ever known," Joe told her, closing both
arms around her and feeling her shiver in his embrace.

Bright red lights pulsed across the front yard as a police cruiser
pulled to a screeching halt behind the two mangled cars.  A police
officer stalked up the front walk, and Joe knew he was going to spend
the next several hours answering questions.  The authorities won id
need to know what happened, who the gunman was, who had sent him and
why.

But the questions could wait for a few minutes.  Right now, Joe
couldn't imagine anything more essential than holding his wife.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PAMEr SAT on the leather couch in her living room, weary after having
given a full day of testimony in court.  Her feet hurt from the high
heels she'd worn.  Back in Key West, she'd lived in sandals.

Forget about Iq West, she ordered herself.  She was in Seattle now.
Home.  Because the district attorney's office had ghastly proof that
Pamela's life was in danger, he'd insistext that the court schedule
Mick Morrow's new trial immediately, and Pamela had returned to
testify.  She supposed she would have to fly back to Florida to testify
against the hit man Mick had hired to get her, but she couldn't think
that far ahead.

Not tonight, anyway.  Tonight, after having seen her foe in court,
having spoken out again at him, having spent too much time wondering
whether her life would have been better if she'd never opened her mouth
in the first place, she wasn't going to do anything but rest.

Mozart's Jupiter Symphony swelled into the room from the speakers of
her sound system.  The glass of milk she sipped made her stomach churn.
The glass-topped tables gleamed from their recent cleaning; her
knickknacks bespoke taste and class; and as soon as her parents had
heard she was returning to Seattle, they'd gone to the condominium and
replaced all her dead plants with llve ones.

A tear seeped through her lashes when she realized how much she missed
the chaos of life with Lizard, of spilled

cereal, smeared finger paint and girlish giggles.  And the chaos of
life with Joe, whose soul she could never read and whose heart she
could never trust.  The man who had saved her life.

She'd left the island the day after the attack.  The police in Key West
had alerted the DA in Seattle, and he had told Pamela to come west as
soon as she could.  He felt the Seattle police could protect her. Sure,
she'd thought--now that they no longer considered her paranoid and
hysterical.

She'd spent her last Key West night in bed with Joe, not making love
but sun ply being held.  He'd been so steady, so comforting as she
trembled beside him, fighting anguish and nausea and waves of dread.
When she thought about how close she'd come to dying, she'd burst into
tears.  When she thought about how Joe had saved her life, she'd burst
into team.  It had been a very wet night, not the least bit romantic,
yet by the time she'd finally drifted off to sleep she'd been
absolutely convinced she loved him.

Which made it imperative that she leave as soon as possible.  She had
hoped that once she was back in Seat-He, the physical distance between
her and Joe would help her to regain her perspective.  It helped to
remember that before the hit man had shown up on Joe's front porch, Joe
hadn't asked her to stay and make a real marriage with him.  What he'd
done hadn't been done out of love.  He'd saved her life only because he
was a decent fellow with a few heroic impulses, the same heroic
impulses that had compelled him to take in his niece and fight for her.
Heroism wasn't the same thing as love.

But meanwhile she felt like hell.  Don't think about it, she ordered
herself.  Get through the trial and then you can plan the rest of your
life.

Through the lilting strings of the Allegro first movement, she heard
the doorbell ring.  In the week she'd been back, a few neighbors had
dropped by to see how she was doing.  Her colleagues at Murtaugh
Associates had sent her flowers, and Richard Duffy had phoned to tell
her the strip-mall project was coming along nicely.  She'd spent
several evenings at her parents' house and a day reviewing her
testimony with her attorney and the DA.  By now, she figured, anyone
who had wanted to welcome her home would have done so.

She stood, smoothed the sash of her silk robe around her waist and
crossed barefoot to the door.  Peeking through the peephole, she saw
more flowers.  She won-clered why the doorman hadn't accepted the
delivery for her or signaled through the intercom that she had a
visitor.

Pamela carefully slid the chain lock into place before she cracked the
door open and peered out.

The flowers were roses.  The delivery man was Jonas Brenner.

"Hi, Pain," he said.

