PAYBACCK
by
RJ KAISER


Watch for R.J. Kaiser's newest blockbuster

JANE DOE

Coming in June 1999

only from MIRA Books

PAYBACCK

by RJ KAISER

ISBN 1-55166-460-7

PAYBACK

Copyright C 1998 by Belles-lettres, Inc.

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, MIRA Books, 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.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and
registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent
and Trademark Office and in other countries.

Printed In U.S.A.

For

Linda and Dennis Clear

Mary Jones and Kingsley Macomber

Linda Klein and Dave Thomas

Lori Moreland and John Abbot

A special thanks to Taylor Carey--sailor, scholar, gentleman and
friend.

Friday

September 27th

Miami international Airport

The Mercedes lurched to an abrupt halt in front of the terminal
building, its tires screeching, causing heads to turn.  Grabbing his
carry-on bag, he stepped from the car without a word to the driver and
went through the doors, moving briskly, all the while calculating,
turning the problem over again in his mind.

He hated doing things half-assed, but the woman had given them little
choice.  There'd been just enough time to make the necessary phone
calls to St.  Thomas during the frantic rush to the airport.  Maybe his
plan would work, maybe it wouldn't.  The woman was rich and no fool,
but she had her vulnerabilities.  Every woman did.  Oscar Barbadillo
was confident about that.  He had a nose for women.  Still, this one
held the key to a hell of a lot of money.

He could see by the arrival-and-departure board that her flight was
late.  Good.  A bit more time.  Oscar went to first-class check-in. His
ticket was waiting, everything in order.

"You're all set, sir," the agent said, handing him his ticket with his
seating assignment,

"Is the flight full?"  he asked.

The agent, a short roundish Latina with bottle-blond hair, shook her
head.  "Not completely.  There are a few seats left in coach."

"First class?"

She checked her computer screen.  "About half."

Oscar leaned over the counter, lowering his voice as he gazed deeply
into her eyes.  "I would like to sit next to a particular passenger, if
possible.  A friend, Stephanie Reymond.  She's coming in on a flight
from San Francisco in a few minutes.  I forgot to ask whether she was
in coach or first class."

The woman regarded him uneasily, the corners of her eyes twitching ever
so slightly.  "What was the name again, sir?"

"Stephanie Reymond."  He spelled it.

"R-E-Y-M-O-N-D."

She scanned the screen, furrowing her brow, unconsciously fiddling with
the tiny gold crucifix on the chain at her neck.  Oscar inhaled her
perfume from across the counter, aware that she was aware.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Barbadillo," she said, "we don't have a passenger
listed by that name.  Not in coach or first class."

He was surprised.  "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."  She met his eyes, but they flickered away after a few
moments.

Stephanie Reymond was probably traveling under a different name, he
realized.  Of course.  She would be careful.  After all, the woman had
twenty million dollars of their money.

"How many passengers are connecting from the San Francisco flight to
this one?"  he asked.

She hesitated.  "Six."

"How many are woman?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I really can't share that sort of information."

He reached into his pocket, then laid his hand on the counter, parting
his fingers enough to expose a hundred-dollar bill.  "What harm is
there in a number?"  he asked softly.

The agent glanced up and down the ticket counter, then slid the bill
out of sight.  She worked on her terminal for several moments.

"You can't always be sure by names, but it looks to me like two."

"Either of them traveling alone?"

The agent bit her lip.  "I've tried to be helpful, sir, because she's
your friend, but I really shouldn't say any more.  I don't want to lose
my job."

His eyes hardened.  "You've already lost it, sweetheart.  But for the
right name, I can see that you get your job back, and there's always
this for your Christmas fund," he said, producing another
hundred-dollar bill.

"Please," she said, her expression imploring.

He pushed the hundred over the edge of the counter.  "If one of them's
a woman traveling alone, I'd like her name."

The agent looked as if she was going to break into tears.  She twisted
her gold chain around her finger, chewing on her lip.

"Whisper it," he said.  "It won't hurt.  I promise."

The woman looked again at the computer screen, her eyes shimmering.
"Jane Turner," she murmured.

"Thank you," Oscar Barbadillo said without smiling.  "And Merry
Christmas."

He left the ticket counter, his bag in hand.  Walking along, he
wondered if his stupid fucking cousin had a picture of Stephanie
Reymond that might be faxed and, if so, whether there was time to get
it before the flight.  Probably not, though he'd call San Francisco and
see.  Oscar checked his watch and started searching for a phone.

This was all Rico's fault, no two ways about it.  Oscar hated the
stupid bastard and couldn't understand why his uncle Julius didn't just
lock the idiot up in some corner office with a bimbo secretary and let
him fuck her brains out.  That was all Rico was good for--that and
playing big man with his gangster friends.

Stephanie noticed him watching her.  Normally she didn't pay much
attention to men in public, but this one was hard to ignore.  He was
good-looking, Latin--she assumed Cuban.  He had presence, a blatant
sexuality that was apparent in the way he stood, the way he moved. 
What concerned her was that there was something dangerous about him,
too. Menacing, though it was hard to say why.

She knew she had to guard against paranoia.  If he was going to arrest
her or shoot her, there wasn't much she could do about it.  Maybe her
luck had finally run out Or the guy might be an ordinary pervert,
preying on a woman alone.

She consulted the wall clock.  It was a few minutes past seven in the
morning.  Her flight to St.  Thomas wouldn't leave for a while.  Would
he be on it?  she wondered.  That would tell her more about what he was
up to.

Stephanie Reymond wasn't the type men pursued in public.  Not that she
wasn't attractive, but she was over forty, understated and she never
flirted.  Polite, pleasant and proper--her mother's three marks of a
lady, the three P's.  That was the philosophy she'd lived by through
over twenty years of marriage.  Which only served to remind her that
she had much bigger problems than a man leering at her.

There was no question they would be looking for her.  Had she escaped
San Francisco undetected?  That was the critical question.  The trouble
was, she was so exhausted her mind was a muddle.  The night before,
she'd gotten a few fitful hours of rest in that motel in San Rafael,
and she'd had an hour nap yesterday afternoon, killing time before her
flight.  Five or six hours' sleep in forty-eight.  It wasn't nearly
enough.

The Cuban, broad-shouldered in a tailored sport coat, his angular face
coldly handsome, moved to a seat on the opposite side of the waiting
area.  When she glanced his way, and their eyes met, the intensity in
his gaze unnerved her.  She tried staring him down, but she wasn't
tough enough.  He won.

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably and recrossed her legs.  More
passengers began arriving and she tried to put him from her mind.  God
knew, the events of the past few days had given her plenty to think
about.  She was now a widow, though it hardly seemed possible.

If she felt any guilt at all, it was because she couldn't feel bad.
Jean Claud had not only been unfaithful, he'd betrayed her with her
sister and put her life in jeopardy.  So, maybe she was entitled to
hate him.  Now that she thought about it, maybe she was glad he was
dead, too.  One thing was sure, he had certainly disabused her of any
illusions.

About a month before, when she'd seen Audrey about filing for divorce,
her friend was amazed when she admitted that she hadn't slept with Jean
Claud in years.

"No sex at all?"  Audrey had said.  "Five years?"

"Audrey, I haven't had sex in five years.  Which is not to say that
Jean Claud hasn't."

"Honey, you need more than a divorce."

That was, of course, true.  But Stephanie was too embarrassed to admit
that she and Jean Claud had never had much of a sex life.  Or that he
was the only man she had ever slept with.

Her problem wasn't a lack of opportunity.  She'd been propositioned a
number of times, once even with Jean Claud's collaboration.  That had
been the low point of their marriage Until a few days ago.  She had
been thirty at the time, and Zanny was finally old enough for them to
vacation without her.  One of Jean Claud's investor clients, Tom Ashby,
had invited them to his chalet near Aspen.  She'd expected several
couples, but there was only Tom.  The second afternoon, while she was
skiing, Jean Claud returned to San Francisco on a "business emergency."
She'd spent the next two days fighting off Tom's unwanted advances
before she managed to get on a flight home.

Jean Claud's nonchalant response upon her return told her all she'd
ever need to know about the man she'd married.  "It's not like you have
much of a sex life," he'd intoned in that lofty French accent of his,
hardly bothering to put down his

Wall Street Journal.  "And I always had the impression you liked
Tom."

"Dear God!"  she'd exclaimed, incredulous.  "You told him he could have
me?"

"Not in so many words.  I simply explained that we led separate lives
and that I thought you might be interested.  I obviously was
mistaken."

She'd stood in the front room of their house, still in her ski clothes,
sputtering.  "I can't believe this," she'd said, crying, utterly
humiliated.  "How could you?"

"I made a mistake," he'd replied evenly.  "You won't accept it' I'm
sure, but it was meant as a kindness."

"To whom?  Tom or me?"

"Stephanie," he'd said, irritated, "you, of course."

"I just want to know one thing," she'd said, trembling, tears flowing.
"Was I part of the package on some investment?  Did you offer me as an
incentive?"

"Absolutely not.  It came about over several martinis.  Tom told me he
was very attracted to you and I told him... about our situation."

"Our situation," she'd said' her teeth clenched, her nails digging into
her palms.  "You mean that I'm so deprived I'd screw any man my husband
shoved in my direction?"

"Stephanie, I've admitted I was wrong.  You have my apology.  Now, can
we let it go?"

She'd stomped from the room and didn't speak to him for three months.
If it hadn't been for their daughter, she'd have divorced him right
then.  But she couldn't saddle Zanny with a broken home, especially
considering how close the girl and Jean Claud were.  Parenting had been
the one bright spot in their marriage.  They both adored their child.
Still, the incident had taught her one thing--between them, the
marriage was unquestionably over.

Stephanie knew she had to take a share of the responsibility.  It was
her fault she'd been pregnant when they married, and she'd made the
decision to put her family first.  Had Zanny not been severely
asthmatic, Stephanie might have pursued a career as an accountant.  But
the demands of parenting a sickly child had been great, so she'd
limited her activities to charity work and a place on the board of the
Stanford Alumni Association.  Zanny and Jean Claud had been happy, and
she tried hard to make that enough.  But it wasn't.  For years she'd
been kidding herself.

Eventually, Tom Ashby became a footnote in their marriage.  Jean Claud
had gone on, unfazed.  Perhaps it was that, as much as what he'd
actually done, that she found so wounding.  And that was why, twelve
years later, she could still resent him for it.

Of course, marrying Jean Claud had been a dreadful mistake, though it
had taken years for her to fully accept that.  He'd been her professor
at Stanford, so cool, detached, cerebral.  A young bachelor in his
thirties, with an untarnished reputation, Jean Claud had wooed her ever
so subtly, his quiet aloofness quintessentially old world and brimming
with rectitude and savoir faire.  She'd blamed herself when she'd
gotten pregnant and was so grateful when he'd stepped forward to do the
right thing that it had never occurred to her that they didn't belong
together, that they'd worked out absolutely nothing and, for that
matter, that she didn't know the man's heart and never would--not even,
it turned out, at the bitter end.

If the lack of love and Jean Claud's insensitivity hadn't killed the
marriage, the death of their daughter definitely had.  For a year now
Stephanie had lived with the terrible image of Zanny's battered body
lying on that gurney in the hospital morgue.  The girl had only been
nineteen, a sophomore at Stanford, when she was taken from them by a
tragic, senseless auto accident.  Yet, despite her terrible pain,
Stephanie had realized, even as they buried their child, that she and
Jean Claud no longer had a reason to go on.

And the definitive proof of that had come this week.  It was amazing
how innocently it had begun.  On Wednesday--God, could it only have
been two days ago?--she'd told Jean Claud that she was heading to
Stanford for an alumni meeting.  She'd stay in Palo Alto with a friend
and wouldn't be back until the next day.  Then, after he'd left for his
office, she'd sneaked into his study for a look at his computer files.
Audrey had told her it was imperative that she get some idea about Jean
Claud's finances before she filed for divorce.  Her friend and lawyer
had been horrified when Stephanie told her she didn't exactly know what
they were worth or where, precisely, he'd invested her money.

"A lot of it's in those start-up companies of his," she'd said.  "He's
done very well for me.  My money's growing in leaps and bounds.  At
least, that's what Jean Claud's said."

Audrey's expression had been absolutely scathing.  Stephanie had felt
like the biggest fool alive.  Modern women did not blindly put
everything in their husband's hands.  This was the eve of the
twenty-first century, for God's sake!

All true, of course, but Jean Claud had been very old-fashioned.  And
unyielding.  They'd struck a deal early on, and he had scrupulously
lived up to his end of the bargain.  He'd married her, provided for
her, asking nothing in return except that she maintain their home and
raise their child.  Her charitable endeavors had been exemplary,
universally lauded.  Stephanie Reymond was known as the matriarch of
the Stanford Alumni Association and was directly responsible for
millions in donations to the endowment.

But here she was, sneaking around her own house, feeling like a thief.
Eventually she'd screwed up her courage and turned on his computer. His
files were protected by a password, but she'd managed to figure out his
code.  After trying "Suzanne," Zanny's real name, and "Yvonne," his
mother's name, she'd tried the name of the town in France where he was
born and his brother's name.  None worked.  Then she had tried Jean
Claud's pet names for their daughter.  "chou-chou" and "petit amour"
failed before Stephanie finally struck gold with "Zanny."  As if by
magic, the directory of all his files opened up.

Everything was there--bank accounts, personal stock portfolios, even
funds he'd squirreled away in France.  She felt a curious elation.
Never would she have thought all those hours studying accounting at
Stanford would bring her to this.  Except for the annual reports of
charitable organizations, these were the first books of accounts she
had seen in years.  Wouldn't Jean Claud love the irony.

She realized at once that she'd stumbled on a wealth of information.
Knowing Jean Claud's balance sheet would make Audrey's day, she copied
the files.  She was about to turn off the computer when she noticed a
miscellaneous folder in the directory.  Out of curiosity, she opened
it.

At first it appeared to be another investment portfolio, but the sums
were greater, the values of various blocks of stock running well into
the millions.  Was this the treasure Audrey thought Jean Claud might
have hidden away?

Stephanie began to see this was no ordinary portfolio.  Rather, it
appeared to be a parallel set of books to those of his venture capital
firm.  Included were careful records of the flow of funds, the sources
and amounts.  This was a secret record of off-the-books transactions of
gargantuan proportions.  The source of most of the funds was listed
under a company in Long Beach, California, Inter-America Ventures--a
name that meant nothing to her.  She wasn't sure, but it was starting
to look as though Jean Claud was hiding the true source of the funds he
was investing in various start-up ventures.  Why?  she wondered.

Stephanie made copies of Jean Claud's files.  Part of her agonized over
having snooped, but Audrey was right--there was no point in litigating
under a severe disadvantage.  Audrey had been elated when she'd called
with the news that she'd gotten the financial data.  But when Stephanie
had dropped the bomb about the secret investment portfolio, she was met
with stunned silence.

"Audrey?"

"Steph, we've got a problem."

"What sort of problem?"

"Remember the detective I hired to check into Jean Claud's business
affairs, Hal Sedman?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me he was going to L.A. to follow up a lead he'd
uncovered in connection with Jean Claud's business."

"So?"

"He never reported back to me, which is unusual.  So I called his
office this afternoon."

"And?"

"Hal's body was found last night in San Pedro Bay.  The police believe
he was tortured and murdered."

"Oh my God."

"There's no way to be sure it has to do with our case, because Hal
didn't say Jean Claud was the only reason he was going to L.A. But
something else happened this morning that leads me to believe there is
a connection."

Stephanie felt her chest tighten.  "What, Audrey?"

"Last night our office was broken into.  We thought maybe it was a
petty crime at first, somebody looking for computer equipment or
whatever.  But the burglars seemed to be interested in my files.  The
police thought it was done by professionals.  They asked if I was
involved in any sensitive litigation.  I told them I had several
divorce actions and custody cases in progress, and some routine
estate-planning work, but nothing that would cause anyone to break into
my office.  But that was before I heard about Hal Sedman and Jean
Claud's portfolio."

"You think there's a connection?"

"It depends.  Do you have any idea where this Inter America Ventures
outfit is located?"

"Long Beach."

"That's what I was afraid of.  Could be Inter-America was what Hal
stumbled onto."

Stephanie felt sick.

"The worst part"' Audrey went on, "is that Hal was tortured.  Somebody
wanted information out of him, and my guess is they got it.  Like I
said, that doesn't necessarily mean it had to do with our case, but
with my office broken into the night his body was found, you've got to
wonder."

"Audrey, you don't think Jean Claud is mixed up in a murder, do you?"

"Honey, I don't know what to think.  It could be whoever killed Hal was
breaking into my office to find out who has an interest in Jean Claud
Reymond's dealings.  I hope I'm wrong, but it's all starting to fit."

"So what should I do?"  Stephanie asked.

"I think you should go somewhere for a couple of days.  Monterrey or
someplace like that."

"What'll I tell Jean Claud?"

"The less the better."

Stephanie had agonized over whether to run, as Audrey suggested, or
simply confront Jean Claud.  She wouldn't mention the files or the
murder in L.A."  but she hungered to tell him the marriage was over.

After packing, she took a good long walk to think things through.  It
was midafternoon by the time she returned.  She'd decided to leave town
and was at her desk in her bedroom, composing a note to Jean claud,
when she heard his car in the driveway.  Why, of all days, had he
chosen today to come home early?

Jean Claud left his Jaguar in the driveway, which meant he wouldn't
know that her car was still in the garage and that she hadn't left.  If
he assumed she wasn't home, she'd be able to avoid a confrontation.

Moments later, she heard the front door open and close.

Opening the bedroom door to see if he was coming upstairs, she was
surprised to hear his voice.  Then she realized he was on the phone.
She went to the extension on the bedside table and carefully lifted the
receiver.  It was a woman's voice she heard initially, but by the time
she got the phone to her ear, Jean Claud was speaking.

"I haven't time to talk now, darling," he said, "I've got an important
call to make."

The woman on the other end of the line sighed.  "Oh, Jean Claud."

The words were murmured, the sounds brief, but there was something
familiar about the voice.  Stephanie listened intently, the color in
her cheeks rising.  But it was Jean Claud's voice she heard again.

"Hey," he said, "don't give me a hard time.  Stephanie's down at
Stanford for an alumni meeting and she won't be home until tomorrow. We
can spend the night together.  Meet me at the beach house in a couple
of hours.  Say, six-thirty.  That'll give me time to take care of my
business and get over to the coast."

Again the caller sighed.

He chuckled.  "I'll be there as quickly as I can.  But now I must go.
Ciao.  I love you."  And then he hung up.

Stephanie, her hand trembling, set the receiver back in the cradle.
Jean Claud had a lover.  And he was meeting her at the beach house!
Suzanne's favorite place on earth.  The bastard wouldn't, he couldn't.
They'd practically designated it a shrine after Zanny's death.  It was
like thumbing his nose at what little they held sacred.

She sat on the bed, trying to pull herself together.  Before she did
anything, she would wait for him to leave.  Even if he came upstairs,
it was unlikely he would come to her room.  He hadn't so much as stuck
his head in the door since Zanny's funeral.

Again she heard his voice, stole to the phone and lifted the receiver.
This time it was a man talking with her husband.  She assumed Jean
Claud was making a business call.  She was about to hang up when the
mystery voice turned angry.

"Reymond, you don't realize how serious this is.  Julius Behring won't
accept the fact that the money's gone, that it was a bad investment."

"What choice does he have?  He's not the only one who lost on that
deal.  Some very good clients of mine also took a bath."

"You don't get it, do you?"  the man said.  "If Julius Behring invests
money with you, he's your best client by definition.  He expects to be
first in line."

"Dave, you know how venture capital works.  There are risks
involved."

"Don't you remember I told you these people expect a decent return, and
if they get it, the money will begin to flow and it won't stop?  We've
got to find a way to make them whole."

"How?"  Jean Claud lamented, sounding less confident than usual.  "You
want me to steal it from other investors?"

"You're the investment guru, not me, Reymond.  I'm the guy with the
connections, remember?  I promised you money, a little dirty on the
edges, maybe, but lots of it.  Well, I delivered.  Now you've got to
step up and make sure things work out."

"Dear God."

"And another thing.  They want to know who in the hell you've been
blabbing to about their deal."

"What do you mean?"

"Some PI.  has been snooping around, asking questions about
Inter-America Ventures, embarrassing questions."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jean Claud said.

"They seem to think you do.  For your information, Professor, the
sonovabitch was found floating in San Pedro Bay.  The same thing could
happen to us."

Stephanie's mouth dropped open.

"I'm warning you," the man continued, "these guys play for keeps and
they've got very nasty friends.  I thought I made it clear--the only
risk with these guys is pissing them off."

"But I haven't spoken to anyone about this," Jean Claud moaned.
"Honestly, I have no idea why anyone would involve a private
investigator."

"Well, Julius has got to figure it's either you or me or somebody we
talk to."

"Like who?"

"Like your wife, for example."

Stephanie's blood went cold.

"Why would Stephanie hire a detective to check up on my business
dealings?  She couldn't care less."

"Maybe she's divorcing you, Reymond," the man said.  "Or has that never
occurred to you?"

There was a silence.  "It's possible, I suppose."  Stephanie flushed.
She began trembling, her hand shaking so violently she could barely
hang on to the receiver.

"Okay," her husband said, sounding surprisingly cool-headed.  "Give me
the bottom line.  How much time do I have?"

"With luck, I can buy a day or two."

"There's no way I can raise that kind of money that fast."

"That's not an answer the Behrings want to hear.  When I talked to the
son, Rico, he was so livid he told me you'd better deliver or you'd
find a stick of dynamite crammed up your ass.  That's a direct quote,
by the way."

"Look, Dave, I've got somewhere around thirty million dollars coming
out of a company that's going public next month.  Halcyon Technologies.
Tell the Behrings they can have half their money out of that."

"Half in a month?  Promising all of it in two weeks probably won't earn
a return call," Dave said.  "Eight days ago they said a week, remember?
You're lucky you're alive."

"What kind of people are these?  You told me they were businessmen."

"They are.  But the son, Rico, is a nutcase.  He loves having men
around him with guns.  Killers fascinate him.  He said that once, right
to my face."

"Dear God."  Jean Claud said again.  "Surely this Rico can see that
killing me won't get their money back.  Just talk to him, Dave. 
Halcyon is going to be a winner, guaranteed."

"I'll try.  But I can't make any promises.  I'll tell you this,
Reymond, you'd be smart to pack your bags, just in case."

The conversation ended.  Stephanie replaced the receiver.  She wasn't
sure what Jean Claud was involved in, but in the course of fifteen
minutes, one thing had become patently clear--the man downstairs was an
absolute, complete stranger.

The passenger agent announced the flight on the public-address system.
Searching out the Cuban, Stephanie saw that he was getting up.  It
looked as though they'd be going to St.  Thomas together.  Picking up
her alligator case with the computer disks and the money inside, she
began moving with the crowd to the entrance to the jetway.  The Cuban
seemed to be hanging back.  He wasn't nearby as she went through the
doorway leading to the plane.  Could it be he wasn't going on the
flight?

She had a window seat toward the rear.  The seats next to her were
empty.  She had imagined him coming down the aisle and sitting next to
her.  The thought made her nauseated.  Then, when she saw him appear at
the entrance to the coach cabin, her heart nearly stopped.  But he
didn't come down the aisle as she feared.  He simply stared at her.
What was he trying to do?  Scare her?  Intimidate her?  Well, he was
succeeding.

After a while he went back into the first-class cabin, and she sagged
in her seat, relieved.  He was torturing her, that's what he was doing.
The worst part was she didn't know why.  He wasn't a cop or the FBI,
that much she'd pretty well decided.  The only thing left was that he
was somehow connected with the people who'd killed Jean Claud and Jane
and that private investigator.

A few more passengers trickled in, including a shiny-faced couple who
took the seats next to her.  The young man immediately introduced
himself and his wife.  Their names were Brian and Tiffany Harvey, they
were newlyweds from New Jersey, on their honeymoon.  Stephanie
congratulated them, thankful for their presence.  They were a welcome
relief from the anxiety of the past half hour or so.

She gave them their privacy, but watched them from the corner of her
eye, listening to them cooing at each other.  Stephanie envied the joy
of the young couple, wishing she was in some happy place.  And not just
to escape her present predicament.  She wanted a different life, or at
least to erase the last few years of the one she had.

As the plane pulled away from the gate, Stephanie decided she was safe,
at least for the moment.  Fatigue weighing heavily on her, she wished
she could sleep.  Outside, the tropical Miami landscape palm trees in
the distance, the Bermuda grass, the air that almost looked humid--were
all so alien.  How different it was from the foggy Northern California
coast where, only last Wednesday, her life had been changed forever.

As she'd driven to the coast, tracing the golden shoulder of Mount
Tamalpais, the tops of the towering eucalyptus touched by the misty fog
of late summer, she'd forgotten about the danger Jean Claud was facing.
Instead, she'd focused on her husband's infidelity, wondering who his
mistress was.

Stephanie had made the trip countless times.  Often she and Suzanne had
gone to the coast for the afternoon to sit on the deck of the beach
house overlooking Bolinas Bay.  Even as a child of eight, Zanny loved
to stare at the sea, watching the gulls.  So they had sat together,
bundled against the brisk Pacific wind, pungent with salty
mist--Stephanie with her novels, Zanny with her dreamy eyes and long
sighs.

As she drove past the Muir Beach Overlook, Stephanie realized she had
no idea what she hoped to accomplish at the beach house.  Her initial
intent had been to get away, as Audrey suggested She'd packed a
suitcase and put the computer disks with the copies of Jean Claud's
files in her purse.  But then she decided she couldn't live without
knowing the truth.  Whether she actually confronted him, skewered him
with guilt, remained to be seen.

And so she drove, wiping tears from her eyes as she followed the road
that snaked past weathered barns and abandoned farmhouses until at last
she reached Stinson Beach.  Her pulse quickened.  Not so much from fear
of what she would find, as fear of how she'd react.  This was uncharted
territory--contending with a betrayal that touched not only their
marriage, but the memory of their child.

The fog had thickened, making it impossible to see much more than a
hundred feet ahead.  The lights of approaching vehicles emerged from
the gloom only moments before gliding past.  But Stephanie knew every
swell in the road.  She exited Shoreline Highway at Cane del Arroyo,
following it to the point where it divided into Seadrift and Dipsea
Roads.  She took the left fork, Seadrift, which ran down the ocean side
of the spit of land separating Bolinas Bay from the lagoon.

Out on the spit the mists were thicker, the houses along the road
ghostly shadows.  She could barely see the pavement, forcing her to
drive at a crawl.  The beach house was at the far end of the spit,
beyond the point where Dipsea Road looped back into Seadrift.  Coming
to the intersection, Stephanie rolled to a stop.  She lowered her
window to sniff the air.  It was wet, cold and smelled strongly of the
sea.  She heard the wail of a distant foghorn and the faint rumble of
the surf.

She raised her window and proceeded through the intersection.  Nearing
their house, she was able to make out the blurry shape of first one car
parked at the edge of the road, then another.  The first was Jean
Claud's Jaguar, the second car was a Mercedes, one she didn't
recognize.  She assumed it belonged to her husband's lover.

Stephanie drove on a way, turned around and came back to the house,
parking opposite the woman's car.  There was no sign of life at the
beach house, no lights.  Perhaps they were in bed.

Her key ring in hand, she climbed out of the Acura and gently closed
the door.  Then she walked across the road to look inside the Mercedes.
On the passenger seat was an alligator case.  It drew her attention
because her sister, Jane, a real estate agent, had one that she used to
carry her multiplexing hook, cellular phone and notebook computer.  How
ironic that... "Oh my God"' Stephanie muttered, backing from the car.
She glared in the direction of the house, then at the Mercedes again.
It couldn't be.  No.  Not her own sister.  It had to be a
coincidence.

She checked out the car.  It was new.  Jane did get a new Mercedes
every couple years.  How long since she'd seen Jane's car?  Six months?
She hadn't seen it when they'd had lunch recently.  Then she thought of
her sister, calmly eating lobster bisque and counseling her to divorce.
 What gall!

A knot formed in her stomach.  For a moment she thought she might be
sick.  How could they?  She didn't know who to hate more, Jane for her
betrayal, or Jean Claud for his cold-hearted depravity.

She looked back at the house.  It couldn't be innocent.  She'd heard
him speaking to her with affection, and yes, the voice she'd heard had
been vaguely familiar.  Now she knew why.  Stephanie never would have
imagined this, yet, in retrospect, it seemed patently obvious.  Jean
Claud and Jane had always been friendly.  Allies against her.

It wasn't as though she and Jane hadn't had differences, they had. They
shared a mother, but Stephanie's father had been considerably more
successful than Jane's.  And although he'd died young, he'd provided
generously for his child.  Jane had been bitter about Stephanie's
inheritance.  Still, Stephanie never would have thought childhood
jealousies would lead to this.  How could she have been so oblivious to
what was going on?

She went to the front door, careful that her heels didn't clunk on the
wooden walk.  Then she quietly let herself in.  The slider to the deck
off the great room was open and the breeze was billowing the drapes.
She saw a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a table by the sofa.
Clothes were strewn everywhere.  She looked around, realizing they were
in the loft.  Zanny's loft!

Stephanie held her breath, listening carefully.  She could barely make
out Jean Claud's voice.  Then she heard a giggle.  Jane's giggle.

"Can we stay all night?"

"I don't know why not, my darling.  Stephanie won't know whether I'm
home or not."

"She wouldn't care, anyway.  All she can think about are her damn
causes.  How could she be so stupid?  If I'd married you, Jean Claud,
I'd never have let you get away."

"Ah, but then her loss is your gain, n 'est-ce pas?"

Stephanie's blood boiled.  The rage and hurt were so strong they choked
her, and she had to cover her mouth.

"Oh, Jean Claud," Jane said.  "I could do this for a million years.
Promise we'll be together."

"Nothing will keep us apart.  Nothing."

Stephanie hated them, but she also felt disgust.  It suddenly seemed
pointless to climb upstairs.  Maybe all she'd really wanted was to be
sure.  As she turned for the door, her eye fell on a photo of Zanny at
ten, sitting in the sand, hugging her knees, auburn hair like
Stephanie's blowing across her pretty face.

She walked over to the fireplace and took the picture from the mantel.
Then she went to the slider, pushed aside the billowing drape and went
onto the deck.  The photo clutched in her arms, she started across the
sand, taking Zanny away from that place.

Tears flowing down her cheeks, her sense of urgency grew stronger.  She
began to run, going no place in particular.  Just away.  Reaching the
water's edge, she was weeping so hard she could barely breathe.  She
staggered to a halt and collapsed.

She lay there, clutching the framed picture of her daughter as she
sobbed, her body heaving, the sand caking against her face, her mouth,
her eyes.  It was like the day Zanny had died in that horrible car
accident all over again.

Then it happened.  The world seemed to explode, the roar so deafening
that her brain went numb.  For a few moments she couldn't feel
anything, but she knew she was alive because of the shrill ringing in
her ears.  Lifting her head, she saw that their beach house was a
tangle of ruins, enveloped in flames.

As reality began to sink in, she realized that her husband and sister
had just been blown to bits.  The horror of it was too much.  Shaking,
she lay in the sand, unable to move.  She didn't know how long she was
there, but finally, she got to her feet and staggered toward the fire,
the photo in her arms.  Nearing the burning remains, she became aware
of the acrid smell of the fire and the heat.  No one could have
survived in that inferno.

She made her way to the street, certain that help would soon be on the
way.  Both her car and Jean Claud's were littered with debris.  Peering
up the road, she couldn't see anything through the fog.  No lights were
visible in the nearest house, though she saw some broken windows.  The
heat generated by the fire was tremendous.

She went to her car and, pushing aside some boards, managed to get the
door open.  Her key ring was no longer in her hand.  She must have lost
it on the beach.  She grabbed her purse from the front seat.  Jane's
Mercedes had been partially shielded from the blast by the other cars
and was relatively untouched.  She went to it and tried the door, but
it was locked.  Staring at the flames, the heat drying her skin, she
realized there was nothing to do but wait.

In the distance a siren sounded and she was glad.  The police were
already on their way.  But how would she explain what had happened?

She glanced around warily.  Surely whoever had done this was long gone.
Or were they?  She tried to think.  Maybe she should call Audrey. Maybe
the attorney would still be at the office.

Digging her cell phone out of her purse, she dialed.  Audrey answered
on the second ring.

"Audrey," she said, her voice shaking.  "It's Stephanie.  Something
terrible has happened.  Jean Claud's dead.  A bomb."

"What?"

Fighting hack sobs, she told Audrey what happened.

"Steph," Audrey said, "get out of there immediately.  Go to a motel,
anywhere but home."

"But what about the police?"

"I'll deal with them.  In fact, a couple of detectives are coming to
talk to me about Hal Sedman and the break-in.  I told them I'd stay
late at the office.  But we can discuss all that later.  Get out of
there, Steph.  When you're someplace safe, call me."

Though it didn't seem possible, Stephanie's heart was pounding even
harder than before.  "Okay," she said.  "I will."

Audrey hung up.  Stephanie looked around at the glowing fog, trembling
at the thought that whoever had done this might still be nearby.  The
siren off in the distance meant help was coming.  Her instinct was to
wait for the police to arrive, but Audrey had insisted she leave.
Perhaps Audrey felt she was in a better position to explain
things--like their connection with the dead detective in L.A."  why
they were investigating Jean Claud, and why Stephanie's life was in
danger.  Stephanie was reluctant to second-guess an attorney, and she
knew the longer she waited, the harder it would be to go.  If she was
going to leave, the time was now.

The trouble was, she'd lost her keys.  And besides, her car was
littered with debris.  Then she remembered that Jane kept an extra car
key under the front fender on the driver's side in one of those little
magnetic boxes.  She checked and, sure enough, it was there.  Without
wasting any more time, Stephanie removed the ignition key to the
Mercedes, opened the door and climbed in, putting Zanny's picture and
her purse on the seat with the alligator case.  Then she remembered her
suitcase was still in the back seat of her car.  She would need her
things.

Stephanie got out, crossed the road, dragged her suitcase from the car
and put it in the trunk of the Mercedes.  Then she got back in, turned
the car around and headed up the road.  Nearing the intersection, she
could see the blurry lights of an emergency vehicle flashing as it came
toward her on Seadrift.  She turned onto Dipsea Road and made her way
back to the Shoreline Highway.  For several moments she sat at the
intersection, almost catatonic, trying to clear her head.  Glancing at
Jane's alligator case, she realized for the first time that any
evidence that her sister had died with Jean Claud was with her.  The
vehicles left at the house were the Jag and her Acura.  Perhaps Jane's
remains could be identified, but maybe not.  For a while, anyway, the
assumption would be that Stephanie was the one who'd died with Jean
Claud.  But did the killers know who they'd murdered?  Had they been
lurking in the shadows, watching?  Had they seen her leave the beach
house?  There was no way to be sure.

The big jet roared up the runway.  As the plane rose, Stephanie found
comfort in the low throb of the engines and felt herself sinking
rapidly toward a drugged-like sleep.  Her heart still pounded from
having relived that terrible afternoon at Stinson Beach, but the need
for rest overwhelmed her.  Even the Cuban didn't matter.  Nothing did
but the strangling fatigue.  Within moments of her last conscious
thought, she was asleep.

The Atlantic Ocean

They were somewhere over the eastern end of the Bahamas when Stephanie
awoke with a start, the explosion ringing in her ears.  It was a dream,
of course, the desperate heave of her chest a result of fear--the
trauma of having seen her husband and sister blown to pieces.  She was
far away from that horror now, but it was only a temporary respite. She
still had the Cuban to contend with and God knows what waiting for her
in St.  Thomas.

Brian and Tiffany Harvey were playing cards, oblivious to her anxiety.
For the first time in years, she was facing her problems alone.  Jean
Claud had been nothing if not conservative, and he'd insisted on
sheltering her way more than was necessary.  Of course, that was her
fault as much as his.  Even Audrey had said as much.  Stephanie was
much too smart, much too strong to allow herself to be a victim the way
she had.  But fate had given her an opportunity to redeem herself.  She
was facing the challenge of her life.

Stephanie's thoughts returned to that terrible afternoon of the
bombing.  It had been twilight by the time she checked into a modest
motel in San Rafael, just off the freeway, near Third Street.  Since
she was in Jane's car, she'd decided to check in under her sister's
name.

After registering, she'd gone directly to her room, double-locking the
door and using the security chain.  The place was dingy and smelled of
stale tobacco, but for the moment she was glad to be alive.  After
dumping her purse, the photo of Zanny and Jane's case on the bed, she
went to the phone and dialed Audrey's number.  The office answering
machine picked it up.

"Audrey, it's me.  If you're there, please pick up the phone.  I've got
to talk to you."

She waited.  Nothing.  She was about to hang up when she heard the
receiver being lifted on the other end of the line.

"Who is this?"  It was a man's voice and it sounded gruff.  Stephanie
was shocked.  To the best of her knowledge, Audrey didn't have any men
friends, at least none that would be in her office, answering her
phone.  "Who are you?"  she demanded.

"Detective Wells of the San Francisco Police Department," the man
replied.

"What's happened?"

"Will you tell me your name, please?"

Stephanie started to reply honestly, then thought better of it.  How
did she know he was really a cop?  "Leslie Hartell," she said, using
the name of her best friend, the first name to pop into her mind.

"What's your connection to Miss Saulter?"  the avowed officer asked.

"A personal friend," Stephanie replied.  "What's happened to Audrey?
Why are you in her office?"

"There's been an accident," he said, hesitating.  "Well, accident may
not be the proper term.  I'm afraid Miss Saulter has been shot."

"Oh, dear God.  Is she all right?"

"I'm sorry to say she's dead."

Stephanie was stunned.  "Oh no, not Audrey."

"We're trying to locate next of kin," the officer said.  "Is there any
chance you could help us in that regard?"

Stephanie barely heard the words.  Her mind was reeling.  Jean Claud
and Jane dead.  Now Audrey.

"Miss Hartell?"

"Huh?  Oh, no, I'm afraid not," she said.  "I don't know her family.
I'm sorry, I have to go."

She hung up and burst into tears.  Her world was collapsing around her.
Wringing her hands, she got up and paced, trying to think clearly.
Audrey's last words to her were to get out of town and now Audrey, too,
was dead.  Stephanie's instinct was to run as fast and as far as she
could.

Outside she could hear the monotonous hum of freeway traffic.  Pulling
back the curtains, she took a deep, fortifying breath and watched the
lights of passing cars.  Where would she go?  What would she do?  Then
she thought of the conversation only a week earlier when she'd called
her friend Leslie in Washington to say that she'd finally decided to
leave Jean Claud.

"Oh, Steph, you poor thing," her friend had said.  "God, you need me,
don't you?  Damn.  I'd have you come here in a flash, but Warren and I
are on our way out the door for two weeks in Europe.  Why not go to our
place in St.  Thomas?  A little time alone in the sun will be good for
you.  I'll call from London to see how you're doing.  Then, when we're
back in Washington, I want you to come here and stay as long as you
like."

Stephanie had declined the offer, deciding to wait until Leslie got
back.  But that was before everything had literally blown up in her
face.  Suddenly, the Virgin Islands seemed a godsend.  Remote.  Safe. A
few days at Leslie's place would be an opportunity to calm down and
figure out what to do.  Most importantly, she'd be out of danger.  Or
so she'd thought.

In retrospect, she realized the smart thing would have been to go to
the police right then.  But Audrey's death had really rattled her.
Stephanie had felt so alone, so confused, so Uncertain about what to
do.  The two people she'd have turned to--Leslie and Warren
Hartell-were away in Europe.  Waiting in the Caribbean for them to
return seemed an easy, uncomplicated solution to her problem.  Even so,
she'd hardly slept that night in the motel, planning her escape.  Her
one salvation was that everyone would think she was dead, since it was
her car buried in the rubble at the beach house.

But Stephanie knew she had to be careful.  She knew not to use her
credit cards and she wanted to avoid using Jane's.  Fortunately, she
had cash.  Jane, who'd always carried a lot with her, had over five
hundred dollars in her wallet.  Stephanie had three hundred and
fifty-five in hers because she'd used her credit card for a recent
lunch with a group of friends and they'd repaid her in cash.  That was
a lot, but even so, she would need more money if she was going to buy
plane tickets and meals.  In the morning she'd go to the bank.

She'd always had money of her own.  Between her personal savings and
checking accounts, she had seventeen or eighteen thousand she could put
her hands on immediately.  Yes, she'd withdraw several thousand to tide
her over, but not at her branch.  If she wanted to drop out of sight
quietly, she would have to go someplace where the clerks wouldn't
recognize her.

That night in the motel room, as she lay awake in her bed, Stephanie
had tried to look beyond the immediate crisis and imagine what would
become of her life.  Considering her inheritance, work wasn't a
necessity.  Whatever happened, she wouldn't be under financial
pressure.

At dawn she'd called the airline and made reservations.  After
breakfast at Denny's she'd gone to the bank and withdrawn her money.
Not once had she seen anyone watching her.  But in spite of her
caution, it was obvious now that someone had spotted her at the
airport.  That was the only way she could explain why the Cuban was
tormenting her.  He had to be one of them.

To this point she'd been in public and he couldn't easily accost her.
He was obviously confident she wouldn't go to the police, given that
she was on the run.  Maybe that was a mistake.  Perhaps she should go
to the authorities now.  St.  Thomas wasn't shaping up to be the safe
haven she'd thought.  Besides, if she'd been compromised, there was no
longer any reason to keep silent.  The last thing she wanted was for
people to think she was guilty.

She tried to figure out what it was, exactly, that these killers wanted
from her.  Surely they didn't think she had control of Jean Claud's
investment funds, that she could repay them when he couldn't.

How ironic that Jean Claud's skill as an investor had been the key to
her financial security, but might also prove to be the key to her
downfall.  Whatever his failings, her husband had certainly done well
by her financially.  He'd invested her inheritance for her, and
Stephanie had given him a great deal of latitude.  She'd seen no need
for high-risk investment and had told him twenty percent of her
portfolio was the most she'd wanted in venture capital.  As far as she
knew, he'd honored that request.

Over the years he'd periodically reported how well her portfolio was
doing.  Sometime before Suzanne had died, he'd given Stephanie a report
that showed he'd tripled her net worth' which meant she was worth over
four million dollars.  One day it would have gone to Zanny, but now...
A thought suddenly came to her.  If Jean Claud had been mixed up in
some crooked scheme with Unscrupulous people, what might he have done
with her money?  Her blood ran cold.  She recalled the desperation in
her husband's voice during that phone call from the man named Dave.
Suddenly she felt an urgent need to know the status of her own
portfolio.

The answer was probably on the computer disks, which she'd put in the
alligator case.  Jean Claud had kept records of everything in his
computer.  All the books of her personal portfolio had been there, as
well.  Thank God she'd copied the files and had the computer disks with
her.