He looked remarkably tan compared to the sun-deprived citizens of
Seattle.  His hair was the wondrous tawny shade she remembered, thick
and much too long.  His eyes were the marvelous blue she'd fallen in
love with.  His earring was the same dangling ornament he'd worn at
their wedding: a tiny gold heart.

And then there were the roses, three of them.  Red.  Pamela released
the chain and opened the door wider.  "Come in," she said, feeling
unexpectedly awkward.  She had to mind herself that Jonas Brenner was
her husband.  But her life in Key West seemed so far away, so alien to
her life in Seattle.  Joe didn't belong here.

He spped inside.  He had obviously groomed him.  qelf carefully for
thi.  q visit.  His cheeks were freshly shaven,

and he wore his khaki trousers and a crisp white shirt.  As he handed
her the flowers, he serutiniTed her intensely.  "You look awful," he
said.

She ought to have been insultl, but she only smiled weakly.  Leave it
to Joe to opt for honesty.  She d/d look awful, and she knew it.  "I've
had a long day," she explained, crossing to the credenza to find a bud
vase.

"Today was your first day of testimony, wasn't it?"  She had phoned him
a few days ago to let him know, in the vaguest terms, what was going
on.  She'd talked for a few minutes about the trial and asked how
Lizard was doing.  Joe hadn't told her he missed her, and she'd tried
to convince herself afterward that it was just as well.

Answering his question with a nod, she went to the wet bar to add water
to the vase.  Then she set the flowers on the coffee table.  Three was
an unusual number--roses usually came singly or in dozens.  Staring at
the graceful trio of buds made her think of the Brenner family: Jonas,
Lard and Pamela.

Except that the Brenner family was no longer a trio.

"Would you like a drink?"  she asked, the perfect hostess.

Joe continued to stare at her, his smile contradicted by the frown
pinching his brow.  "You really look terrible, Pam."

"Thanks," she said, forcing a laugh.  "I'm so glad you traveled all
this way to ll me.  Where are you staying, by the way?"  She'd be
damned if she would put him up for the night, not when he was standing
in her living room insulting her.

"Are you sick?"  he persisted.

"Seriously, Jonas--why are you here?"

"To see you," he answered simply.  "This is some swanky place you've
got."

"Thank you."  That was exactly what it was: a swanky place.  Elegant,
sterile, swanky.

"It wouldn't survive ten seconds with Lizard in it," he remarked,
appraising the glass-topped tables and the modern sculptures.

"Did you bring her with you?"

"No.  She's staying with Birdie."  He eyed a chair, and Pamela
indicated with a wave that he ought to sit.  She lowered herself back
onto the couch and brushed her hair out of her face.  "I'm worried
about you," he said.

"I'm safe," she assured him.  "No more hit men are after me.  I know I
look like hell, but as you said yourself, I've been testifying all day,
sharing a courtroom with Mick Morrow.  I"

"No," Joe cut her off.  "I'm worried about you.  The one time you
called, you talked about everything but us.  When I got off the phone,
I just had this--I don't know, this premonition that you weren't coming
back."

Pamela studied him in the clear light from her halogen floor lamp.  He
appeared apprehensive.  "A premonition?"

"Damn it, pam--I don't want to force you into anything, but we've got
to talk.  You've been gone a week, and Lizard's been moping, and I..."
A helpless laugh escaped him.  "I've been moping, too.  I don't know--I
didn't think this was the sort of thing we ought to talk about on the
phone.  So I came to Seattle to ask you, are you coming back?"

Beg me to and I will, she almost said.  "I don't know."

"Maybe the Seattle climate isn't good for you.  You look so pale."

"I'm not pale."

"Have you been having nightmares about that ass who attacked you at my
house?"

"No."  She'd been having nightmares about how she was going to
straighten out her life.

"Then what is it?  What's going on?"

"I told you.  The trial, the testimony" -- "Trials and testimony don
make you pale."  "I'm pregnant," she said.

The first movement of the symphony chose that moment to end, leaving
the living room in silence.  Joe's eyes grew bright with astonishment.
"You're kidding."

"No.  I'm not."

"You mean from that time on the screened porch?"