A sobering thought struck her.  Could that be what the Cuban was
after--Jean Claud's files?  Audrey knew she'd made copies.  If the
Cuban was involved in her friend's death, Audrey could have told him
about the disks before he shot her.

The insight sent a fresh wave of fear through her.  Those people Jean
Claud had been dealing with... What was their name...?  Behring, that
was it.  The Behrings, Inter-America Ventures, Dave--everybody involved
in Jean Claud's shady deal--would be very interested in Jean Claud's
files.  And because of Audrey, they probably knew she had them.

What should she do?  She'd intended to examine the disks in detail once
she got to St.  Thomas, but maybe she should have a look now.  With a
new sense of urgency, Stephanie lowered the tray table, slipped her
sister's laptop computer from the alligator case under the seat and
booted it up.  She couldn't be sure Jane had the right software, but
she was happy to discover the system was set up identically to Jean

Claud's.  That was a pleasant surprise, and it also made her wonder.

Perusing the hard drive, she discovered that most of the data files
concerned Jane's personal finances and her real estate business.
Stephanie didn't want to waste time on them, and she slipped one of
Jean Claud's floppies into the disk drive.

For several minutes she looked through his accounts, memorizing the
various places he'd stashed their money, aware that when the time came
to settle Jean Claud's estate, it would be helpful to know where
everything was.  Then she began to look for the data on her own
portfolio.  She found the file.  There was a record of investments made
over the years, mostly in equities, the bulk of those in Fortune 500
companies.  But then she noted that about ten months earlier Jean Claud
had liquidated almost the entire portfolio and dumped ninety percent of
her assets into a company called Halcyon Technologies--an investment of
nearly five million dollars.

Stephanie was shocked.  Jean Claud had never mentioned that he was
considering such a bold move.  It was a risky decision, regardless of
how great the company's upside potential might be.  What could have
been his motive?

Stephanie checked their joint portfolio and found that the bulk of
those monies--roughly two million dollars-had also been invested in
Halcyon.  That meant virtually everything she had, except for the
house, was riding on one obscure company.  Halcyon Technologies.  Why
did that name seem familiar?

Then she remembered.

Halcyon was the name that had come up in the phone conversation between
Jean Claud and Dave.  Jean Claud had said he was going to be making a
ton of money when Halcyon shares were sold to the public next month.
And he'd told Dave that the money they owed the Behrings could be
repaid out of those funds-with her money, in other words.

Feeling sick, she glanced around.  Next to her, Tiffany Harvey was
asleep, her head on Brian's shoulder.  The young couple's innocence
again struck her, painfully emphasizing the difference between their
carefree existence and hers.

Just then the curtain separating the first-class cabin from coach
opened and the Cuban appeared.  Stephanie blanched.  As she watched him
coming down the aisle, her heart began to race.

She quickly stuffed the computer back into the alligator case and
kicked it under the seat.  As he approached, the man looked directly at
her.  He was no less frightening than before, but now she had a better
understanding of what was going on.  With Jean Claud dead, they'd
probably decided to wring the Halcyon money out of her.  They were
after her, all right, because of the information on the computer
disks.

The Cuban reached her row and, to her dismay, stopped and said, "Mrs.
Reymond, we haven't had the pleasure of meeting.  I am Oscar
Barbadillo, a business associate of your late husband.  Seeing we both
seem to be headed to St.  Thomas, I thought perhaps we could have
lunch."

Stephanie was speechless.  She glanced at Brian Harvey, who looked up
at the man.  Tiffany was awake now, also watching.  Barbadillo waited,
his eyes moving over her, making her more uncomfortable.

"I... I'm not going to St.  Thomas..  for business," she stammered.

He shrugged.  "We can have a friendly conversation."

Stephanie was unsure whether to reject the invitation outright or play
him along to buy time: Finally, she opted for the latter.  "Why don't
you tell me where you're staying and I'll give you a call, Mr.
Barbadillo."

"I don't have a hotel yet.  Why don't we go directly from the
airport?"

"I'd rather not, thank you.  I'm very tired."

"Then give me your number."

His voice had grown more commanding.  And the way he looked at her made
her increasingly uneasy.

She swallowed hard.  "I'm staying with friends."

"Don't they have a phone?"

"Yes, but the number's in my suitcase."

He glanced down the aisle.  "Maybe we can talk more when we get to St.
Thomas," he said as the flight attendants approached with a serving
cart.  "We have some very important things to discuss."

Stephanie nodded and watched him retreat toward the firstclass cabin.
Her hands were shaking.  Barbadillo had addressed her as Mrs.  Reymond,
and he'd referred to her late husband.  For him to know who she was and
that Jean Claud was dead, he had to be involved in some way.  Maybe she
had more reason to go to the police now than ever.

Charlotte Amalie

St.  Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

Jack Kidwell lay on the examining table staring at the ceiling, looking
for Africa or a butterfly or the shape of a woman's bare tit.  He'd
engaged in this pursuit before, of course, at the clinic in Immokalee
when he'd broken his arm at age ten.  They'd given him a shot of
something and he'd felt no pain.  He'd just lain there, searching for
images on the ceiling.  Bill Toussaint's exam room had a few watermarks
overhead, but Jack couldn't, for the life of him, envision a damn thing
but rusty brown smudges that looked like... well, rusty brown smudges.
His imagination had obviously expired right along with his innocence.

The notion of bare tits still interested him, but that was hardly news.
Not even the alcohol had stifled his sex drive, though for two or three
years now Bill had been warning it would.

The door opened and Dr.  William Toussaint entered, his lab coat as
stiff as week-old white bread.  Bill came to the table and looked down
at him.  "Jack," he said, "I can't give you a clean bill of health.  I
wish I could, but I can't."

"What do you mean?  There's not a thing wrong with me."

"By outward appearances, no.  But your liver's enlarged.  Considerably
more than last year.  It's obvious you've been drinking like a fish."

Jack sat up on the edge of the table.  "Sure, I hit the bottle,
sometimes pretty hard, but I'm sober now, aren't I?  And I'm sober
whenever I've got passengers aboard and I'm under sail.  That's all
that matters."

"That's between you and the maritime authorities," Toussaint replied
evenly.  "My job is to report the status of your health and the fact
is, it's not good.  I'm sorry."

Jack shook his head, trying to control his anger.  "Nothing would
satisfy you, Bill--nothing short of me becoming a teetotaler."

"That's not a half-bad idea."

"Come on, now," Jack protested, getting to his feet.  "This is no
laughing matter.  I'm on probation as it is.  You send in a report that
I'm drinking and they'll jerk my license."

"That's between you and them."

"No, goddamn it, it's between you and me.  You're the one who's saying
I'm unfit.  And it's your word that counts."

Bill Toussaint, an Englishman who was one-sixteenth black, his skin as
smooth as milk faintly tinged with chocolate, drew up his slender
frame.  His blue eyes flashed.  "I'm saying you've got an enlarged
liver due to alcoholism.  That's a medical fact, not an accusation.
What they do with it is their business."

Jack began pacing, the seriousness of the situation becoming obvious.
"You know exactly what they're going to do with it."

"You want to know what my major regret is in this thing is?"  Bill
asked, "That we're talking about your license, not your life."

"Fuck my life," Jack retorted.  "What's it worth if I can't earn a
living?  Your only legitimate concern is the well-being of my
passengers.  Booze has not caused one bit of harm to a single living
soul."

"Present company excluded," Bill Toussaint said.

"Yeah, well, that's my choice, Doc."

They looked into each other's eyes for several long moments, friends,
yet on this issue, enemies.  "Jack," the doctor said finally, "sit down
for a second."  He gestured toward the examining table.

Jack felt a lecture coming, but he had little choice.  He climbed back
up on the table.  "Okay, Mom, what have you got to say?"

"I'm a medical doctor, not a shrink," Bill began.  "I know I'm out of
my element here, but I'm going to tell you what I think, anyway. You're
the shell of the man I once knew.  Look at you.  How long has it been
since you've shaved?"

"So I ran out of blades a few days ago.  Is that a crime?  I'm clean. I
showered."

"That's not what I'm getting at.  When you first came down here, you
were a hell of a guy.  Sure, you could party even then, but you had
fire in your soul, purpose.  You cared about life.  You cared about
people.  I liked you."

Jack heard a tremor in Bill's voice.  He could tell he was speaking
from the heart and it kind of got him.  A lump started forming in his
throat.  He hated emotion.  Always had.  "But then demon rum turned me
into an asshol--is that it?"  As usual, Jack found a smart remark to
make it easier to get past his feelings.

The doctor leaned against the counter.  "No, Jack."

"What then?"

"To put it bluntly, after Alicia died, you gave up.  I know losing her
was a blow, maybe the worse thing you'll ever experience, but she was
the one they buried that day, not you."

"That's the first thing you've said that's wrong, Bill.  My corpse is
playing out the string, and I do whatever I can so I don't notice the
pain."  He pointed at Bill.  "But I don't mess with anybody else's
life. I don't drink and drive.  I never screw a woman if it'd hurt her.
And I don't blubber on other people's shoulders.  That may not make me
a model citizen, but there's a whole lot worse out there.  I just want
to be left alone, and for some goddamn reason, I can't get anybody to
understand that."

Bill unfolded his arms.  "Well, this is a debate nobody's going to win.
I've got only one option I can live with and that's to tell the truth.
I can't give you a clean bill of health when you're dripping with
eighty-proof scotch whiskey."

Jack's shoulders slumped.  "Let's get to the bottom line, Dr.
Toussaint.  What do I have to do to get out of purgatory?"

"Come back in a month without having had a drink.  Simple as that.  You
won't have to tell me whether you've succeeded or not, your liver
will."

"Jesus Christ, I'll be out of business."

The doctor absently wiped the counter with a tissue he plucked from a
neatly aligned box.  He was as fastidious as he was honest.  "Remember
the first time we met, Jack?  You were selling those condominiums."

"Jesus, don't remind me."

"You were the slickest damn salesman I'd ever seen," Bill said.  "And I
mean that as a compliment.  You were passionate, convincing,
high-energy.  You were a man who was going to set the world on fire."

"Well, it was my last hurrah.  I'm in retirement now."  "You've given
up on life."

Jack gave him his best woebegone look.  "Doc, enough already."

Bill contemplated him.  "Okay, here's what I'll do.  I'll send a report
in with a recommendation that there be a follow-up exam in a month,
saying this exam isn't conclusive."

"That's the crumb?"

"Yes."

Jack considered the implications.  The real question was, could he stay
off the sauce for a month?  The probability that he couldn't scared
him.  Not so long ago he still claimed to be in control.  In recent
months he'd stopped kidding himself.  The result had been predictable.
He was drinking even more.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw, thinking.  Maybe Bill was right.  God
knew, the sirens' call was as strong as ever.  He could see himself
going down the companionway, walking to the locker, unscrewing the cap
of a virgin bottle and taking a long, gluttonous swig.  He could feel
the delicious burn of the scotch just thinking about it.  Lord, how he
worshiped that feeling.

"So that's it?"  Jack asked.  "Sober for a month or I go to hell."

"Sober for a month and, if you pass the test, reexamination in six
months."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Bill."

"This is one challenge you won't be able to sluff off, my man.  You've
got to look this tiger in the eye."

Jack could see he wasn't going to wiggle out of this one.  Bureaucrats
and the medical profession would be ruling his life until he found a
way to beat them.  He took his shirt off the hook on the back of the
door.  "All right, you win."

Bill Toussaint smiled.  Jack smiled back.  He liked the sonovabitch,
but he'd have relished nothing more than to pop him one just then.  He
shook Bill's hand and went out of the room.

"Thanks, Doc," he said over his shoulder.

"See you in a month," the doctor called after him.

"Fuck you, Bill," Jack said under his breath.  But at the moment he
happened to be passing the little nurse with the sweet round ass and
she gave him a disapproving look.  "Sorry," he said.  Then he went
through the door to the waiting room.  The half-dozen or so patients
glanced up as he strode out the door.

The heavy tropical air, fragrant with bougainvillea and cooking smells,
filled his lungs.  He took a couple of deep breaths and realized that,
despite the early hour, he could use a drink.  That was bad.  If he
succumbed, it would be the beginning of the end.  Jack knew that.  The
sad part was, he almost didn't care.  Looking up at the blue sky, he
shook his head.  If he was a betting man, he'd bet against himself.
Thank God he wasn't that foolish with his money.

Harry S Truman Airport; St.  Thomas

Stephanie continued to agonize over her situation as the plane touched
down on the green Caribbean island.  She'd been brooding ever since the
Cuban, Oscar Barbadillo, had come to speak with her, doing her best to
keep a cool head despite the terror she felt.  She hadn't eaten the
meal the flight attendant had brought and maybe that was a mistake.
Between her sleep deprivation and lack of food, she felt woozy and
shaky.  But she'd made a decision about Barbadillo.  The very last
thing she'd do was go off with him.  She didn't want to wind up dead
like Jean Claud, Jane and Audrey.

She had to be very careful.  Her sister's alligator case contained not
only the prize Barbadillo and his friends were after, but also the key
to her own financial security.  The first order of business was to
secrete it someplace safe while she worked things out.  In hindsight,
she realized fleeing San Francisco had been the biggest mistake of
all.

As the plane taxied toward the terminal building, Brian Harvey pulled a
carry-on bag from under the seat in front of Tiffany.  It gave
Stephanie an idea.  She hadn't talked to the kids a lot, but the girl
had told her about their wedding and Stephanie had made all the
appropriate sounds.  If she was going to do anything about the
alligator case, this was the time.

* "Excuse me, Tiffany," she said, "but I was wondering if I could ask a
favor."

The girl's bright eyes were full of innocence.  "Sure."  "I don't want
that man who came to speak to me to see my case and I was wondering if
you would mind carrying it off the plane for me."

"I'd be glad to," the girl said

"Perhaps you can put it in a locker for me."

"Okay."

"But if we could take it to the ladies' room first, I'd like to go
through it," Stephanie said.

Tiffany nodded.

"Is everything all right?"  Brian asked.  "That guy seemed kind of
strange."

"He is strange."

Stephanie didn't want to explain, and the Harveys seemed content to
leave it at that.  Within minutes they were at the gate and the
passengers prepared to deplane.  Seeing Jane's case in Tiffany's hands,
Stephanie felt better about facing Oscar Barbadillo.

With nothing but her purse in hand, Stephanie followed the newlyweds.
The first-class cabin was empty, but Barbadillo was waiting for her at
the bottom of the boarding stairs.  The air was warm, but the sight of
his coldly handsome face, his menacing eyes, made her shiver.

"Mrs.  Reymond," he said, falling in beside her, "it's important that
we speak."

"Why is that?"  she asked, moving briskly, not looking at him.

"For your own good."

"I think I'm the best judge of what's for my own good," she said.  "I'm
sorry, but I have no desire to talk to you, much less have lunch with
you.  So, please, leave me alone."

Barbadillo brusquely took her arm and pulled her aside.  His eyes were
intense, if not angry.  "You don't seem to understand the trouble
you're in.  If you cooperate, things will go much more smoothly.  If
you don't, I can't be responsible for what happens."

"Are you threatening me?"

The tiniest smile broke at the corners of his mouth.  "If you want to
consider it that."

"What is it you want?"

"To talk to you about your husband's business."

"I know nothing about Jean Claud's business," she said.

His smile was broader, his fingers tightening on her arm.  "You expect
me to believe that?"

"Frankly, I don't care what you believe.  But if you don't leave me
alone, I'm going to the police.  In fact, I think that might be a good
idea, anyway."

Stephanie jerked her arm free and started walking across the hot tarmac
toward the terminal building.  Brian and Tiffany had gone on ahead, but
they turned to look back at her.  Seeing her coming now, they
proceeded.  Barbadillo had not come with her and she didn't look to see
where he was.  In being firm, maybe she had dampened his ardor.  She
could only hope so.

Catching up to Tiffany and Brian, she followed them into the building,
a rather ancient edifice with a corrugated steel roof and open sides.
Inside the barnlike structure was a covey of tour guides.  A porter
pointed the milling passengers toward the baggage-claim area. Stephanie
glanced back.  Oscar Barbadillo was strolling at a leisurely pace and
didn't look particularly angry or upset.  That concerned her.

The passengers had spread out some.  Stephanie tried not to stick to
close to the Harveys so as not to draw attention to either them or
Jane's case.  Reaching the baggage-claim area, she kept to the middle
of the throng.  There was no sign of Barbadillo.  Could he have given
up?  Or was he lying somewhere in wait?

She felt perspiration forming on her lip.  She glanced at the alligator
case in Tiffany's hand.  The girl said something to Brian and, giving
Stephanie a knowing look, walked toward the rest rooms.  Stephanie
waited several moments, then followed her, her heels clicking on the
concrete floor.  If Barbadillo was watching, she didn't see him.

She noted the luggage lockers just outside the rest rooms, deciding
that was where Jane's case should be stashed.  Inside the ladies' room,
she found Tiffany waiting.  The girl handed her the alligator case.

"Are you sure you're all right?"  Tiffany asked.

"I'm fine," she replied though her heart was pounding and she was dewy
with perspiration.

"Is there anything else I can do?"  the girl asked.

"There is one thing, if you'll give me just a minute."

Tiffany nodded.  Stephanie went into one of the stalls and locked
herself inside.  She sat down and, though she felt like crying, she
pulled herself together.  Opening her purse, she removed the envelope
with the cash she'd gotten at the bank.  After counting out ten
one-hundred-dollar bills, she stuffed them in her wallet.  Then she put
the envelope with the remaining four thousand in the alligator case.
She had another twelve thousand in travelers' checks.  Two thousand of
that went into her purse, the rest into the case.

She removed the framed photograph of Suzanne, wondering if she dared
leave it.  In the end, she wedged it into her purse.  That left only
the computer disks.  She considered dividing them but knew they'd
probably be useless unless she had them all.  She put them inside the
case with Jane's laptop.  Everything was together, to be lost or
preserved in one fell swoop.

The next step was to hide the case.

Leaving the stall, she went to where Tiffany was leaning over a basin,
examining her face in the mirror.  Seeing Stephanie, she turned,
tucking a hank of dark blond hair behind her ear.  It was a gesture not
unlike Suzanne's.

"If you'd be good enough to put the case in one of the lockers outside
the door," she told the girl, "I won't keep you any longer."

"No problem."

"Here are some quarters," Stephanie said, taking a dollar's worth from
her coin purse.  She put them in Tiffany's hand,

along with a couple of twenty-dollar bills.  "This is for you and Brian
to buy yourselves a bottle of champagne."

"Oh, that isn't necessary."

"I'd like you to have it.  Please."

The girl acquiesced.  Taking the case, she left the rest room.
Stephanie told herself everything was under control now.  She'd taken
precautions.  Short of them killing her, she'd be fine.

After a couple of minutes Tiffany returned, handing Stephanie a locker
key.  "You sure you're all right?"  she asked.  "I mean, can I call
someone for you?"

"No, I'll be fine, thank you."

"Well, I'd better go then.  Brian's waiting.  Have a nice vacation."

"And you have a nice life."

Tiffany grinned, a bit embarrassed.  Stephanie watched her as she left,
thinking of the last time she'd seen her daughter alive.  It was over a
year ago.  Suzanne had been home from college for the summer.

Fighting off the emotion threatening to erupt, Stephanie told herself
that trading sorrow for fear was not much of an improvement.  She
transferred her attention to the key, wondering what to do with it as
two women came into the rest room.  Turning from them, she stuffed the
key in her bra, then casually examined herself in the mirror.  Once the
women had gone into the stalls, Stephanie wet her hands and ran her
fingers through her short, wavy auburn hair.  The face looking back at
her had seen better days.  So had her taupe linen suit.  She smoothed
the collar of her blouse and turned up the sleeves of the jacket
another notch.  There was not much to be done about the haggard look,
but she took consolation in the fact that she'd earned it.

Drying her hands, she tried to prepare herself mentally.  She had faced
adversity before.  The year since Zanny's accident had been hell,
albeit of a different type.  But she'd gotten through that and she'd
get through this, too.

Taking a deep breath, she headed to the baggage-claim area, which was
teeming with passengers and porters.  She saw a couple of policemen
standing off to the side, but Oscar Barbadillo was nowhere in sight.
The policemen seemed to be watching her, which struck her as odd.  She
had half a mind to go speak with them immediately, but decided the
first order of business was to get her suitcase.

The bags were arriving as she walked up.  Edging forward, she searched
for her suitcase.  It was on the second train of baggage cars.  She
grabbed it and backed out of the crowd.  A porter took it from her,
plopping it onto his handcart.

"Taxi, missus?"  he asked in a musical accent.

Stephanie glanced at the policemen, who continued to watch her.  She
wondered if she might be better off taking a taxi to police
headquarters.  It might be easier to speak with someone in authority
there.  "Yes, please," she said to the porter.

"Right this way."

The man was not young, but he swung his body rhythmically as he
walked.

Outside, the taxis were loading passengers.  The porter went to an
empty spot at the curb, signaled the next one in line then put her
suitcase on the sidewalk.  Stephanie opened her purse to get some bills
for a tip.  Just then she felt a hand on her elbow.  She flinched,
expecting it to be Barbadillo, but it was one of the policemen she'd
seen inside, a slender young mulatto with a sparse mustache.

"Stephanie Reymond?"  he said.

The other officer, also young, but more heavyset and darker, stepped to
her other side.  She looked back and forth between them.

"Yes, I'm Stephanie Reymond," she said.

The first man nodded.  "Please come with us."

The second man picked up her suitcase.  The first started to lead her
away.

"Hey, man," the porter called after them plaintively.  "What 'bout
me?"

Stephanie and the officers stopped.  "Give him some money," the thinner
officer said.

She gave the man the two one-dollar bills in her hand, which he took
with a grunt of thanks before shuffling off.  The cops led her toward a
police cruiser parked farther up the loading zone.

"It's just as well you found me," she said to them.  "I was going to
take a taxi to the police station."

They ignored her comment.  While the heavyset man put her suitcase in
the trunk, the other one opened the rear door of the patrol car.
Stephanie slid in.  The door slammed closed behind her.  The two cops
got in the front, separated from her by a wire-mesh screen.  The engine
started and they pulled away.  As they passed the entrance to the
terminal, Stephanie caught a glimpse of Tiffany and Brian climbing into
a van.  Again, she envied them their innocence.

The police car entered the main road, which led over a low hill to
Charlotte Amalie.  No one said anything.  Stephanie was relieved to
think she would no longer be facing danger alone.  She could see now
she'd done the wrong thing in fleeing.  It would have been better to
have gone straight to the authorities.  If the police wanted to make a
big deal of it, they probably could, but it was certainly
understandable that she'd been terrified, considering everybody around
her, including her lawyer, had been killed.  As a practical matter, the
worst she was guilty of was poor judgment.

Reflecting, she was surprised that the police had been able to track
her down so quickly.  She'd been sure it would take weeks to figure out
that she wasn't the one who'd died with Jean Claud.  Oscar Barbadillo
had found her easily enough, but presumably he and his friends were
responsible for the trouble and knew to look for her.

The cruiser moved along the road at a rapid clip, the driver ignoring
the potholes and giving bicyclists minimal latitude.

The two young officers obviously had nothing to say to her Presumably
their orders had been to pick her up and nothing more.

Stephanie leaned forward in her seat.  "Are we going to police
headquarters?"  she asked, deciding to initiate the conversation.

The men ignored her.

"Excuse me," she said more loudly."  "Could you please tell me where
you're taking me?"

"You'll see," one said.

That struck her as a curious response.  And it gave her pause.

"I'm not under arrest, am I?"

"You're being taken in for questioning."

"About what?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Stephanie did not like their attitude.  The U.S. Virgin Islands might
be a territory, but it wasn't a foreign country.  The Constitution
applied.  She was at a loss whether to protest their offhand manner or
wait and see what happened.  Maybe it was a mistake, but in the end she
decided not to risk antagonizing them.  As they'd said, she'd find out
what was going to happen soon enough.

Charlotte Amalie

Jack Kidwell was having a bad day.  Ever since leaving Bill Toussaint's
office, he'd wandered around the quarter like a lost child.  The irony
was that he was lost--a lost soul, whose only purpose had been pretty
much reduced to getting through the day.  Did he fight this thing, or
did he give up?

When a guy wasn't sure if he had it in him to help himself, he was a
goner.  So why didn't he just go find himself a bottle and be done with
it?  The pain would be gone--at least the short-term pain.  Yet he
hesitated.  Why?  Pride?  He had nothing left to be proud of.  Could it
be fear?  Of what?  Death was all that was left.  Maybe what bothered
him was that he was taking the coward's way.  It was too quiet and
lonely.  Maybe what he secretly longed for was to die with his boots
on, to go down in agony at the demons bedeviling him.  The trouble was,
he couldn't figure out how.

Jack realized after a while that his wanderings weren't as timeless as
they seemed.  He'd come to the little park on the inside across the
street from Sonia Velasco's place and, finding a bench nestled under a
banana tree, he plopped down to answer why he was there.  Sonia was not
only a friend, she was a former lover.  Jack wasn't sure which
relationship had brought him to her neighborhood.  Perhaps it didn't
matter.  Each had its allure, its advantages and its problems.  But for
the moment it seemed enough just to contemplate the possibilities.

It had been a while since he'd seen her.  That, probably, was due to
pride.  It was one thing for a man to admit his frailties to himself, a
very different thing to admit 'them to a woman.  and usually it wasn't
necessary.  Women, by and large, were quick to do that for you.  Sonia
was rather special, if only because she was the best lay on the island,
bar none, though Jack didn't much like it that she always smoked a
cigar after sex.  If she had any other faults or flaws of character,
she did a good job of hiding them.

Sonia Velasco was Swedish or Danish--he could never remember which--and
she attributed her prowess in bed to the skills of her late husband,
Enrique, an expatriate Cuban mulatto artist with charm, wit, charisma,
though only a modicum of talent.  Enrique had sold his art to the New
Yorkers from the cruise ships, but spent enough time in other women's
beds that Sonia eventually lost what qualms she had about dalliances of
her own.  That was when she'd taken Jack as a lover, some four or five
years ago.  Since Enrique's untimely death at the hands of an irate
cuckold--an irony Jack had trouble digesting--he and Sonia had been
friends more than lovers, though they still had sex every couple of
months out of mutual regard.  That is, they did until his drinking had
gotten out of control and his pride wouldn't allow her to see him in
his deteriorated condition.

The question at the moment was, did he swallow his pride and take
refuge in her arms, or did he let his rudderless boat quietly drift
away?  There were sound arguments either way.  Perhaps what held him
back was that, if he allowed her to save him, he would owe her.  There
was also the question of whether it would work.  Sex, he'd long since
discovered, was a palliative, not a cure.  Like booze.  But the
advantage to booze.  was you didn't need anybody else.

Not that there wouldn't be something in it for Sonia.  She.  had her
needs.  That was the part that concerned him most.  He had enormous
respect for her ability to accept life's vicissitudes, a talent he
unfortunately did not share--but women.  had a lesser aptitude for
stoicism.

No, the real problem--and Sonia knew it as well as he-was that they had
little more in common than a mutual understanding of their bodies.  At
forty-five, she retained much of her beauty even if she was, as she
insisted, on the downhill slide.

Staring up in the bright morning sun at her second-story flat with its
balcony and twisted iron railing, he thought of the last time he'd been
with her.  After they'd made love, he'd watched her stare at the
ceiling fan in her boudoir, the pale skin of her neck and chest blotchy
from their lovemaking.  She'd savored her cigar and the last of her
orgasm, pooching her well-shaped mouth to emit sensuous rings of smoke
that drifted into the gentle currents of the creaky old fan until they
were broken and disbursed like days passing into memory.  Jack liked it
that she could be with him yet forget him at the same time.

Though he was never sure, he surmised it was Enrique she thought of at
those moments.  There was no disputing that her husband had been the
love of her life.  And while Jack never felt used by her, he'd always
been able to give of himself without feeling the onus of loving or
being loved.  But would that hold if he were to put his soul in her
hands?

He remembered the day they'd met over a bin of oranges In an outdoor
market.  She'd let him carry home her purchases, then had made him some
fresh-squeezed juice as a reward.  The first words out of her mouth
were that she loved her husband, but that he treated her badly.  She'd
endured his dalliances as long as she was able, but had decided to take
a lover.  The rest, as they say, was history.

The last time he'd visited her, she'd greeted him in a soft flowing
caftan, kissing him on the mouth before leading him into the bedroom.
"I haven't been screwing anyone else," she'd said in her soft
Scandinavian accent as she'd undressed, letting her bra drop away from
her large, well-shaped breasts.

"Meaning?"

"I'm a little hungrier than usual."

"I'll be careful," he'd said.

He had noticed a certain eagerness in her lovemaking, though it fell
well short of desperation.  For the most part, Sonia was her usual
self--equally in control and out of control, luxuriating in her own
sexuality as much as his.  Her greatest strength as a lover was her
understanding of a man's sexual desires.  She knew not to be obsessive
and to measure her own pleasure with as much care as she measured his.
A woman who could take her pleasure gracefully was the equal of one who
could give it unselfishly.  Sonia was adept at both.  Jack felt a need
to screw that was almost the equal of his need for a drink.  He could
picture himself walking across the street, climbing her stairs and
rapping on her door.  Then, when she looked into his eyes, the moment
of truth would come.  He would either manage a quip or break into
tears.  Pride kept him from finding out which.  No, he would not burden
Sonia with his frailties, he would deal with them on his own.  And the
goddamn chips fall where they may.

The accident on the road from the airport held them up for a while, the
cops leaving her in the car while they tended to their duties.  But
they didn't stay long, turning the work over to a couple of other
officers who'd arrived on the scene.

cops still weren't very communicative, leaving Stephanie uncertain
whether to be angry or compliant.  She'd never been in police custody
before, even for her own protection.  No one had spoken for several
minutes, and she was getting progressively more ill at ease.

They passed a baseball field on their left, then a high-rise hotel.  To
the right was the bay.  The highway traced the waterfront.  After a
quarter of a mile they were in an older section' of town and turned
onto a side street.  Stephanie was eager to reach the police station
and speak with someone in authority.

The buildings on either side of the narrow street were two and three
stories high, stucco and concrete, all old.  A few blocks from the
waterfront, they pulled over and the officers got out.  Stephanie
peered out the window at the nondescript building opposite the car. 
The mulatto opened the door on the passenger side.  "This is where you
get out."

"This isn't the police station."

"Temporary headquarters, lady.  Our regular offices were damaged in the
hurricane."

Stephanie was skeptical, but she was hardly in any position to argue.
She climbed out of the patrol car and the officer took her arm, leading
her to the door.  The other cop had gotten her suitcase from the trunk
and joined them in the small entryway leading to a flight of stairs.

The three of them went up, Stephanie growing more an more wary with
each step.  What if these men were abducting her with the intention of
assaulting her?  More than one cop had abused his authority, taking
advantage of a woman.  But they'd known her name when they approached
her, leading her to believe it couldn't be a random abduction.  Nothing
was making much sense, but that was hardly a surprise.  She was
exhausted and her brain was muddled.

At the top of the stairs, the officer holding her arm told her to go up
the next flight.  On the third floor there were two doors.  The cop
knocked on one and a man in shirtsleeves with a gun and holster
strapped to his side opened the door.  He was Hispanic, sturdily built,
in his mid to late forties.  Stephanie assumed he was a detective.

He looked at her, then at the cop.  "So, it's Senora Reymond, is it?"

"That's what she says."

The man motioned for her to enter.  She hesitated, fear now gnawing at
her gut.  The cop gave her a gentle push, and she passed reluctantly
through the door into what looked like the front room of an apartment,
though it was empty except for a desk and a few chairs.

"That her suitcase?"  the Latino asked.

"Yeah," the other cop said, handing it to him.

He put it down, said, "Thanks and adios," closed the door and locked it
with a key, which he dropped into his pocket.

Stephanie, who'd watched him anxiously, was completely flummoxed.  "Who
are you?"  she demanded.  "Are you in charge here?"

"No," came a voice from behind her.  "That would be me."  She spun
around.  Standing in the door leading to the back rooms was Oscar
Barbadillo.  "Oh my God," she murmured.  Barbadillo, who was in
shirtsleeves now, didn't quite smile, but she could tell he was pleased
by her surprise.  He strode casually to the desk, and sat on the corner
of it, resting his folded hands on his crotch.  "So, Stephanie, we meet
again," he said' favoring her with an amused grin.  "You don't mind if
I call you Stephanie, do you?"

"What do you want?"  she demanded, doing her best to mask the terror
she felt.

"For starters, you can come over here and talk to me like a proper
lady.  Nobody can carry on a conversation from across the room.
Besides, I want to smell your perfume.  The way a woman smells tells a
lot about her, you know."  His words, not to mention his tone,
terrified her.  Stephanie didn't move.

"Didn't you hear me, Stephanie?"  he said, his tone sharper.  "I said
come here!"

She could hear the breathing of the other man, who was behind her,
knowing that at any moment he might hit her over the head.  Still, she
refused to budge.

"Ay, ca rumba  Barbadillo said.  "She won't listen.  Carlos.  encourage
the woman to come to me, will you please?"

Stephanie felt a large, warm hand on her back, which promptly gave her
a shove.  She staggered forward, righting herself before she fell.
Deciding there was nothing to be gained by further resisting, she took
the last few steps separating her from her tormentor.  Though her heart
was raging, she tried to be brave, meeting his gaze, projecting as much
contempt as she could.

Barbadillo looked at her body, just as he had on the airplane.  Then he
reached out and took her hand, smiling into her eyes with his evil
smile.  "You are a beautiful woman, you know that?"

Stephanie jerked her hand free.  Trembling, she said nothing.

He tossed his head inquisitively.  "How old are you?"  Her eyes
narrowed.  "Look, what is it you want, Mr.  Barbadillo?"

His expression grew cruelly sober.  "I want to get to know you,
Stephanie.  It's so much more pleasant if we are people with each
other--I, a man, you, a woman.  So let's make an effort, okay?  Now, I
asked you a question.  It may not be the most polite one, but I would
like to know the answer."

She drew a fortifying breath.  "I'm forty-two."

His eyebrows rose.  "So, it's true!  To look at you, I would never have
believed it."  His smile was the warmest yet.  "I'm younger, Stephanie,
but I don't feel it.  To me you are still a flower.  Very lovely."  His
eyes moved down her body once more.  "A very attractive woman."

"Why are you doing this?"  she asked.  "Your flattery means nothing to
me."  She glanced over her shoulder at Carlos, who was still at the
door, his arms folded defiantly.  "I'm a prisoner.  Why?"

"Because for the moment, this is what I wish.  Now please, querida,
let's try to be friends, shall we?"

"I have no desire to be friends with you."

He shook his head disapprovingly.  "You are not in a good mood,
Stephanie.  Why is this?  Is it because you're tired?  Are you still
sad at the loss of your daughter?  Or are you bitter because your
sister was your husband's lover?"

"How do you know all this?"  she demanded, shaken.

"I know many things about you," he replied.  "Your husband was an
associate, as I told you.  But as we talk, I learn so much more.  I
have a gift for understanding women.  You, for example, have never
known a real man.  I can tell by your manner, the way you look at me.
Oh, you may have had sex, but you are practically a virgin.  Reymond
never had you, truly.  It is obvious.  You are like a colt who's never
been ridden.  And you are crying out to experience a real man.  You may
not know this in your conscious mind, but it is true.  Me, for example.
Deep in your heart, you would have me take you."

Stephanie's eyes filled with hatred.  "You are disgusting," she said,
seething.  "A pervert.  And I refuse to stay here another minute."

She spun on her heel.  Barbadillo reached out and grabbed her arm.
Stephanie swung at him, slapping his face hard.  He shook off her blow
and slapped her back, knocking her off balance, making her cheek sting.
Then he grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"if you ever strike me again," he shouted into her face, his eyes wide
with anger, "I will drag you into the bedroom and make a woman of you,
whether you are ready for me or not."  His tobacco-tinged breath washed
over her.  "Do you understand?"

Stephanie nodded, terrified.  Barbadillo released her, but continued to
scowl.

"Carlos, bring her a chair," he commanded.  "Then take the suitcase
into the other room and take it apart.  Tear out the lining, open every
box of Tampax, check everything."

The chair was brought and she sat in it, and Barbadillo returned to his
perch on the desk, above her.  "So," he said, his tone softer again,
"here we are, two people, potential friends or potential enemies.  The
choice, Stephanie, is yours."

"How did you get the police to bring me here?"  she asked.

"The officials are very understanding in St.  Thomas.  And I can be
very persuasive."

"What do you want from me?"

"Cooperation," he said, again resting his hands on his genitals.
"Honest answers to my questions."

"if you want to know about my husband's business, Mr.  Barbadillo, I
can't help you.  I know nothing.  Jean Claud was very closemouthed
about his work and only told me the most general things."

"Hand me your purse, Stephanie."

She complied.

Barbadillo unzipped it and peered inside.  "Women and their purses," he
muttered, shaking his head.  Turning it over, he dumped the contents
onto the desk.

She watched him, feeling violated as he poked through her things.  He
picked up the framed photograph of Zanny, studying it.

"Suzanne was a lovely girl," he said.  "She looked like you and that is
very fortunate.  Jean Claud was not the most handsome of men."

Stephanie, swallowing her contempt, said nothing.

Barbadillo picked up her appointment book and paged through it, then he
went through her wallet, leafing through her bills.  "Were you
expecting to stay long in St.  Thomas?"

"A week or two."

He nodded, then examined her purse more closely, bending and poking the
leather to see if something might have been sewn inside, she assumed.
Satisfied there was nothing hidden there, he set it back down.

Then he got up, went behind the desk and took a cigar from the inside
pocket of the coat hanging on the chair.  Fishing a lighter from the
side pocket, he lit the cigar, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
Savoring his cigar, he regarded her through the ribbon of smoke curling
before his face.  "That is the worst thing about that bastard Castro. A
good cigar is hard to come by."

Stephanie watched him draw on the cigar, his manner pointedly,
obscenely sensual.  Lifting his chin, he again blew smoke toward the
ceiling again.  He gave her a wry smile and set the cigar down in an
ashtray on the corner of the desk.

The top couple of buttons of Barbadillo's white shirt were open, the
dark hairs of his chest showing.  His shoulders were very broad and,
with his shirtsleeves rolled up, he evoked a masculine, virile image.
Not wanting him to sense her awareness of those things, she lowered her
eyes, shifting in the chair uncomfortably.  But, reminding herself how
evil the man was, she looked at him again, regaining her defiant frame
of mind.

"How long are you going to keep me here?"  she demanded.

Barbadillo slowly came around the desk and moved behind her chair.  He
put his hands on her shoulders and began massaging her tense muscles,
which grew more tense because of his touch.  If he noticed, he paid no
attention, continuing to knead her flesh with his strong fingers.

"I will keep you here until I get what I want."

"I have nothing to give you," she said bravely.

"Oh, I think you do.  More, maybe, than I first thought.  Women, you
see, are strange creatures.  They resist because they must.  The harder
they fight, the more satisfying the victory for the man.  But submit
eventually, they must.  if it is the right man."

Stephanie twisted free of him and got to her feet, facing him.  "if you
think I have any interest in you as a man, you're sorely mistaken.  I
want to leave.  Now!"

He frowned.  "I'm afraid that won't be possible.  You see, the decision
is mine, not yours.  And I do have a very strong interest in you,
Stephanie, an interest that is growing by the minute."

"You are sick," she said.

"No, determined.  I like having my way."

Barbadillo was playing mind games with her, she could see that.  What
she didn't know was how far he would push things, whether his
sexual-predator act was for effect, or if he was actually sick enough
to carry out his threats.

"What must I do before you'll let me go?"  she asked, rubbing her
throbbing cheek.

"Okay, let's take care of business first," he said, his tone
surprisingly reasonable.  "Here, you sit in this chair and I'll get
another."

Turning her chair, he went and got one that was against the wall,
placing it so that the two chairs were facing each other.  He motioned
for her to sit and she did.  He went and got his cigar and the ashtray.
Puffing on the cigar, he put the ashtray on the floor beside the other
chair, then sat.  They were close enough that their knees nearly
touched.

"Here's the problem, querida," he said.  "My associates and I invested
twenty million with your husband in what was supposedly a surefire
investment, which was to provide a very nice return.  According to your
husband, it didn't.  The stock is practically worthless.  But we're
very suspicious and we have our own .. . investors who are counting on
us.  We find out your husband's other investments are doing fine.  It
could be he is taking the profits elsewhere and saddling us with the
losses."

"That would surprise me," she said, "because I know for a fact Jean
Claud has an excellent reputation in the venture capital business." She
figured he was alluding to Halcyon Technologies, but she wasn't about
to tip her hand about that.

If there was to be any salvation, it was in convincing him that she was
nothing but a dumb housewife.

"Well, we aren't about to drop twenty million and congratulate him for
his excellent reputation," Barbadillo said dryly.

"So you killed him."

"No, of course not.  Murder is not only a crime, it is, in this case,
counterproductive.  Your husband has plenty of money.  It's just a
matter of recovering what is ours.  We have this little problem,
though, that he is no longer with us."

Stephanie hated him for his cavalier, pseudo-innocent manner.  He knew
damn well that lives had been snuffed out needlessly--if not by him,
then by his friends.

"You look skeptical, Stephanie," he said.  "Is it that you don't
believe me?"

The man was very perceptive and she knew she had to be careful.  Oscar
Barbadillo was chipping away at her defenses.

"I believe you," she said, "I just don't understand your point."

"My point is, you are our best hope of recovering our money."

"I don't know how I can help you, because I don't know a thing about
how Jean Claud handled his investments."

"He handled your personal portfolio, did he not?"

Stephanie blinked.  How could he know that?  Then she
understood--Audrey.  They'd forced her to tell them everything before
they'd killed her.  But Stephanie knew she still had to play dumb. "Did
Jean Claud tell you that?"

"Stephanie," he said, putting his hand on her knee, "there is so much I
know about you.  Unfortunately, there are a few things I do not. That's
why it's so important that you and I become friends."  He gave her knee
a squeeze.  "let me describe my problem," he went on.  "After Jean
Claud met with his unfortunate accident, friends of ours dropped by
your house.  They... let's say, searched the place, discovering,

among other things, that the hard drive on Jean Claud's computer had
been wiped clean.  My friends did discover that you had previously made
copies of his financial records, which means you are in possession of
the only copy of the information we need to recover our money.  You see
how simple the problem is?"  he said, giving her knee another pat. "All
I need to know is what you've done with the copy."

"I don't have the disks," she said.

"Well, it's true they aren't in your purse.  Are they in your
suitcase?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Barbadillo reached down for his cigar and took a drag, reflecting as he
did.  Then he pursed his lips and expelled the smoke into the air.
Stephanie had never liked cigars or cigar smokers, but Oscar Barbadillo
did it with more flair than any man she'd ever known.  At a certain
level he was fascinating.  If he weren't so creepy, she could almost
have admired him.