"That was the only time there was," she pointt out.  "Why didn't you
tell me?"

"I was going to," she hedged.  "I just found out.  After the trial was
behind me, and..  :' Damn it, Joe dc-served equal honesty from her.  "
Maybe I wasn't going to tell you.  Our marriage wasn't a love match,
Jonas.  We both got what we wan text from it.  We had agreed from the
start that we would get a divorce as soon as you had Lizard free and
clear and I was no longer running for my life.  Well, you've got
Lizard, and Mick's going to be convicted this time, and I'm not going
to force you to remain in a marriage that was never meant to be.  "

He practically flew out of his chair and dived onto the couch next to
her.  That she'd kept the news from him didn't seem to matter to him.
That she'd chosen not to pressure him to accept a responsibility he
might not want eemed to have no signifieanc.  He hauled her into his
arms, onto his lap and kissed her with such vchemenc she couldn't
breathe.

He was grinning when he pulled back.  "We're having a baby?  I can't
believe it!  Man, how many parties can we hold at the Shipwreck?  My
pals are gonna start getting sick of them."

"What party?"  His kiss had shaken her deeply.  It was full of passion,
full of exuberance--full, perhaps, of male pride.  But where was the
love?  "Jonas, this baby"

"Our baby," he whispered reverently.

Evidently he wasn't thinking of all the implications, all the
obligations.  "We didn't plan it, Jonas.  It was an accident.  I'm not
going to hold you"

"You damned well are going to hold me," he re-totted--and in fact she
was holding him.  If she let go, she might tumble off his lap and onto
the glass-topped table.  "When are you due?"

"March."

"Wow."  He kissed her again, more tenderly.  His lips caressed her
mouth, her cheeks, her brow.  He skimmed one hand down her body,
tracing the curve of her breast before he came to rest against her
still-flat abdomen.  "Oh, Pam... are you still allowed to have sex?"

"Allowed?  You mean, because I'm pregnant?"  She hadn't even thought to
question the doctor about that.  Sex hadn't seemed a very real
possibility until Joe had walked through her door.

"Later," he murmured, kissing her lips again, so sweetly, so softly,
she felt herself go sweet and soft inside.  Why later?  she wanted to
ask.  Why not right now, this instant?

No.  Just because he could turn her on with a few kisses didn't mean
everything was right between them.  They wouldn't have sex this
instant, and they wouldn't have it later.  Not unless they'd worked a
few things out.

Joe was apparently already trying to do that on his own.  "You're gonna
have to give up that bedroom at the end of the hall, you know.  We'll
need it for a nursery."

"Slow down, Jonas."  She eased out of his arms and shoved herself to
her feet.  Joe still hadn't even hinted that

he loved her.  How daze he rearrange her living space?  "What makes
you so sure I want to go back to Key West afir I'm done here?  This is
my home.  This 'swanky place," as you call it, is my home.  "

He surveyed the spacious, hnpeccably decorml room and snoraxt.  "You
really want to live here?  Lizard would hate it."

Pamela couldn't argue with that.  "Maybe."

"It's so... so cold," he concluded.  Then, reading her dissatisfaction,
he switched gears.  "But we can work it out.  I'm sure there are bars
here.  I could get good money if I sold the Shipwreck, and maybe I
could find an tablishment to invest in here.  Or I'd md bar for som-one
else.  I mean, it's awfully rainy here, and I bet the beaches can't
compare to what we've got--to say nothing of the fact that you can
probably go Swimming only about two months out of the year.  But at
least you wouldn't have to worry about Lizard running around bare-ass.
She'd be too cold."

It wasn't just Seattle's climate Joe was talking about, Pamela reslix].
It was her condomlnilxm, chilly in the absence of a child, in the
absence of noise and havoc and

"You'd rather live in Key West than Seattle, wouldn't you?"  she
said.

Joe grew solemn.  "I'd rather live with you," he said.

"Whe doesn't mater."

"Do you mean that?"