"Carlos!"  he said, calling to the man in the other room.

"What?"

"Have you found anything?"

"Plenty of underwear and shit, amigo.  No computer stuff.  No files.
Nothing like that."

"Are you finished?  Have you taken the suitcase apart?"

"I'm doing that now.  There's nothing here."

Barbadillo gave her a woebegone look.  "Stephanie, what have you done
with the disk?  Is it under your clothing?"

"No."

"But it is no place else.  It must be there."

She had an image of him making her strip in front of him and it was
enough to make her sick.  She forced her tired brain to think, her
desperation growing.  Did she tell him the disks were in the locker at
the airport and hand over the key?  Would that satisfy him?  Or would
he kill her, anyway?  She knew an awful lot and he'd been pretty open
with her.  Too open.

And what about her inheritance, her portfolio?  if the information
Barbadillo was after included the key to getting the funds coming out
of the Halcyon sale, then he and his friends would take everything and
she'd have nothing.

"Stephanie," he said in a singsong voice, "you aren't talking, querida.
The disks are in your panties, aren't they?"

"No, I told you they weren't."

His eyes narrowed.  "Then where are they, goddamn it!"  he shouted.

She flinched, his sudden burst of anger shocking her.  "Where!"  he
yelled.  "What did you do with them?"  "I put them in my safe-deposit
box in my bank in Mill Valley."

"What?"

"They're in my bank."

"Bullshit," he scoffed.  "When could you have done that?"

"Yesterday morning before I went to the airport.  Where do you think I
got all that money and the traveler's checks?"

He contemplated her, taking another drag on his cigar.  She returned
his gaze, doing her best to stare him down.  She knew her life could
very well depend on her resolve.

"I'm sorry," he said in a surprisingly soft tone, "but I don't believe
you.  I'm going to have to search you.  There is no other way."

Stephanie tensed, the suggestion making her nauseated.

"Stand up," he commanded.

She got to her feet, backing away, making the chair screech on the
wooden floor.  "You have no honor," she said, her fear of him soaring.
"You're using this as an excuse."

Barbadillo rose as well.  "I must have the disks," he said, though by
the look in his eye he might just as well have said, "I must have
you."

Stephanie took off her suit jacket and, holding it up, turned it back
to front.  "See, no disk."

He inched toward her, ever so slowly, not stopping when she threw the
jacket at him.  Ignoring the symbolic rebuff, he continued his pursuit,
the slight smile on his lips not exactly sadistic, but close.

"You could see the disk if I had it on me," she lamented, almost in
tears.

"I can't be sure unless you take off your clothes."

A feeling of panic rose in her and she ran to the door.  Carlos must
have locked it.  She began pounding on it with her fists, screaming for
help.  But who would come to her aid?  The police?  She knew the
chances of that were nil.

Stephanie spun around.  Barbadillo still pursued her, relentlessly and
with terrifying deliberateness, seemingly amused.  Her back to the
door, she saw Carlos across the room at the entrance to the back hall,
having come to see what all the commotion was about.

"Let me beat it out of her, Oscar," he said.  "Why fart around?"

"Go back and play with her underwear," Barbadillo said.  "I'll take
care of her my way."

He was right in front of her now.  Her back pressed against the door,
tears of desperation welling in her eyes.  She felt hopeless.  Did she
tell him where the disks were, or would that be the same as signing her
own death warrant?  If she could convince him they were in the bank,
then he'd realize he needed to keep her alive.

Oscar was in her face now.  The smell of his cigar was on his breath.
Reaching up, he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.  She
trembled and that appeared to amuse him.

"Please don't," she mumbled.

Unmoved, he ran his hand down across her shoulder, then slipped it
under her arm, dragging his palm up her side, all the while his eyes
boring into hers.  Moving still closer, he thrust his hand behind her
back, using both hands now, probing her skin with his fingers.

"Any disks under your blouse?"  he asked in a tone so matter-of-fact it
disgusted her.  "Maybe taped to your skin?"

"I told you, they aren't with me!"

"Maybe, querida, but I've got to make sure.,"

Barbadillo felt her back and waist, then brought his hands around
front, moving them over the plane of her stomach and up under her
breasts, peering into her eyes as he searched her.  He gave her breasts
a playful caress and she was sure he'd feel the locker key in her bra,
but he didn't linger.

"This isn't all that bad, is it?"  he said, his lip curling.

"I've never been so humiliated in my life," she said, glaring with
contempt.

"Oh, Stephanie, if you'd just relax, you might enjoy this."

"I hate it," she said.  "And I hate you."

Oscar shook his head.  "Well, I'm afraid we're not quite through.
You're going to have to take off your skirt."

She fought back a new rush of panic.

"You don't like the idea, do you?"  he said gently, using the tone one
used with a child.  "Maybe that's because that's where you hid it,
under your skirt."

"I told you, I don't have it with me!"  she said, sobbing now.  "Why
can't you believe me?"

"Because I'm a suspicious man," he snapped.  "And we're talking about
millions of dollars.  Your money and mine!  What would you endure to
save your inheritance, huh, Stephanie?"  His tone had grown harsh
again.

"Leave me alone," she cried, her body shaking violently.

"Yeah, okay, I'll leave you alone..  after I find the goddamn disk!"

Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of her skirt and yanked it up.  Then
he violently spun her around, holding up her skirt and pressing her
against the door with one hand as he patted down her hips, her butt and
thighs with the other.  She wept as he ran his hand up between her
legs.

Angry, he jerked her around again so that she faced him, grabbing her
by the throat and pressing his face practically into hers.  "Where are
the goddamn disks?"  he shouted.

All she could do was sob.

Barbadillo reached down and pressed his hand against her pubis,
shocking her.  Applying more pressure, he lifted her on her toes.  "You
see, querida, there are two ways of doing everything.  Do you want to
deal with me or that gorilla in the other room?  I'm a cream puff
compared to Carlos.  He'll cut you into little pieces.  Is that what
you want?"

"The disks are in the bank!"

Barbadillo let go of her and turned sharply away.  Stephanie smoothed
her skirt, tears running down her cheeks.  Oscar paced back and forth
in the middle of the room.  She realized then that she'd outlasted him.
At least for now.

"I still don't believe you," he said, pointing at her with an accusing
finger.  "You stashed them somewhere.  Was it on the plane?  Did you
give them to another passenger?  What did you do with them, Stephanie?
They're not in the bank in California.  I don't believe that.  You
brought them because you need them to get the money, don't you?"

"They're in my safe-deposit box," she repeated.  He stopped pacing, his
dark glower full of hatred.  "Carlos!"  he shouted.  "Maybe I need your
help after all!"

"No," she said.

"Tell you what," he said.  "I'll give you five minutes to think about
this before Carlos goes to work.  Five minutes to come up with a better
answer."

Carlos appeared at the door.  "Is it my turn?"  he asked, sounding
positively gleeful.

Stephanie wiped her eyes and looked at her tormentors.  "I need to go
to the bathroom," she said.

"Fine," Barbadillo said.  "That'll give Carlos time to plan his
conversation with you."

"I don't need to plan no conversation," Carlos said.  "You want some
information, I'll make her tell you, It's that simple."

"The lady might think better of her stubbornness," Oscar said.  "Women
can be very reasonable when they want to be, you know."  He looked at
her.  "The can's in back, down the hall."

Stephanie glanced at the desk where the contents of her purse were
spread out.  "Do you mind if I take my purse?"  she asked.

Barbadillo tossed his head as if to say, "Go ahead."

She picked up her jacket from the floor, slipped it on, then scooped
the contents into her bag.  The picture of Suzanne was intact, and the
money was still in her wallet.  When she turned, Oscar was looking at
her legs.

"Too bad things didn't go a little better between us," he said. "You're
a good-looking woman and I like you.  You've got guts, querida. You're
smart, grown-up.  That is good considering the way most broads are
these days.  It's a shame you didn't trust me.  It would save us both a
lot of trouble.  And damn it, I really hate the sight of blood."

Swallowing hard, Stephanie put her purse under her arm and headed
toward the back of the apartment.  Finding the bathroom, she stepped
inside, locking the door behind her.  The image in the mirror was not
pretty.  The haggard, red-faced woman could have been someone else.  It
didn't seem like her.  Perspiration ran down her back, she felt sullied
and wretched, and she didn't know what to do.

After taking a few deep breaths, she looked around.  The fixtures were
antiquated.  The porcelain surfaces of the basin, tub and toilet were
stained.  She did have to go to the bathroom, so she relieved herself,
noticing as she sat on the stool that the louvered grate over the small
window above the tub was hanging by one small hinge and appeared ready
to fall off.  Could it be a route of escape?  she wondered.

Before flushing the toilet, she climbed up on the tub and lifted the
grate enough to peer outside.  There was no fire escape, but there was
a flatbed trailer truck parked in the alley below.  It was stacked high
with bales of rags.  The distance was probably fifteen or twenty feet
to the top bale.

Her heart raced at the prospect of escape.  She'd probably break her
neck in the fall, but she didn't like her chances with Oscar and
Carlos.  Flushing the toilet, she grabbed her purse, then raised the
grate.  It creaked.  With her head out the opening, she tossed her
purse onto the truck.  Judging by how it bounced, the bales were
reasonably soft.  That was encouraging.  The trick would be to shimmy
through the narrow opening.

There was a knock on the door.  "Time's up," Barbadillo said.  "Come on
out."

"I just have to wash up," she replied.  "I'll only be a minute."

"Make it quick."

Knowing she had to hurry, she struggled to get herself out the window.
She could get as far as her chest easily enough, but she didn't have
the strength for the last push she needed.  There was nothing to hold
on to.  Lifting her leg, she managed to hook her toe on the showerhead.
The pressure broke the hinge on the grate and it crashed into the
tub.

She heard voices outside the door.  "Damn it, open up!"  Barbadillo
shouted.  "We'll break the goddamn door down.  Come out of there!"  His
shoulder slammed against the wood.  Then again.

She'd gotten her waist to the window ledge when the bathroom door
crashed open.

"Jesus Cristo!"  she heard Barbadillo holler when he saw what she was
doing.

She was teetering when he grabbed her ankle.  Kicking out with her free
foot' she caught him in the chest, knocking him away.  It was enough to
thrust her out the window.  She did a somersault in the air, landing
flat on her back on the bales of rags.

The impact knocked the wind out of her.  She lay staring at the sky,
gasping for air, when she saw Oscar Barbadillo stick his head out the
window.

"Puta!"  he screamed.  "You'll pay for this!"

He pulled his head back in the window.  Stephanie knew they'd be coming
for her.  Snatching her purse, she crawled to the edge and slid off the
trailer, dropping the last five feet to the ground.

Her heart racing, she looked both ways, then dashed toward the shorter
end of the alley, afraid one of the men would get there before she did.
But she made it to the street without seeing them.  Thank God they'd
been on the third floor.  Deciding they'd come from the left, she ran
to the right.  It was a short half block to the next street.  As she
dashed across the intersection, she practically ran into a cruising
taxi.  The driver had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting her.  Even
so, she fell over the hood.

The man started to get out, but Stephanie signaled him to get back
inside.  She jumped in on the passenger side as a shout came from up
the street.  It was Barbadillo and Carlos, the latter with his gun
drawn, running toward them.

"What goin' on, missus?"  the corpulent driver asked, his eyes round as
pie plates.

"Go, damn it!"  she screamed.  "Just drive!"

The cab lurched forward as Oscar Barbadillo came running up.  Stephanie
heard the whap of his fist on the trunk as they careened off.  The
driver looked in the mirror and started to brake.  Stephanie whacked
his fat arm.

"Keep going," she shouted breathlessly.  "Those men are trying to kill
me!"

The taxi surged ahead, tires squealing.  They'd gone half a block
before she glanced back.  Oscar had run after them for twenty yards,
but stopped, knowing it was useless.  When the taxi reached the
Waterfront Highway, the driver looked at her, his face glistening with
perspiration, fear in his eyes.

"Missus ... I..."

"Take me to the airport," she said, her chest still heaving.  "I'll pay
you a hundred dollars!  I've got to get off this island.  Now!"

They'd gone several blocks before the cabby found the courage to speak.
"Shouldn't I be takin' you to the police, missus?"

The police were the last people she wanted to talk to.  She had no way
of knowing if Barbadillo had bribed just the two at the airport or half
the force.  And at this point, she wasn't willing to trust anyone.
"I'll go to the police somewhere else," she said.  "I just want to get
out of here."

"You got a plane ticket?"  he asked, hunching over the wheel as he
drove.  "You know there's a flight you can take?"

Stephanie realized that the airport might not be the place to go.
Barbadillo might figure she'd head that way.  Those policemen could
have returned.

"Maybe I don't want to go to the airport," she said upon reflection.
"Is there any other way to leave?"

"There be ferryboats and sea planes, missus.  There's ferries to St.
John leavin' all the time."

"Take me there then, please."

Stephanie laid her head back, trying to calm herself.  Her heart
pounded, her cheek throbbed where Barbadillo had slapped her.  She'd
scraped herself getting through the window, but she wouldn't think
about that now.  She had to focus on not getting caught again.  But at
least she knew now she had a damn good reason to feel paranoid.  It was
small consolation, but it was something.

Frenchtown

Jack Kidwell glanced around the littered deck, as disgusted with his
boat as he was with himself.  He'd walked all the way back from town,
passing half a dozen bars.  He'd resisted the temptation to go in for a
drink, but now that he was home, he had trouble finding purpose.  If he
had an ounce of gumption he'd clean the old tub.  But it was hard to
give a damn, knowing Bill Toussaint had effectively put him out of
business.  He could clean the boat up three weeks from now and only
have to do it once.

procrastination was as much a vice as drink.  Alicia used to chide him
about it, but her words were always gentle.  She hadn't been Miss
Organized herself, but she'd had a keen sense of responsibility, a
commodity he'd been short of--at least since he'd lost everything in
Florida and came to the Caribbean.  Just thinking about her put a weary
ache in his heart.  A world that had rejected her was not a world he
wanted any part of.  The trouble was, escape was not easy, except with
booze.

Jack thought of the nice sweet bottle of scotch in a locker below,
waiting for him to pop it open.  Oh, it would be so easy.  And so nice.
Would one drink do all that much harm?  He knew it would because there
was no stopping once he got started.  But he also knew his resistance
was wearing down.

Jack rubbed his jaw and stared across the sleepy marina, bathed in
afternoon sun.  Alcoholism was a bummer.  If you were going to beat it'
you had to do it by inches.  One day at a time.  God, he was sick of
the phrase.

Jack heard her heels on the wooden dock before he noticed her.  For a
brief instant, he thought it was Alicia.  But his soaring heart crashed
when he remembered the dead didn't walk around in the afternoon sun.
The girl in the short little dress, that showed more of her cocoa
thighs than it covered, was Tanya Brown.  She waved.  He waved back,
the sour taste of disappointment fading into a cold, hard reality that
was as painful as sobriety.

"Captain Jack!"

He concentrated on the firm flesh and long legs.  "Hi ya, sugar," he
returned.

Tanya made her way up the boarding ladder to the deck of the Lucky
Lady, her smile as wide as her strides were long.  She had a beach bag
slung over her shoulder.

"Jesus," he said, "they're letting high school out earlier every
year."

"High school?"  she said with a scowl.  "This girl was finished with
high school, man, long before you started fucking her" She grabbed his
ear and pulled his face down to kiss his mouth as if it was something
she'd been doing for twenty years.  "Otherwise you might be in jail."

Jack inhaled her pungently erotic scent, smiling his concurrence.
"Thank goodness for small favors."  He gave her cheek a pinch.  "What
brings a pretty young thing like you out to see a crusty old sea dog
like me?"

"Baby, you shouldn't gotta ask."

She smiled Alicia' S smile and it almost broke his heart.

"I did bring you a few little things," she said, putting down her bag.
She opened it, extracting a 1.75-liter bottle of Chivas Regal and laid
it in his hands as though it were frankincense or myrrh.  "That's from
my daddy."

Jack gazed at the label and weighed the bottle carefully.  To him it
was more like the Christ child himself than any offering or tribute.
Bill would have said the Antichrist, but that was beside the point.
"Just what I need," he mumbled.

"And," Tanya said, "Mama sent a big container of chicken and
dumplings."

She took a cylindrical ice cream-like container from her bag and handed
it to him.  Jack sniffed it dutifully, giving a nod of approval before
setting it down.

"Your mama's a sweetheart."

"They both think you're the cat's meow," Tanya said.  "Whatever that
means."

"It means Bobby still owes me a bomb.  Half the money in that plane of
his is mine."

Tanya's look of impatience made it clear to him she didn't want to hear
about it.  "Which reminds me--my Daddy said he was going to be a few
weeks late on his payment this month.  He's eleven thousand behind on
his fuel bill and if he don't fly, nobody gets paid."

It was not what Jack wanted to hear.  This was the third time this year
Bobby had missed a payment.  And with his license having been jerked,
Jack wouldn't be producing any income for at least a month.  He'd been
counting on Bobby's check to tide him over.

"Tanya, that money is important.  I--"

"I don't know nothin' about that, Captain," she said, cutting him off.
"The money thing's between you and my daddy.  Don't got nothin' to do
with me, no way."

He wondered about that.  He'd been curious for a long time just how her
family dealt with their relationship, finding it easier to pretend it
wasn't a problem.  But this was proving to be a day for courage.  "I
don't mean to bring up a sore subject," he said, "but what, exactly, do
your parents think's going on between us?"

"Baby," she said, "I don't think we want to talk about that, either."

Her tone said it all.  "Oh, Jesus."

She gave him one of her seductive looks.  "It's not so bad, Captain.
They think I'm twenty-one and if I want your white babies, fine.  If I
want to tell you to go to hell, that's fine, too."

He knew right up front that most anything Tanya said was fifty percent
bullshit.  She'd had a crush on him forever.  And she did like to have
a good time.  He'd rationalized that, as long as she was cool with it,
he was, too.  But it was rationalization, pure and simple.  She might
be twenty-one, but she was still a girl.  And her goddamn father was a
bastard for not beating the shit out of him for screwing her.  But, of
course, Bobby had to think of the money, too.  Damn, it was really a
disgusting situation, for which he was as much to blame as anyone.

The problem was, he could close his eyes and Tanya became Alicia,
fleetingly perhaps, but still Alicia.  That was hard to ignore.  With a
few good, stiff belts in him, Tanya's allure was as strong and
irresistible as silky-smooth Scotch, And in combination--Tanya and
booze--they could be deadly.  Jack saw the chances of him surviving the
evening without succumbing to be very slim, indeed.

"You know, sugar," he said, "the biggest favor you could do for me now
would be to take that sweet little ass of yours and go on home to your
mama."

She acted disappointed.  "That what you want, Captain Jack?"

How did he say yes?  But then, how did he say no?  "I've got a little
problem," he said.  "It's got nothing to do with you, Tanya, but I'm in
a difficult position."

"You got VD?"

He shook his head, laughing.  "No, nothing like that."

"A woman?"

"No, not that either."

She moved toward him until her round hard breast touched his chest.
Then she reached down and gently grasped his genitals.  Within seconds
he was hard.  "Don't see any problem here," she cooed.

Jack wondered how a girl so young could have such confidence in her
sexuality.  And why she was interested in him, for chrissakes.  Her
father's debt could explain the timing, but not her passion.  Tanya
liked to fuck and she especially liked to fuck him.  She'd once told
him she started having sexual fantasies about him when she was eleven,
back in the days when Jack was still living in Florida and had the
world by the balls.  Bobby Brown was his pilot, Tanya a prepubescent
nymph.  To think he was screwing her made him feel like a pedophile. 
To his credit, he had waited until she was nineteen and no longer a
virgin.

Jack took her wrist and removed her hand from his groin.  Tanya frowned
with disappointment.

"You really don't want to?"

"Of course I want to," he said.

"So then, how about we get all comfortable and have some of my mama's
dumplins first?"

"Shit," he said, "you're going to be the death of me."

The beat-up pickup truck pulled to a stop in front of the marina.
Stephanie handed the wizened old man a twenty-dollar bill and said,
"Please don't tell anyone you brought me here."

He shook his head.  "No, ma'am."

Stephanie had no idea whether he would honor her request, but she was
reduced to putting her faith in people she didn't know.  She'd spent
the past few hours at the ferry port, waiting to leave the island,
afraid Barbadillo would find her before she got away.  He never showed
up, but the police had.  A vanful of them.  And though she wasn't
absolutely sure they were looking for her, she couldn't take any
chances.  Slipping away, she'd found the little old man loading his
truck with crates of vegetables and asked if he'd give her a ride. He'd
looked at her suspiciously, wary until she'd produced some bills.

"Where does you want to go?"  he'd asked.

"Is there a marina where I can charter a boat?"

"There be one at Frenchtown and I do got a delivery out that way."

"Please take me there."

Now Stephanie watched the truck pull away, then headed for the gate to
the marina.  The man in the guard booth was talking to a heavyset woman
with a full plastic shopping bag at her feet.  They were laughing and
having a good time.

"Excuse me," she said, interrupting.  "I'd like to charter a boat.  Who
do I talk to?"

"There's a whole mess of boats inside," the man replied.  "Go ask.
That's all I can say."

That wasn't very helpful, but she thanked him, anyway.  Spread out
before her was a forest of naked masts.  A maze of docks ran through
the marina.  The majority of them had to be private boats, which left
her wondering how she'd find those available for charter.