He gathered her hand in both of his and pulled her back onto the sofa
next to him.  This time he didn't kiss her, but simply held her hand
sandwiched between his.  His thumb traced the thick gold band he'd
placed on her finger less than three months agx "Until you left, I

wasn lt sure," he admitted.  " But once you wer go Lizard and I could
hardly function.  The house t d fe rent It felt empty.  " He sighed.  "
I didn't want to dc number on you, so I tried to et end I didn't mind
yo being gone.  I figured you were glad to be rid of me.  I': no
bargain.  "

"Who would want a bargain for a husband?"  s] teased gertfly.

"But..:' He let out a long, pensive sigh.  " Truth is, I, a selfish
guy.  And Lizard is a very selfish kid.  And need you.  Both of us.  "
He sent her a meek grin.  " I more than her.  "

"Ifs nice to be needed," she conceded.  When he di& speak, she avin-ied
her eyes, wlling him not to see h disappointment.  "But being needed
isn't enoug Ionas."

He slid his hand under her chin and guided her ga back to his.  He was
smiling, but it was the most earn soulful Rile she'd ever seen.  "You
want to hear me I love you?  Of course I love you.  I thought that was
ol vious that night on the porch."

"What happened on the porch wasn't love," she gued.  "It was sex."

"It was a hell of a lot more than sex" , he shot back, eyes straying to
her abdomen.  "As it turns out, it w more than even I realized.  But
Pain..."  He lifted his ga to her face once more.  The amusement in his
eyes w gone, replaced by ardent sincerity.  "I fell in love with yl
when you lit into me about Lizard.  You cared as mu about har as I did,
and I mi-t that nothing else nu tered.  You were the worn ira for me
Making love was o my body telling you what was in my heart."

This time it was Pamela's idea to snuggle into his lap, to cover his
mouth with hers and kiss him, deeply, passionately, her lips telling
him what was in her heart.  He responded with pleasure, with arousal,
with love.

"You want our baby?"  he murmured once they'd come up for air.  He
cradled her cheeks in his hands and peered intently into her eyes.

"Yes," she swore.  "Do you?"

"More than just about anything."  He kissed her again, a light, sweet
kiss.  "How much longer do you have to stay in Seattle?  I want you
home."

"I want to come home."  She sighed.  "Just a few more days of testimony
and then they'll let me leave."

"I could stay a fw days," he told her.  "I could even meet those
wonderful in-laws you tell me I've got."

"We could exchange vows in my parents' church."  "If you want to."

"I want to," Pamela said, resting her head on Joe's strong, firm
shoulder.  It wouldn't have to be the formal white wedding she'd always
dreamed of.  She'd already had a wedding--a strange, funky, wonderful
wedding.  And when all was said and done, a wedding wasn't as important
as the marriage it created.

She closed her eyes, feeling content for the first time since the
doctor had told her she was pregnant, since the DA had told her Mick
Morrow's trial was going forward, since she'd fled Seattle for Key West
so many weeks ago--since she'd been old enough to imagine falling in
love.  She couldn't really say her life was under control, but having
her life under control no longer seemed terribly important.

"You think the church organist can play " Stand by Me'?  " Joe as10d.

"If she can't, we'll sing it ourselves."

"Yeah," he agreed, then kissed her lips and tightened his arms around
her.  "We'll sing it, and then we'll go home together."

Pamela felt as if her marriage was truly starting right now, in Joe's
embrace, with his baby in her belly and his love in her soul.  "Yes,"
she vowed.  "We'll go home together."

They take chances, make changes and follow their hearts!

FORBIDDEN

by Ellen James

Having proposed marriage and been turned down flat, Dana Morgan says to
hell with security, her ex-lover and her old life.  Out for adventure,
she's prepared for difficulties and discomfort---and she's eagerly
looking forward to the unpredictable.

What she isn't prepared for is Nick Petrie.  Talk about unpredictable.
And Nick knows it; in fact, he enjoys his reputation.  While Dana tells
him to his face that he's a "royal pain," privately she has to admit
he's the handsomest, sexiest, most exciting man she's ever met.
Unfortunately, Nick swears there's no room in his life for love.

Dana's taking the chance that he's wrong.

Watch for Forbidden by Ellen James.  Available in April 1995, wherever
Harlequin books are sold.

Harlequin invites you to the most romantic wedding of the season.

Rope the cowboy of your dreams in

Marry Me, Cowboy.  *

A collection of 4 brand-new stories, celebrating weddings, written
by:

New York Times best selling author

JM TDAILEY

and favorite authors eM ll lister Su ln 0x

Be sure not to miss Marry Me, Cowboy!

coming this April

A Superromance book.

THE SECRET YEARS

br

Margot Dalton

Kate Daniels is beginning to regret her impulsive move to the small
town of Fox Creek, Alberta.  The locals are less than friendly and seem
determined to thwart Kate's efforts to revive the old Fox Creek Inn.
Only the mysterious--and gorgeous--Nathan Cameron is prepared to help.
Then Kate finds a 'easure hidden in the walls of her hotel--a diary
kept by another young woman who had come alone to Fox Creek ninety
years ago.  From the diary, Kate learns answers to questions that have
plagued her since her arrival.  Answers that cause her to view Nathan
Cameron in an entirely new light.  Watch for TH SECR by Margot
Dalton.

Available April 1995, wherever

Harlequin Superromance books are sold.

SHOW4

HARLEQ .  UIN SUPER ROMANCE

He's sexy, he's single .  and he's a father!

Can any woman resist?

First Love, Second Chance

By Amanda Clark

Julia Marshall is leaving New York City and going back to the
Pennsylvania town where she grew up---even if there's not much to go
back for.  She'd been raised by cold, unloving foster parents.  And
she'd been betrayed by Tommy Black, the love of her teenage years. He'd
promised to wait for her, to marry her, to love her forever.  And he
hadn't.  Now, ten years later, Tommy's a family man--with a family of
two, consisting of him and his five-yoar-old daughter, Charlotte,
better known as Chipper.  When Julia comes back to town, Tommy
discovers that he'd like nothing better than to make that a family of
three .  Watch for First Love, Second Chance in April.  Available
wherever Harlequin books are sold.

Introduces

Laura Abbot

This talented author's first Superromance, Mating for Life, appears in
April 1995.  You'll meet Josie Calhoun and Mackenzie Scott-and their
story will involve you, move you and warm your heart!

Watch for it next month, wherever Harlequin books are sold.

HARLEC)UIN SUPERROMANC

COMING NEXT MONTH

#638

THE SECRET YEARS Margot Dalton (Superromance Showcase)

Kate Daniels is beginning to regret her impulsive move to th small town
of Wolf Hill, Alberta.  The locals-including gor Nathan Cameron--seem
determined to stop her from re nova the old Wolf Hill Hotel.  Then Kate
finds an ally: a woman never met but whose diary, written almost a
hundred years a teaching Kate all about her new town--and the elusive
Cam

#639 MATING FOR LIFE Laura Abbot

Sometimes you can go home again.  Josie Calhoun returns t Kansas to
spend time with her newly widowed grandfather.  Then she meets
Mackenzie Scott, and for the first time finds herself believing in a
forever-after love--a love like the one grandparents shared . Harlequin
Superromance introduces Laura Abbot, a tale rite new writer.

FIRST LOVE, SECOND CHANCE Amanda Clark (Family Man)

Tommy Black overcame his wild, reckless youth, because o his
six-year-old daughter, Chipper.  His life is complete exce for one
thing--he never got over his first love, Julia Marsha Ten years ago,
he'd betrayed her and she left town for good.  now, Julia's back and
Tommy has a second chance.  And wit Chipper on his side, he knows he
won't blow this one!

#641

FORBIDDEN Ellen James

Dana has said to hell with security, her ex-lover and her old life. Now
she's out for adventure and determined to prove s doesn't need a man. 
Just as well, as her instincts warn her t[ it's dangerous to need
anything at all from ill-tempered but remarkably sexy Nick Petrie, a
man who swears by his priw A man who's sworn off love.

AVAILABLE NOW:

g634 CRY UNCLE

35 MARRY ME TONIGHT

Marisa Carroll

#636 THE WRONG TWIN

Rebecca Winters

#637 ADAM THEN AND N

Vicki Lewis Thompson