She saw a teenage boy mopping the deck of a large sailboat and asked
where the charter boats were located.  He directed her to the other
side of the marina.  As she went out on the last dock, there seemed to
be a bit more activity.  On the first boat she came to, a man was at
the boom, flaking the mainsail.

"Excuse me," she said, calling to him.

He turned, his skin glistening in the late-afternoon sun.

"I want to charter a boat.  Who do I talk to?"

"Captain's in town and he ain't going to be back for maybe an hour or
two," he replied.  "You have to talk to him."

Stephanie thanked him and moved on.  There was no one aboard the next
couple of vessels that she could see.  On the fourth, two men, both
older, were on deck.  One of the men, who wore a captain's hat tilted
back on his head, puffed on a pipe as he watched her approach.

"Aye, ma' am.  What can I do for you?"  he said, seeing she had a
question.  His accent was noticeably British.

"I'd like to charter a boat to take me ... off St.  Thomas," she
said.

"You've come to the right place, then.  Where would you be wantin' to
go and when?"

"It doesn't matter where.  Someplace with an airport."

"An airport?  Don't you know they've got one right here in St.
Thomas?"

"Yes, but I can't fly from here.  It's very important that I leave
immediately."

He took off his hat and scratched his thatch of stringy white hair.
"That would be a problem then, lass.  Weather permitting, we're takin'
a Canadian group out in the morning.  In three days time the boat will
be available for hire, if you can wait that long."

"I'm afraid I can't," She groaned.  "Is there anyone else here who
could take me immediately?"

The man shrugged.  "Most charters are booked in advance, as you might
imagine.  You'd do better to book through an agency, if you don't mind
me sayin' so."

"I don't have time," Stephanie said, her frustration level rising.  She
looked back up the dock as though she half expected to see Oscar
Barbadillo and Carlos making their way toward her.

"You can ask around," he said, stroking his chin.  "A bit earlier I saw
Winslow, skipper of that Cambria 44 you see along the way there, but
he's got a party coming in this evening, I know."

"There must be somebody."  She was on the verge of tears.  "Cap'n," the
man's companion said, extending a bony hand toward the end of the dock.
"What about Jack Daniels?"

The first man chortled, nudging the other with his elbow.  "Charlie's
right, miss.  You might try Jackie.  His boat's likely available since
he's in port more than he's at sea.  Can't vouch for the condition of
the boat... or him, for that matter."

"Which one is it?"  she asked, looking.

"Last on the right."

"His name is Daniels?"

The man chuckled.  "A bit of a joke, lass.  His proper name is Kidwell.
Jack Kidwell.  Not a bad bloke, truth be known.  Friendly with the
ladies, if you see that to be a virtue.  Haven't noticed him around
this afternoon, but most likely he's aboard.  Could be he's sleepin'
one off."

It was not the most reassuring description, but Stephanie didn't see
that she had much choice.  "Thank you, I'll speak with Mr.  Kidwell."

The man saluted her and Stephanie moved down the dock to the last boat.
The craft was much like the others, though the deck was cluttered. The
name on the bow, Lucky Lady, struck her as ironic; she wasn't sure
whether as an omen it was good or bad.

Stephanie glanced back, again afraid of seeing Barbadillo or the
police, but the only sign of life was seabirds and the man she'd seen
working on the first boat.  The sun had dropped behind the hill between
Charlotte Amalie and the airport.  Dusk was approaching.  She couldn't
dawdle.

Taking hold of the rickety handrail of the boarding ladder, she climbed
onto the deck.  As she stepped over a coil of line, she heard the faint
sound of music coming from below.  That came as a relief.

"Hello!"  she called tentatively.  "Hello!"  There was no reply. Moving
a few steps farther along, she called out again.  "Mr.  Kidwell?
Hello?"

She went around an overturned bucket and mop, stepped over a snatch
block, halyard tails and various odd bits as she moved in the direction
of the companionway and the steps leading belowdecks.  The music grew
louder.  It had a Caribbean beat.  Jack Kidwell either couldn't hear
her because of it, or was sleeping off a drunk.  She took a long, deep
breath.  With Jean Claud's killers after her, she had no alternative
but to awaken Kidwell if necessary.

As she descended the steps, she kicked aside a dirty beach towel,
wondering how on earth the man avoided breaking his neck.  "Mr.
Kidwell," she called out over the ever louder beat of the music.

There was no response.

It was dark belowdecks, the only light coming from the ports on either
side of the main salon.  The cabin was like a fraternity house the
morning after a drunken party.  The close, dank air smelled vaguely of
booze, food and cigar smoke.

The music seemed to be coming from the aft cabin.  As she carefully
made her way toward it, she heard the sound of a woman's voice, low and
sensual.  Stephanie froze.  That other captain's comment about Jack
Kidwell being friendly with the ladies suddenly took on graphic
meaning.

The door to the aft cabin was slightly ajar and, as Stephanie crept
closer, she was able to look inside.  A lovely young mulatto,
completely naked, was astride a man with deeply tanned skin, her torso
gyrating, her head thrown back as she moaned.  Stephanie could not see
the man's face, but she saw him cup the girl's breasts and rub the
nipples with his thumbs.  The sight was so unexpected, so erotic, that
Stephanie was mesmerized.

"Oh, Jesus.  Oh, Jesus," the girl kept saying.  "Don't stop." Stephanie
was stunned but also fascinated.  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment,
not only because of her modesty, but because she'd allowed herself to
get caught up in someone else's private moment.  She started to turn
away, only to look back when she heard either the girl or the man make
a sound.

"Time to come, you little bitch," the man said.  "Captain's ready." 
The words were not kind, but there was a tenderness in the tone.

"Oh, Jesus.  Oh, Jesus!  A little more.  Oh ... eee!"

"Come on, sugar," he growled.

"Now!  Oh, Jesus, now!  I'm coming!"  she cried.  "I'm coming."

The girl's head rolled and pitched like someone in the throes of a
seizure, her shrieks punctuated finally by an, "Oh, God!"

Stephanie could see the man's torso arch, lifting the girl off the
bunk, and she saw the sensuous body collapse onto his chest, spent.

The girl was gasping and it sounded as if she was crying, as well.
"Dear God, dear God," she murmured.

The lovers were soaked in sweat.  The man ran his hand over the young
woman's back and haunch with a tenderness that was at once gentle and
impersonal.  For the first time in a few minutes, Stephanie took stock
of herself.  She felt an empathetic glow of sexual arousal.

Shocked, she forced herself to back away, nearly tripping over a carton
as she headed for the stairs.  But as she started up the companionway,
she remembered that Oscar Barbadillo was tracking her down at that very
moment.  Whether Jack Kidwell was a drunk or a womanizer didn't matter.
She needed him.  Badly.  Turning, she faced the aft cabin.

"Mr.  Kidwell!"  she called out more resolutely than before.  "Could I
speak with you, please?  Hello?  Mr.  Kidwell?"

There were no embarrassed squeals from the cabin, no scurrying about,
just the music.  She was about to call out again when the radio or
cassette player abruptly went dead.

"Who's there?"  came the man's voice.  There was irritation in it.

"I'd like to speak to you about a charter," she replied, her voice
tremulous.  "I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's urgent.  I'll wait...
upstairs."  With that she scurried up the companionway, unable to move
half as quickly as she'd have liked.

Topside, Stephanie took a couple of deep breaths of sea air, her face
flushed, her clothes and hair soaked with nervous perspiration.  Her
dignity was in shambles.  She was embarrassed.  But overriding it all
was the danger stalking her.

Pulling herself together, she paced back and forth across the littered
deck, casting an occasional glance along the dock, certain that at any
moment her enemies would appear.  She peered impatiently down the
companionway.  There was no sign of anyone.  No music, no voices.
Nothing.  Didn't the bastard realize this was an emergency?  She was
just about to head down again when Jack Kidwell appeared at the base of
the stairs, a cigar between his teeth, a glass of whiskey in his
hand.

The man was quite large, well over six feet and bearlike, though that
impression came more from his unsteady gait than the dense mat of hair
on his chest and the tangle of his shaggy blond hair.  He had on a pair
of faded cotton shorts.  His feet were bare, his face unshaven.  It was
difficult to tell his age, but Stephanie placed it at just over
forty--the same as her own.

"You rang?"  he said, not bothering to remove the cigar from between
his teeth.  He kept a hand on the grab rail to steady himself.  It was
obvious he was intoxicated.

Stephanie repressed the mild revulsion, trying hard to affect a
dignified demeanor.  The cigar made her think of Oscar Barbadillo.
That, and the way Kidwell looked her over, made it hard not to
recoil.

"You're not a hallucination," he mumbled, "because I distinctly heard
you speak."  He rewarded his own cleverness with a grin.

"Yes, Mr.  Kidwell.  Forgive me for intruding, but I'm very eager to
charter a boat and I was told yours may be available."

"That so?"  He chomped on the cigar, his eyes appearing to drift in and
out of focus.

"It's very, very urgent," she said.  "I have to leave immediately."

"Immediately's pretty soon, you know," he said, slurring his words
slightly.

"Yes, I know.  But I have to depart right now, without delay."

"Where do you want to go?"  "Anywhere."

"That specific, huh?"

"To the next island.  Anyplace with an airport."  His brow furrowed.
"Mind if I ask why?"

"I'll pay cash in advance," she said, ignoring the question.  "Five
hundred dollars."

"That's a pretty good reason," he said, more amused than was
justified.

"I'll give you an extra hundred if we can be under way in fifteen
minutes."

Kidwell puffed on the cigar.  "That's pretty damn immediate.  Too
immediate, probably.  There's a lot more to putting to sea than you'd
think."  He looked up at the sky.  "And it could be we're in for some
weather."

"Please," she said, "my life could be at stake.  I need to know if
you'll do it or not."

He rolled the cigar between his teeth, squinting at her through the
curl of smoke.  "At stake how?"

"I don't have time to explain.  I need an answer.  Please."

"There's a slight problem," he said waving his hand dismissively.  "I'm
indisposed."

"I know I'm coming at an awkward time but--"

"Sugar, if you'd have come a minute earlier..  you'd have..  ruined my
evening.  As it is, I'm not enjoying this a whole lot."

"Please, Mr.  Kidwell, yes or no?"

He scratched his head with his cigar hand.  "How about at sunrise?  The
boat needs to be cleaned up and I have to take on provisions, not to
mention a couple cups of coffee."  Another grin.

"I don't care what it looks like and I don't need to eat," she
returned.  "Just get me off this damn island now.  I'll make it a
thousand dollars."

"Jesus Christ.  What did you do, rob a bank?"

Deciding on one last attempt, she opened her purse, dug for her wallet
and pulled out the nine remaining hundreds.  "Here's my money," she
said, her hand trembling.

He eyed the bills.  "Since you put it that way .. . "

"Jack, what's happening?"  It was a lilting feminine voice behind
him.

Kidwell turned around.  The mulatto girl, her slender figure sheathed
in a little cotton jersey dress, emerged from the companionway.  She
was in strappy sandals and carried a beach bag.  She slipped her arm
around Jack Kidwell's waist and cast an unfriendly glare in Stephanie's
direction.

"Hello, sugar," he said, grinning first at the girl, then at Stephanie.
"This lady needs to go sailing, so I'm afraid we'll have to finish our
conversation another time."

The girl glanced at the bills in Stephanie's hand.  "Yeah, man, I
heard. So, you're going?"

"I'm afraid duty calls."

She laid her head on his shoulder and eyed Stephanie, obviously not
pleased with developments.  "You're no better than a hooker, Captain
Jack," the girl said.  "You know that, don't you?"

He chuckled.  "Flattering assessment, but I can hardly argue with your
logic."  He patted her fanny.  "I'll be back in a few days.  I'll give
you a call.  And tell Mom and Dad thanks for the food and drink."

"Sure."  She did a little shimmy with her body against him and kissed
his chin.  "So long then, baby."

The girl left, moving past Stephanie with a slinky walk.

Kidwell took another puff on his cigar and watched her go down the
dock.  He shook his head regretfully.  "Hell of a conversationalist,
that one."

"Look, I'm terribly sorry to have spoiled your evening," Stephanie
said, "but I really had no choice."

Kidwell turned his attention to her.  "My sense of propriety, not to
mention my curiosity, demands that I ask why the urgency."

"Isn't it enough that my life's in danger?  Can't the particulars
wait?"

He shrugged.  "If that's as specific as you're going to get, I guess
it'll have to do.  I never argue with cold, hard cash."

Stephanie again peered up the dock.  The girl was about to disappear
from sight.  There was no one else around.  "How long before we can be
under way?"

"How particular are you about your accommodations?"

"Not particular at all."

He nodded.  "Luggage?"

She lifted her purse.

"I see."  Kidwell drained his glass, stamping out his cigar in the
bottom of it.  "Disgusting habit, smoking.  Don't do it, normally.  But
you succumb to one vice and all the others tend to sneak right in," he
said, sounding sad.  He set the glass on the deck, almost losing his
balance.  "This may be an impertinent question, but do you have a
name?"  he asked, drawing himself up.

"Jane," she said, scarcely hesitating.  "Jane Turner."  "Well, Jane
Turner," he replied.  "Welcome aboard the Lucky lady."

"Thank you, Mr.  Kidwell."

He gave her a long, appraising look, as though to be sure who and what
he was dealing with.  "Incredible as it may seem, we have rules on the
Lucky Lady.  First and most important is that all charter passengers
pay in advance."

"How about when we clear the harbor?"  she returned.

"Rules are made to be broken.  But not this one."

"Half now," she said.  "Half when we clear the harbor."

"This particular rule may, however, be bent on occasion."  She smiled.
He smiled.

"We seem to have a knack for compromise," he said.  "A man and a woman
can't always do that effectively."

Stephanie thought again of the "conversation" Jack Kidwell had been
having when she arrived.  The thought that he might wish to converse
similarly with her sent a shudder through her.  Redirecting her
thoughts, she counted out five hundred dollars and handed the bills to
him.  "I'm all for making compromises," she told him, "but be warned,
I'm not much of a conversationalist."

His smile told her he got the point.  Again, she glanced warily down
the dock.

"Your money's the right color," he said.  "But am I correct in assuming
that you might be more comfortable out of sight?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Follow me, then."

He started down the stairs.  Stephanie followed.

"Watch your step," he said.  "The clutter is the price you pay for not
waiting until morning."

"No problem."

"I keep the fore shipshape for unexpected customers," he explained.
"I'm sort of like the boy in that story, the one who never bathed but
always washed his ears because that's all his mother ever asked
about."

"I get the point."

Once they were below, he turned on the lights and apologized again for
the condition of the boat.  When he looked at her, he stared at her
face, his expression inquiring.

"What happened to your face, sugar?"

Stephanie touched her cheek.  She'd forgotten about being hit.  "I
walked into a door."

"Yeah, well, the door must have been pretty pissed."  He led the way to
the fore cabin.  The berth, a double-size bed' was made up and
inviting.  Seeing it, she realized she hadn't slept in a bed since
California.  She went over and sat down on the corner of the berth.

"Nice," she said.  "It'll do quite well."

Jack Kidwell seemed pleased, though it was hard to tell how much of his
satisfaction was due to contentment and how much it was due to her
legs, which he scrutinized unabashedly--probably out of habit.  "When
you're paying premium prices you want clean sheets," he remarked.

"What I'd like more than anything, Mr.  Kidwell, would be to know we're
under way."

"Get to work, in other words."

"Yes, if you would."

"Well," he said, starting to turn away, "make yourself at home, Miss
Turner."  He paused.  "It is Miss, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"That wedding ring you're wearing is for purposes of general deception.
You're in disguise, in other words."

Stephanie smiled, embarrassed.  She'd been aware of her ring a couple
of times during her flight, but hadn't given it a thought since.  "Yes,
exactly," she said, knowing she wasn't very good at this.

"I thought so."  Then he left the cabin.

The smell of booze and cigar lingered after he'd gone.  The air was
already close, so she took off her jacket and opened both ports.  The
cross ventilation afforded some relief.  She badly needed a shower and
a change of clothes, but her things were back with Oscar Barbadillo so
she would have to make do.  Thank God, she'd at least had the presence
of mind to take her purse to the bathroom.

Reaching into her bra, she removed the locker key and put it in the
zipper pocket of her handbag.  If she hadn't stashed Jane's case in a
locker, everything would now be in Oscar Barbadillo's hands.  Compared
to her life, that wasn't the end of the world, but she didn't relish
the thought of losing everything she had to these people.

Stephanie pondered the situation, uncertain why Inter-America Ventures
was so sure the computer disks were critical to recovering their money.
It made her wonder if they knew something she didn't.

Up on deck, she heard Kidwell preparing the boat for departure.
Stephanie knew virtually nothing about sailing.  From her hilltop home
in Mill Valley she'd watched sailboats plying the water of the bay. The
poetry and grace of a flotilla moving like a flock of birds in the
setting sun had always appealed to her, but she'd been a remote and
silent witness.  This would be her first time at sea in a small boat.

Through the open port she could hear Jack Kidwell cursing as he
struggled with something--probably the sails.  Operating a boat was
work.  It took skill.  She'd learned enough from her friends who did
take part in the sport to know that.  This yacht of Kidwell's was a
good deal larger than many boats sailed for sport, as well.  She
assumed he was a competent sailor, but there was no way to be sure.  He
was a drunk and a womanizer, albeit one with a hint of charm--that much
she could safely say.  What he was like sober remained to be seen.  She
could only hope it would be an improvement.  It hardly mattered,
though.  Jack Kidwell was all she had.

She didn't even want to speculate on what his story was.  It would
probably only make her more nervous.  She began pacing impatiently,
wondering if there was anything she could do to Speed up their
departure.  if she offered to help Kidwell, she'd probably only get in
the way.  And if she was on deck, she might be seen.  How Kidwell might
react if Barbadillo or the police showed up was not something she
wanted to consider, let alone face.  She couldn't count on him not to
betray her, and God knew he had no reason to protect her unless it
would be to get the balance of the money she'd promised.  He certainly
wouldn't risk his neck to save hers.

Stephanie wiped her moist forehead, wishing she wasn't so grungy.  Then
it occurred to her she might have some moist towelettes in her purse.
Digging through it' she found one, crumpled but usable.  Opening the
packet, she sat on the berth and washed her face and neck.  It felt
heavenly, especially on her sore cheek.

She unbuttoned her blouse and ran the towelette under her collar and
over the top of her chest.  Hearing someone clear his throat, she
glanced up to see Jack Kidwell in the doorway.  She flinched.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said' his expression betraying no regret
whatsoever, "but while I was getting the boat ready, my brain finally
caught up with events."

Stephanie's heart sank.  "You've changed your mind."

"No, no," he said, "not that."

"You want more money."

"No, not that, either."

"What then?"

"I really could use some fuel for the engine," he told her.  "And we're
low on fresh water."

"What does that mean?"

"No water, no bathing, among other things."

"Oh, God," she said, closing her eyes.  "The one thing I'd die for."

"Die for?  You mean you'd be willing to give me an hour to refuel and
resupply?"

Stephanie was torn.  How did she balance the benefit of a delay against
the danger?  "Is it absolutely necessary?"

"Not absolutely, no."

She agonized.  "Then we'd better not do it."

Kidwell leaned against the door, his bare feet crossed at the ankles,
his hand on his hip.  He rubbed his grizzled jaw.  "You're really
afraid, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"That color in your cheek.  A present from a friend?"

"That would be one way to put it."  He stroked his chin.  "I'd offer
you a beefsteak, but all I've got aboard are canned goods, some dried
stuff and bulk items.  And not a great deal of it, either."

"That's okay.  I'm fine.  Don't worry about me."

She could see the questions streaming through his mind.  He was
obviously not happy with her reticence.

"We're going to have to agree on a destination, Miss Turner."

"What are the options?"

"You want to get to an airport."

"Yes."

"Well, we've got San Juan, Puerto Rico, about a hundred nautical miles
to the west.  St.  Croix is about fifty to the south.  But I'm not
eager to make either passage at night, especially not with the threat
of weather I'm seeing."

"What do you propose?"

"My preference would be to lay off the coast until daylight.  Maybe
head east, in the direction of St.  John."

"If that's what you think is best, then let's do it.  But as quickly as
possible.  Please."

"I understand you aren't eager to talk about your problem, but if I
understood the nature of the threat, I might have a better idea what to
do.  In other words, I'm wondering if I should plan on evading the
Coast Guard, the police, search planes and so forth.  I think you get
my point."

She realized then that she had to take him into her confidence, if only
partially.  At least now he seemed reasonably in command of his
thinking.  He even sounded sober, which was encouraging.  But she did
need to tell him something.  "I'm not a criminal, if that's what you're
concerned about.  As a matter of fact, I was kidnapped by some.. pretty
shady characters..  this afternoon."

"What do you mean by shady?"

"They're corrupt businesspeople who cavort with hoodlums and criminals.
And they're under the mistaken impression I have information they need.
 By a twist of luck, I managed to escape.

"But not until they'd popped you one," he said, pointing to his
cheek.

"Right."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Because I believe the police--or some of them, anyway--are in
complicity with the kidnappers."

He considered her comment.  "That's quite a tale, Miss Turner."

"It's true, though."

He contemplated her, looking skeptical.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't know that it matters.  As long as your money's green, I don't
have any grounds for complaint.  Unless I'd be getting myself into the
soup along with you, of course."

"I can't promise you won't be in danger," she said, hoping to appeal to
whatever chivalric impulses he might possess.

"That's not much of a selling point," he said.  "But I'm not exactly a
virgin when it comes to encounters with the dregs of society.  All the
same, I do have this thing about not getting involved in drug deals."

"This has nothing to do with drugs, I assure you."

Jack Kidwell took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding.  It was an
attractive chest, muscular, deeply matted with hair.  But Stephanie did
not want to see him in that way.  She wanted to stay as distant and
aloof from him as possible.

"Let me ask you this," he said.  "Do you really need to get to an
airport or do you just need to lay low?"

"What difference does it make?"

He shrugged.  "It may be easier to hide than flee.  And it gives me
more options."

"I guess more than anything I need time to regroup," she said, checking
her watch, aware that every passing minute could be bringing Oscar
Barbadillo closer.  "Assuming you're able to get me out of here in one
piece."

"While I'm getting under way, I'll see if I can come up with a plan,"
he said.  "If your friends are determined, and have sufficient
resources, we might be better off to head somewhere they wouldn't
expect.  There's no point in taking you someplace only to have them
standing on the dock waiting."

Stephanie shivered at the thought.  "Lord..."

He contemplated her again, stroking his chin.  "You look uncomfortable,
like you'd really like to get out of those clothes."

"If you only knew.  I've had this outfit on since San Francisco."

"San Francisco, eh?"

She was afraid that was revealing too much, but it was too late.
"Yes."

"Let me have a look around.  I imagine I can come up with a few things
left on board by former passengers."

"Thank you, but don't get me any of your girlfriend's things.  I don't
think she'd appreciate it."

"Tanya's not really a girlfriend, though I don't imagine that matters
to you one way or the other."

"No, Mr.  Kidwell, it doesn't."

He looked as though he wanted to explain, but finally decided against
it.  "Fine," he said.  "That's fine."  Then he left the cabin.

The Caribbean Sea

It was not promising to be a very good night for sailing.  Jack glanced
at the sagging mainsail, barely filling with the light breeze.  Since
he had cut the auxiliary at the mouth of the harbor, they'd only
attained a couple of knots.  Worse, perhaps, he didn't like the looks
of the sky.  A storm was in the offing; the barometer was confirming
it.  Unfortunately he couldn't verify it with the weather service.  A
few days ago he'd spilled some scotch on his radio and had forgotten
all about it until he'd tried to listen to the weather report, only to
discover he had no radio.  It was not only dangerous, it was illegal to
sail without properly functioning emergency equipment.  But the voyage
was turning out to be unorthodox in so many respects that a breach of
safety regulations hardly seemed that big a deal, not when he had no
business putting to sea to begin with.

Bad as all that was, it was probably the least of his worries.  His
passenger was clearly in more desperate straits than he, and he'd
plunged into the adventure with no idea what he'd gotten himself into.
If there was a redeeming feature in this, it was that he'd found a
little excitement and had something to care about, if only looking out
for his own butt.  Jack did like being at sea, though.  He'd never
considered it work and always felt a bit guilty taking money for it.

At the moment the southern tip of Water Island lay off to the
starboard, and dead astern was Hassel Island.  Beyond it' he could see
the lights of Charlotte Amalie twinkling in the dark.  Jack decided
this was just what he needed to be under sail.  Bill Toussaint thought
he was helping matters by keeping him ashore, but he was wrong.  If
Jack was going to escape the allure of booze, it would be this way, by
going to sea.

He spun the wheel, bringing the vessel on to the port tack so he could
take advantage of the little wind they had.  It would be slow going and
dangerous if it turned dead calm.  For the moment, though, they were
moving.

After setting the boat on the new tack, he trimmed the sails, engaged
the wheel brake and let her steer herself through the night.  He leaned
back against the cockpit coaming and watched the moon come up.  The
large silvery disk illuminated the dark water, enabling him to see
miles in every direction.  Even without running lights, the smallest
boat would have been easily visible.  That was a plus from the
standpoint of safe navigation.  But it also meant he couldn't hide
easily.

The air was mild.  He hadn't had time to change because their departure
had been so hasty, but he had grabbed a tattered sleeveless T-shirt and
his well-worn topsiders.  If Jane Turner was going to come aboard at
the spur of the moment' she'd have to expect that the skipper might be
unshaven, unwashed and without underwear.

The truth was, she was lucky to have caught him before he'd drunk
himself into a stupor.  Once Tanya had stripped and offered to pour him
a drink, Bill Toussaint's speeches--the threat to his health and
livelihood--had gone down the drain as easily as that first scotch had
gone down his throat.  He'd given up on life, choosing short-term
pleasure, instead, because he knew it was inevitable.  And Tanya, bless
her little heart, had given him the excuse he needed.  To the extent
that pride mattered, he could blame her for being too seductive a
temptress.

But then Jane Turner had come along, her predicament, her desperation
giving him an excuse to pull out of his hole.  How long it would last,
he had no idea, but he was engaged, and for the moment that was enough.
Sonia had once asked him what he lived for and, after reflection, he'd
been shocked to discover he no longer knew.  When he'd admitted that,
she'd taken it upon herself to explain his problem to him.  "It's
because you've got nobody, Jack," she'd said.  "And you really ought to
do something about that."  It was a nice idea, but he knew that would
never happen.

He took in a long, slow breath of sea air.  From experience, he knew he
was eighty percent sober, back in that zone where pain was reality.
This was not a good place to be.  Thank God he was at sea and
responsible for someone.

But he wondered about Jane Turner.  She was not your usual sort of
woman--certainly not the type he'd expect to come walking onboard his
boat with a purseful of cash and no luggage.  It wasn't as though he
didn't meet all kinds.  He'd skippered around everything from society
ladies to tramps, spinsters to party girls.  Single women, married
women and some who couldn't quite decide what they were.  Some wanted
to get boffed, some just wanted to tease, others were strictly voyeurs.
And it often didn't make much difference whether their guy was
around.

He had laid more than one matron while her husband was fishing or
golfing.  One had even climbed into his bunk, naked as a jaybird, while
her old man was snoring in the fore cabin.

But it was apparent Jane Turner had priorities other than sex, though
he'd already sensed more than a little chemistry between them.  That
didn't mean a lot, though.  The queen of England could give off
vibrations without sex so much as crossing her mind.  He'd been on the
planet long enough to know some things were just part of the human
condition.  Still, something about this woman interested him.  Maybe it
was the novelty of her situation.  She did have him thinking, wondering
about her, wondering if she was sleeping.

When he'd left her below she'd seemed both emotionally and physically
drained--too tired to do more than thank him when he'd taken her some
dried fruit and the few articles of clothing he'd managed to scrounge.
Though the offering wasn't very enticing, she'd seemed grateful.

Still, she'd made it clear she wanted a formal relationship, which was
okay by him.  He liked the thought of adventure, he needed to work and
he needed money.  Fun and games were not high on his list at the
moment.  if he had misgivings, it was that he didn't have a better
handle on what was going on with her.  Maybe she was a little too
mysterious.  He was dubious about the corrupt businessmen, though he
did believe something else might be involved.  What was most troubling
was that she didn't fit the profile.  The woman belonged in a drawing
room, not on a sailboat.  Yet he wouldn't describe her as a snob.  She
was real, human.  He'd even seen flashes of a lighter side.

When he'd brought her the cotton T-shirt dress that little Italian
lolita who'd been aboard with her mother had left behind, Jane had held
the dress in front of her and said' "The last person to wear this was
probably a pubescent French girl.  I don't think it's me, Mr. 
Kidwell." Jack hadn't told her how close she'd come to guessing the
truth.

She'd thanked him for the clothes, saying the shorts would do fine,
even though they were a couple sizes too big.  At her request he'd
brought her a pan of water so she could take a sponge bath, warning her
they'd have to conserve water since she wouldn't let him replenish the
supply.

"I wasn't sure at first," she'd told him in a moment of candor, "but my
impression is you're a gentleman."

He'd grinned.  Judging by the way she said it, it was wishful thinking
as much as anything.  "I'm not sure whether I should thank you or
assure you that you're right," he'd rejoined.

"Either will do."

"Thank you, then."  He'd left the cabin after that, probably to her
chagrin, though he hadn't bothered to look back to see how she'd
reacted.

Earlier, when she'd first come aboard, she must have heard him and
Tanya going at it, so her initial impression of him couldn't have been
reassuring.  He'd seen no point in trying to disabuse her of it.  Some
things were best left unsaid.

Seeing it was time to tack, Jack swung the Lucky Lady to starboard,
ducking under the boom as it swung over the cockpit.  Then he sat down
again, pondering the moonlit sea.  Of all the possible lives he might
have chosen, this one made the most sense, he told himself.  Yet, given
the depths to which he'd fallen, it obviously wasn't enough.  Not after
Alicia, anyway.

Glancing up, he was surprised to see Jane Turner making her way toward
him, steadying herself on the lifelines and stanchions.  She'd changed
into one of the T-shirts he'd given her.  Her shorts were cinched with
cord.  Her legs, he noticed, weren't bad--not bad at all.  She had nice
skin that was pale as bone china in the moonlight.  And her hair had
been wetted and smoothed back, accentuating her bone structure.  She
was actually quite striking.

Jane Turner wasn't the kind of a woman whose looks jumped right out at
a guy.  when he'd first seen her, she'd struck him as conservative,
conventional, even mundane.  But he realized he might have been a bit
hasty.

"Good evening, Miss Turner," he said.  "You look a little more
comfortable.  How do you feel?"  He motioned for her to sit.

"I'm exhausted, but I do feel like a new person," she conceded,
dropping onto the cockpit seat.

How's the cheek?"

He took her chin and turned her head so he could see it.  She appeared
not to like being touched in such a familiar manner so he let go of
her.  "It looks like you'll live."

It could have been much worse," she said.  "But the reason I've come up
is to pay you."  She held out four bills and a traveler's check.  "Our
agreement was that once we cleared the harbor you'd get the second
half."

Jack regarded her outstretched hand, hesitating before he took the
money.  After glancing briefly at the check, he stuffed it in the
pocket of his shorts.  "A woman of her word."

"You've kept your end of the bargain," she said.  "The least I can do
is keep mine."

"So far so good."

Jack looked at her mouth and the way her hair waved around her ears. He
noticed her hands were slender, patrician.  She'd removed her wedding
ring.

"Not much wind," he said, pointing up at the mast.  "The breeze hardly
fills the sail."

She glanced up.  The top was lightly luffing, the sheet nearly static.
"which means we won't be going very fast."

"We won't be outrunning any Coast Guard cutters, which may or may not
be a problem.  You'd know the answer to that better than I."

She peered toward the dark silhouette of St.  Thomas.  "It's a
beautiful night, isn't it?"  she said, ignoring the implication of his
comment.

Jack found her evasiveness curious, and it made him wonder if' things
weren't worse than she'd let on.  But he decided not to press her.
"Most nights are beautiful down here," he said.  "Unless there's a
storm."

"You ever been caught in a hurricane?"

"I've had to ride out a couple.  Never at sea, thank God."  She turned
her attention back to him.  "So, have you been in the Caribbean
long?"

"I don't know.  Seven, eight years, something like that."  "You
evidently had a previous life."

"And you, evidently, are a lot more willing to ask questions than
answer them."

She nodded.  "Point taken.  I apologize."

"Don't.  If people are curious enough I'll talk about myself, but seems
to me a thing like that ought to be mutual.  I, too, get curious."

"I'm sure you do," she said.

"But you'd rather keep your secrets."

"Yes."

He watched her run her fingers back through her damp hair.  It wasn't
exactly a provocative gesture--at least he was fairly sure she hadn't
intended it that way--but he took it as the woman in her saying
something to the man in him.  Sonia did things like that often, but
with her it was conscious.  This woman, he could see, was allowing
herself to enjoy the caress of the wind-something he suspected she
seldom did.  And there was something about the implicit daring in that
idea that appealed to him.

It was time to tack again, so he warned her about the boom as he
brought the boat around.  They both ducked under it.  The Lucky Lady
glided off at an angle of ninety degrees to their previous course.

"You're more suspicious of me than ever, aren't you, Mr.  Kidwell?" she
said after a while.

"Most of my passengers aren't so secretive."

"I'm curious what your imagination tells you about me," she said,
studying him.

"You're as innocent as you pretend to be," he replied.  "That I'm
pretty sure of."

"I don't know whether to be glad or offended."

"Be glad.  You're always better off being underestimated than
overestimated."

"You're a regular philosopher, aren't you, Mr.  Kidwell?"

"A student of the human condition."

"Do you read cards?"

"I'll tell you this, Miss Turner, you're a lot more worried about me
than you are about what I know and don't know."

"My, you are good," she said.

He could see she was doing her best to sound self-assured, mainly
because she wanted to be confident.  He was succeeding in putting her
mind at ease, which was good for both of them.  He'd seen it countless
times.  Women needed to be sure it was safe to play dangerously, though
most of the time they didn't even know that's what they were doing.

"what else can you say about me?"  she asked.

He studied her until she seemed to become uncomfortable under his
scrutiny.  "For starters, you aren't Miss Turner.  It's Mrs."

"Well, you're half-right," she said.  "I'm a widow."  Her eyes
shimmered.  "A very recent widow."

"That's connected somehow with why you're running."

"Yes."

"But you don't want to explain."

They listened to the waves lapping against the hull as the boat cut
effortlessly through the water.  Jack considered pressing her, but
decided against It.  There was plenty of time for them to get
acquainted.

"You said earlier you'd give some thought to a plan," she said.  "what
have you come up with?  where are you taking me?"

"Toward St.  John," he said, "though I'm beginning to think we
shouldn't put in there, at least not at Cruz Bay.  For the moment, I'm
trying to be unpredictable," he explained, "You see, I'm assuming the
danger is real, that the adversary is formidable and has resources.
Every commander wants as much intelligence on the enemy as he can get,
but I recognize I have to make do with what I've got..  which isn't
much."

"You're chastising me."

"No, I'm simply explaining what I'm up against."

"And so?"

"Well, your first request was that I take you someplace with a
commercial airport.  I figure the bad guys will make the same
assumptions."

"I told the taxi driver who helped me escape that I wanted to get to
another island with an airport," she said.

"That's good.  Your friends will hear about it eventually.  A little
disinformation can't hurt.  If we can get 'em looking for us where we
ain't, so much the better."

"But if we don't go to St.  John, where do we go?"

"Someplace where we can lay low for a few days.  I'm thinking maybe
I'll take you to this place I know in the British Virgins.  It's a
small, private island owned by a former client, a man named Nigel
Lovejoy.  Nigel's a Brit, a businessman who enjoys the good life.  when
he was between wives, the two of us spent some time bumming around the
Antilles on the Lucky Lady.  I helped him... shall we say... forget his
troubles."

"I imagine you'd be very good at that, Mr.  Kidwell."

"We've been doing the Mr.  Kidwell thing long enough," he said.  "It's
Jack."

"All right.  So, what about your friend's island?"

"I figure the thing to do is hide out there for a couple of days.  Once
we get a reading on the situation, I can take you to Guadeloupe or
someplace else down the chain where you can hop a flight to... wherever
you want to go."

"Fine, but there's one problem.  I don't have a passport."

"Hmm.  Well-prepared, aren't you?"  he said.

"I didn't plan on going anywhere but St.  Thomas.  The idea was to get
away from the world for a few weeks.  Instead, I... well, let's just
say it turned out to be not so welcoming."

Jack casually got to his feet to observe a brightly lit motor yacht
passing by a couple hundred yards to starboard.  Seeing nothing to be
concerned about, he once again took his seat.

"Going to Nigel's still makes sense," he told her.  "You can take a day
or two to figure out what you want to do next.  And, in the meantime,
you'll be safe."

"Fine.  I can use the time to clear my head."

"All that remains," Jack said, "is to get from here to there."

She considered that.

The wind had picked up some and Jack sniffed it.  He decided the
weather he'd been anticipating might be arriving a little sooner than
expected.  "I'm sorry to say we're forced to operate with another small
disadvantage," he said.

"what's that?"

"I don't have a functioning radio, which puts us at the mercy of what
comes along, weatherwise."

"Is there reason for concern?"

"Not a lot," he replied.  "But the weather is changeable this time of
year.  It would be nice to get a report now and then."

"I take responsibility for that," she said.  "I forced you to leave
when you weren't ready."

"I'm the skipper.  Ultimately everything that happens aboard the Lucky
Lady is my responsibility."

She didn't argue with him.  Jack felt better for having made his little
speech.  It was odd for a drunk to care about something like honor, but
he did.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Jack," she said.  "It's reassuring.  To be
honest, when I first came aboard I was wary.

"But desperate."

"Yes, I guess that was fairly obvious."

He surveyed the sea ahead, sensing she wanted to talk, but wasn't sure
how much to trust him.  She wanted reassurance, and maybe a friend.  It
was funny how the sea made people open up--the old saw about being in
the same boat.

"My problem has to do with money," she announced as though privy to his
thoughts.  "My late husband may have lost or squirreled away all our
money, including my inheritance from my parents, and I honestly don't
know where I stand financially.  A guy named Oscar Barbadillo with a
company called Inter-America Ventures thinks I either have, or know how
to get to, a considerable sum they believe they're owed.  That's what
this is all about."

"I see."  He reflected on what she'd told him.  "Are they right or
wrong?"

"About me having their money?"

"Wrong."

Jack believed her.  "You strike me as a person who's used to living
well," he said.  "This predicament must be rather trying."

"I've never gone wanting," she said.  "Even as a child.  I'm thankful
for that, of course.  How about you?"

"I was dirt-poor as a kid," Jack told her.  "I think we were who they
had in mind when they invented food stamps."

"where was that?"

"The Florida Everglades.  My dad found work in gas stations
occasionally before he drank himself to death.  My mother slept with
the landlord for the rent money and a box of groceries every month.  I
was twelve before I figured out why she always came home from her big
trip to the supermarket with her eyes red and her skin
whisker-burned."

She shook her head.  "I'm sorry."

He revisited an ancient emotion, one that had been dormant for a long
while.  "It's hard to believe people actually live that way," he said,
trying to sound stoic, "but they do."

She was silent for a while.  Then she said, "You obviously had a
difficult childhood."

Jack laughed.  "Adulthood has only been marginally better."  He
regarded her and, seeing her contemplative, wondered if maybe she was
thinking about the little exhibition he and Tanya had put on that
afternoon.  At the time, he couldn't have cared less, but now he was
embarrassed.  Another drawback to being sober.

He noticed the wind had picked up considerably.  Again he tacked,
standing before turning the wheel in order to get a better look at the
sea.  Then he plopped down heavily.

"Believe it or not, you're not seeing me at the top of my game," he
said.  "Actually, I'm going through a rough stretch."

"I'm not judging you," she said.

"Pride is the issue.  Even my old man suffered when he was sober enough
to see my mother unpacking the groceries.  which tells you about all
you need to know about him."

She was silent again.

"But to answer your original question, I'm no stranger to money.  Once
I got out of Immokalee and got me some book learning, I went to work,
determined to prove I was worthy.  Made my first million by the time I
was thirty-two, three years ahead of schedule."

"what did you do?"

"I was a real estate developer.  You've heard about fellas selling
swampland out of their Cadillac convertibles, well I was a latter-day
version.  We developed commercial properties.  Nothing glamorous.  But
I bought myself sleek boats, fancy cars, big houses and a blond wife
with an aptitude for spending money.  The whole thing was to prove to
the world I'd made it, and to prove it to myself, too, for that matter.
You see, it takes effort to get the mentality of a bottom feeder in the
Immokalee social structure out of your consciousness."

"So, what happened?"

"The abbreviated version is that my partner swindled me and a whole
bevy of investors, then parted for greener pastures with my wife.  I
was left holding the bag and the consequences.  I did eighteen months
in the state penitentiary."

She seemed taken aback at his candor.  "That hardly seems fair."

"Oh, I'd strayed across the line, too.  The only thing I did right was
stay and face the music."

"You paid your debt to society."

"I've been telling myself for ten years that, in the long run, ol'
Larry may have gotten the worst end of the deal.  He got Ellen."

"You didn't love her?"

"How could I?  I was still trying to figure out who the hell I was."

"You seem to be awfully self-aware .. ."

"For a drunk?"

"You have a serious drinking problem?"

"Thank you," he said, meaning it.  After a moment he added, "But not
while I'm working."

She stared out at the sea and he watched the moonlight play on her
skin.

"In case you're wondering, I've never told my story to a client before.
In fact, there aren't three living people here in the Caribbean who
know it."

"So why did you tell me?"

"I don't know.  I guess I felt a sudden compulsion for honesty.  And
maybe I wanted to put you at ease."  He wondered if that sounded a
little too pious and maybe too self-serving.  "Now that I think about
it, it's a crazy notion, trying to reassure somebody by telling them
they're in the company of an ex-con."

She laughed.  "I'm a lot more concerned about the way you are now, to
be honest."

"A changed man.  This boat is the product of several years of hard work
selling condominiums.  And I own a security interest in an airplane,
though that's rapidly turning into a bad debt.  Bottom line is this,
what you see is pretty much everything I've got."

"I don't imagine boats like this are cheap."

"when you consider it's also my house and car, I don't live
ostentatiously."

"It's character that counts, Jack, not money."

He smiled, wondering if she was trying to reassure him, or make excuses
for him.  Mainly he felt good because they'd bridged the trust issue to
some degree.  They'd communicated and that wasn't always easy.  Not for
strangers, let alone intimates.

The moonlight softened the contours of her lovely face.  In this light
her beauty was classical, aristocratic.  He liked what he saw.  He
liked her.

She seemed to grow uncomfortable, perhaps aware of his admiration.
"Well," she said, "I'm just beat.  If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go
to bed."

"Sure."

She scooted to the edge of her seat, but hesitated.  "Before I go,
there is something I want to tell you.  I lied about who I am.

"Yeah, I know.  Your name is Stephanie Reymond."  She seemed shocked.
"How did you know?"

"Traveler's check."

She blushed, lowering her eyes.  "Well, I guess I've proved I'm not a
very good criminal," she said, clearly embarrassed.  "Jane Turner was
my sister."

"But you're standing by your kidnap story."

"Yes.  Absolutely."

"And your husband's involvement?"

"Yes, all true."

"He's dead?"  She nodded.

"The guys who kidnapped you?"

"Or people they hired."

Jack wondered why she was taking her husband's death with such
equanimity.  He didn't detect tremendous sadness or a sense of loss.
Perhaps she was bitter or resentful.  Or, perhaps it hadn't been much
of a marriage.  "You've been through a lot."

"Yes, but I don't see any point in going into detail," she said,
pushing a wind-tossed curl off her face.  "The more you know, the worse
it is for you."  She got to her feet' making it clear she wanted to go
to bed.  "I'll say good-night now.  Thank you for all you've done,
Jack.  You very well may have saved my life today and I want you to
know I'm truly grateful."

"Hey, you're paying me well, nest-ce pas?"

She extended her hand in friendship--at least that's the way he
interpreted it.  "I hope you'll forgive me for being cautious," she
said.

"In your shoes I'd be careful, too."

"Good night," she said.

"Sleep well."

He watched her walk away, liking what he saw, the way she moved, the
curious blend of sophistication and innocence in her manner.  He
allowed himself to speculate on his prospects with her and decided they
weren't good--not in the time available.  He was intrigued, though.  It
had been a while since he'd rescued a woman, an emotionally needy one,
that is.  Mostly he avoided those kinds of situations because they
could easily turn to quicksand.  But in this case, it was already a bit
too late.  Much as he hated to admit it, he was already hooked.

Stephanie's Grandmother Chandler had once told her that the snake you
worry about is the one that's close enough to bite.  Having been raised
in the wilds of Montana, her grandmother knew something about snakes...
and about life.  As a girl, Stephanie hadn't understood the figurative
meaning of the phrase, though she'd come to understand it as she got
older.  But until this week, even figurative snakes hadn't posed much
of a danger.  That had changed.  Fate, it seemed, had handed her a
lifetime supply in one fell swoop.

As she slipped under the sheets, her body aching with fatigue,
Stephanie thought about Jack Kidwell.  He was dangerous, she decided,
though hardly the way Oscar Barbadillo was dangerous.  Barbadillo was
sadistic.  Jack, on the other hand was .. . well, simply sexual.  And
that made him dangerous in her eyes.

Stephanie was beginning to realize she had a problem with sex.  Audrey
had been shocked to hear that she hadn't had intercourse in years.  Of
course, Audrey was shocked--it wasn't normal for a woman in good
health, married to a man in good health, to live like a nun.  But her
sexual relationship with Jean Claud had never been good, not even at
first, and so for years she'd repressed her libido, even when they did
have relations.  But recent events had conspired to jar her from her
complacency.

First, there'd been Audrey's comment about her celibacy.

Then she'd discovered that Jean Claud was having an affair.

The betrayal had been painful but the feelings of inadequacy

Stephanie felt because of it were almost worse.  How had Jane succeeded
where she'd failed?  Was it her fault?  Or Jean

Claud's?

She had never played the blame game with Jean Claud, nor had she been
bitter about his indifference toward her.  She'd simply dealt with her
circumstances as best she could, finding enough outside the realm of
sex to occupy her energy and passions.  After the last several days,
though--Oscar Barbadillo's perversity being the crowning touch--she'd
seen enough of how the other half lived to know sex had its downside.
And yet, the image of that mulatto girl in Jack Kidwell's bed, writhing
in ecstasy, had stuck in her mind.

It still embarrassed her to think that she'd watched them, unable to
tear herself away.  Yes, there was a certain novelty value in it--she'd
never seen a real live couple making love before--but it had also made
her wonder if she, too, could lose herself that way, give herself up to
the physical experience of being with a man.  Her conclusion was that
she couldn't.  It simply wasn't her.

So, why did that image of the two lovers plague her?  Was it that the
girl had been so lost in her passion?  Was it her nature that caused
her to behave that way, or was it Jack?

Could a man make so much difference?  Maybe that's what ate at
Stephanie most.  She couldn't help wondering how obvious her lack of
experience was.  Oscar Barbadillo had zeroed in on it immediately.  How
could he have known her husband hadn't been much of a lover, that he
hadn't satisfied her?  Had it been simply talk, an attempt to be
salacious and lewd?

Barbadillo she could dismiss, even if he had seen something in her that
escaped the average person.  But Jack Kidwell was another matter
altogether.  He aroused certain feelings in her, despite the fact she
knew the kind of man he was.  Was it the profane and the forbidden that
allured her?  And why now?

As a man, Jack was not terribly mysterious.  He was utterly without
pretense, which she found refreshing.  And that he was almost militant
in his candor added to his allure.  Still, neither quality explained
why she was drawn to him.  Could it have been that he was so fiercely
independent?  She'd never known a man who lived on the edge, and Jack
Kidwell certainly seemed to do that.

Fatigued as she was, and desperately craving sleep, Stephanie couldn't
make her mind let go.  Nor could she block the image of that
cocoa-colored girl writhing atop Jack Kidwell.  She could almost feel
the rhythmic undulations of the girl's body and hear her cries of
pleasure.  But even so, Stephanie couldn't see herself making love that
way with Jack or anyone else; she simply couldn't.

Bel Air, Los Angeles, California

Julius Behring was vaguely aware of Jay Leno babbling away across the
room when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He jerked awake, staring up
into the face of his Filipino houseboy, George Molina.

"Mr.  Behring," George said apologetically, "sorry to wake you, but
your son has arrived.  He's downstairs."

Behring blinked at the clock on top of the TV.  It was a few minutes
after eleven-thirty.  Rico wouldn't be coming at this hour unless there
was a problem.  God, what else could he have done to screw things up?
Groaning, he waved George off.  "All right.  Tell him I'll be down in a
few minutes."

The houseboy went off and Behring straightened the recliner and got to
his feet.  He was stiff, the arthritis in his back and legs biting him.
He cursed under his breath, knowing his body was falling apart and
there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

At least he still had his mind.  Christ.  Where would he be if he
wasn't smarter than all the other schmucks Out hustling a buck?  And
where would Rico be?  Rico was a worry.  The boy lacked maturity.  Too
often he went off half-cocked.  Worse, he had a dangerous infatuation
with violence.  In business a man had to be hard, it was true, but
foremost he had to know how to use his mind.  Rico was still trying to
fuck everything in sight--women, enemies, his own goddamn associates,
it didn't matter what.

That stupid stunt he'd pulled with the venture capitalist, Reymond,
could end up costing them millions.  An expensive lesson.  He'd learn,
though, whether from Julius himself or from his own mistakes.  Out in
the real world, there were only two ways to end up--the victor or the
vanquished.

Julius Behring got his robe from the bed, slipped it on, then checked
himself in the mirror.  He smoothed his silver hair and left the room,
sensing he was in for more bad news.  He never should have given Rico a
free hand with all that South American investment capital.  Now he had
to worry about salvaging his son, as well as the money.

Julius knew that these modern investment schemes were much too risky.
He knew real estate, he knew automobiles, he knew restaurants, saloons
and the import business.  The Colombians understood the same things.
"Why get into shit we know nothing about?"  he'd said to Rico.

"But Pop," the kid had said, "this guy Dave Martin, he really knows his
stuff.  He knows these high-tech people and he knows us.  Dave's a
straight shooter.  Trust me on this."

Julius knew in his gut it was wrong.  Too glitzy, too much ah and not
enough humph-like a hooker in a goddamn gold dress.  But Rico had
actually put a lot of time into studying the venture capital business.
He was trying real hard to be a businessman, and Julius didn't have it
in his heart to tell him no.  He loses a mil or two, he learns.  That
was the way Julius had figured it.  But twenty million?

Naturally he was pissed, but he couldn't blame the kid entirely. Julius
had given Rico the reins when he wasn't ready, so he himself had to
take some responsibility for what had happened.  But he had his limits.
If Rice didn't get the mess straightened out soon, Julius knew he'd
have to take the operation over, maybe put his nephew, Oscar, in
charge.  Though his son was president of Inter-America Ventures, Julius
had retained the title of chairman of the board and made Oscar
executive vice president, in charge of overseas operations.  Mostly
Julius kept his own counsel, but he did listen to Oscar, who had good
sense, even if he had a tendency to be flamboyant.

Rico and Oscar hated each other, which was unfortunate.  If they could
just learn to work together, they'd all be so much better off.  But
there was no reasoning with a couple of young bulls.  They'd beat each
other to death if Julius let them.  It was a delicate problem--he had
to find a way to salvage the twenty million without humiliating his
son.

When he got downstairs, Julius Behring went directly to the library. He
found Rico pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.  The boy
stopped and looked at him.

Rico was Latin in appearance, like his mother's people, but lacked
their handsome good looks.  He bore little resemblance to his cousin.
Rico had Julius's eyes, which was not a blessing.

Otherwise, he was mediocre in appearance--neither short nor tail, heavy
nor thin, good-looking nor bad.

The amused expression on Rico's face was unexpected.  What now? Behring
asked himself.  Jesus, had it gotten worse or not?

"Hi, Pop," Rico said.  His tone was surprisingly cheerful.  Julius
stuck his hands in the pockets of his robe.  "So, what's up?"

"Guess what?  My brilliant cousin, Oscar, has fucked up.  Royally."

"What do you mean?"

"Oscar had her, Pop, the Reymond woman.  But he let her get away."

Behring leveled his gaze on his son.  "Explain."

"I sent Oscar all the information, like you suggested.  He met her
flight in Miami.  He followed her to St.  Thomas.  Had it set up with
the cops to arrest her.  They put her in his hands and before he could
find out about the computer files, she crawled out a bathroom window
and escaped."

Julius dropped into his favorite chair under the oil painting by the
realist Renaissance artist Girolamo Savoldo.  He regarded his son over
steepled fingers, thinking he should be getting this story from Oscar.
Rico would put whatever happened in the worst possible light--anything
to make his cousin look bad.  "There must be more to it than that," he
said.

"No, Pop, Oscar fucked up.  It's that simple."

"You almost sound pleased, Rico."

"Well, I'm hoping now I won't be hearing that it's me who's always
screwing up.  I made a mistake with Reymond, but Oscar fucked up our
best chance to get back the dough.  The question is, are you going to
let me go down there and straighten this thing out?"

"That's what you want?"

"Yeah.  I am the president of the goddamn company, after all."

"So tell me your plan," Julius said.

Rico Behring sat down on the sofa nearest his father.  "I think this
isn't a job for accountants and lawyers.  I think it's a job for
serious people."

"Gangsters, in other words."

"Pop, we don't make ice cream for a living.  The money we invest is
dirty as often as not.  Our investors aren't exactly Mary Poppins and
they expect results.  I say we do what we've gotta do.  I say I line up
ten, twelve guys who understand these things and I go down to the
Caribbean and get our money."

"You want to hire an army of thugs to find a housewife on an island?"

"This broad's not stupid, Pop.  She made a fool of Oscar and we all
know how brilliant he is."

"There's no need to slam your cousin, Rico.  It's because of his
connections and hard work that we've got all that investment money
flowing in from South America and other places.  He's done a lot of
good for this company in a very short time."

"What are you saying, Pop?  That you plan to give him a medal for
letting Stephanie Reymond get away?"

"Are we sure she's gotten away?  Do you know this for certain?"

"Oscar found Out she left St.  Thomas on a sailboat called the Lucky
Lady.  He's got the local cops watching all the ports and airports in
the Virgins, and he claims that the islands are locked up tight as a
drum."

"So, what are you saying?  That you don't believe it?  That the woman's
already on the French Riviera?"

"No, but we can't fuck around.  Oscar might be good at getting money
out of people that have more bread than they know what to do with, but
this thing is over his head.  I was the one who told him to hire every
plane he can to start searching first thing in the morning.  And I also
told him to spread the word there's big money for anybody who fingers
her.  You see, Pop, this is my area of expertise.  I understand these
things."

Julius could see his son did not realize he was missing the point.
Managing an army of thugs was not exactly laudable, not for a
businessman with aspirations.  True, they did a lot of business with
people who lived on the wrong side of the law, but Inter-America
Ventures did not itself deal in drugs, numbers, prostitution or the
rest of it.  Julius Behring had built his empire providing investment
services to people who had no other place to go.  Yes, It was a risky
line of work, but life was risky.  And he'd always been very careful
who he dealt with and how he transacted his business.  At the moment
his greatest fear was that the loss of this money would lead to more
serious problems.  Deals went bad when somebody didn't do what they
were supposed to.  That's why he'd always kept his word and produced
what he promised.

"Is Oscar sure we can trust the police?"  he asked.

"The right guys have been paid."

"That can't be cheap."

"No, Pop, it's costing us a bundle.  But you know better than me how
important getting Reymond's files is.  As long as the broad's got the
stuff, we got no choice but to track her down and nail her butt to the
wall.  And I'm going to do it' too.  Our biggest problem is maybe the
weather."

"The weather?  What are you talking about?"

"Oscar says some goddamn storm is coming in from the Atlantic.  A
hurricane.  It's not supposed to hit there.  He said down in South
America or some fucking place, I don't know.  But it's supposed to get
windy and rain a lot all over the Caribbean.  It could slow up the
search.  But I'm going to find the bitch.  I swear I will."

"Yes, but can you do it without drawing too much attention to us and
our investors?"

"Pop, nobody but us knows what's going on.  The cops in Frisco and the
FBI think Reymond's wife was blown to pieces with him.  And if one of
my guys wasn't watching the house, we wouldn't know it' either.  It's
her and us, but we can't be farting around.  This has got to be taken
care of, and like now.

The best thing is for me to go down there and take charge.  Swear to
God, Pop."

Julius gave his son a look, but didn't say what he was thinking.  Oscar
might have let Stephanie Reymond crawl out a window, but Rico was the
one who'd had her husband murdered, a guy who was going to have thirty
million in his pocket in a month.  Behring's own broker had confirmed
that Halcyon Technologies was being sold to the public in two or three
weeks, which meant Reymond could have paid them back.  But now the
bastard was dead.

"Excuse me, Mr.  Behring," the houseboy said from the door, "but would
you like something to drink?"

Julius normally didn't have anything to drink after his usual martini
before dinner, but tonight he needed something.  "Yeah, George, bring
me a glass of sherry.  You want anything, Rico?"

"No, Pop."

"Just the sherry," Julius said to the houseboy, waving him away.

The man left the room.  Julius turned his attention back to his son.

"Have you had any luck locating Dave Martin?"  he asked.  "Shouldn't he
be able to tell us how Reymond distributed the money out of these
public offerings?"

Rico drew himself up, beaming.  "Pop, that's the good news."

"Oh, you mean maybe I'm not going to have another ulcer, after all?"

"I'm not a complete fuckup," Rico said.  "I had some guys looking for
Martin and they found him down in Mexico.  I got the word a little
while ago."

"And?"

"They're bringing him back to L.A. as we speak.  I should be able to
talk to him tomorrow.  But he's already told us where Reymond's money
is going to be."

"Going to be?"

"You know the company Reymond is selling in a few weeks?"

"Yeah, Halcyon Technologies."

Rico scooted to the edge of the cushion, rubbing his hands.  Julius
watched him, seeing some of the same boyish innocence as seven years
ago when he was twenty-two and graduating from USC.  Rico might have
gotten a fancy title in the interim, not to mention a wife, a child and
a home, but the truth was, he'd hardly changed.  He was still a boy.

"You see," Rico began, "Reymond set things up so that when the company
goes public, his broker has instructions to transfer the funds from the
sale of the stock into his offshore account, a bank in the Cayman
Islands."

"You're telling me that's where my money will be."

"According to Martin."

"Then what?"

"From there the money's supposed to get distributed to the various
secret investors, like us."

"But if Reymond's dead..."

"The money goes in just the same.  But with Reymond out of the picture,
getting the dough Out is going to be complicated.  That's the part
we've got to figure out."

George brought him his sherry, carrying it on a silver platter.  Julius
took the glass.

"You've had a long day, George," he said.  "Go to bed."

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

"Get me up at six.  And have the masseur here early, too.  I can't
screw around tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

Julius sipped his sherry, focusing again on his son.  "Rico, I don't
want to disillusion you, but did it occur to you that with Reymond dead
there may be no way to get that money Out of the Cayman Islands, unless
maybe it's his estate or the federal government?"

"That's not a problem, Pop.  Dave Martin told the boys in Mexico that
Reymond set it up so the money could be withdrawn by anyone who knows
how.  It didn't have to be him.  Dave says he doesn't know the
specifics, but when he gets here, I'm going to find out if that is
true."

"It's true," Julius said.

"How do you know?"

"Use your head, son.  If Martin knew how to access the account, then he
would have been able to get the money himself.  Reymond wouldn't have
risked that.  It's got to be somebody else who's authorized to make a
withdrawal."

"Like who?"

Julius took another sip of sherry.  "It seems to me there were only two
logical choices.  Either the mistress or the wife."

"It would have to be the mistress," Rico said, "because his fucking
wife was divorcing him.  But the mistress is dead."

"True, but the method Reymond set up for getting the funds--probably a
code--isn't dead.  The question is if the dead broad carried it in her
head or it's written down somewhere."

Rico got to his feet and began pacing.  "You're saying we tear the
mistress's place apart to see if we can find it."

"That would be a good start, Rico."  Julius cleared his throat, staring
at the amber liquid in his glass.  "Tell me, Rico, what was the first
thing Reymond did when he realized you were coming down hard on him?"

Rico was silent.

"He panicked, didn't he?"  Julius said.  "Destroyed all the files on
his computer.  He figured the jig was up, so he wiped everything and
went into hiding, right?"

"So?"

"What do you think the chances are that all the information on that
Cayman Island bank account-perhaps including codes and procedures for
making withdrawals--was in that computer?"

Rico just stared at him.  "I don't know."

"I don't know, either.  But I have a hunch Reymond erased everything
because he didn't want the account information to fall into the wrong
hands.  Ours, for example."

"Oh, I get it, Pop," Rico said, a wide smile filling his face.  "That's
why you told me to have Oscar get the computer files from the wife."

""Well, I wasn't sure until you told me about the Cayman Island account
and what Martin said about access.  I hoped there'd be something
important in Reymond's books of account, but I had no way of knowing
just what.  Now I think I do."

"So, catching up with the Reymond broad is even more important than
before," Rico said.

"That's the way I read it, son."

"Hey," Rico said, sitting on the sofa again, "what if she already knows
how to get the money out of the Cayman Island bank?"

"That's a possibility we have to consider.  The good thing is, the
money's not there yet and it won't be until they have that sale of
Halcyon stock."

"So we have time."

"Maybe.  There's always a possibility the FBI or somebody else will
step in.  Until we've got that computer data in our hands, we can only
guess."

"Oh, shit," Rico said, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his
temples.

Julius watched him.  "What's the matter?"

"I just thought of something.  I hope Oscar's more fucked up than I
think he is."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my brilliant cousin told me he searched Reymond's wife before
she escaped.  She didn't have the computer disks on her."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what Oscar told me."

"Jesus," Julius said, shaking his head.  "Well, all the more reason to
find her.  Even if she doesn't have the data on her, she knows where it
is."

"According to Oscar, she claims it's in her bank safe deposit box."

"What safe-deposit box?"

"Up in Frisco."

Julius drained the last of his sherry and considered that.

"Are we fucked, Pop?"

"Not necessarily."

"You don't believe her?"

"She went to the Caribbean, didn't she?  That's where the money will
be.  I don't think that's a coincidence, do you, Rico?"

"No, I guess not."

"But if the computer data is in her safe-deposit box, that means the
critical information is in her head.  At least that's true if she wants
the money, and I suspect she does."

"Which means we got to find her either way."

"Bingo.  I'd say Mrs.  Reymond is the key to getting our money back,
the key to everything."

Rico popped to his feet again.  He had that wild look in his eye like a
kid playing cops and robbers.  "So, am I in charge, Pop?"  he asked.
"Oscar hasn't done so good.  Actually he screwed up real bad.  This is
a job for muscle.  It's a job for me."

Julius rubbed his gray-stub bled jaw.  For once Rico was probably
right. Accountants and lawyers weren't going to solve this. 
Heavy-handed measures were required.

"Okay, go down to the Caribbean," Julius said.  "Hire whoever you have
to.  Number-one priority is finding that woman.  But I don't want you
throwing your weight around with Oscar.  Remember what I tell you, huh?
Two heads are better than one."

"Sure, Pop," Rico said.  "Two heads are better than one."  "All right,"
Julius said.  "It's late.  Go home to your wife."  A flicker of disgust
passed over Rico's face, but he didn't say anything.  He clasped
Julius's shoulder and headed for the door.

After the boy had gone, Julius stretched his arthritic back and slumped
in the chair.  He thought of his dear, departed Anita, and he thought
of the tart, Rhonda, his son had married.  She was trouble.  Julius had
known it from the moment he first saw her.  He shook his head and,
unhinging his body, got to his feet.  It was a sad, sad world that even
in his old age a man couldn't find a little peace.

Saturday,

September 28th

Leinster Bay

St.  John, U.S. Virgin Islands

Stephanie awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, a scream
poised on her lips.  Her heart pounded, the terror only gradually
beginning to dissipate as she realized it was only a dream.  She wasn't
tied up and Oscar Barbadillo wasn't burning her with his cigar, though
the way her heart was pounding, she'd been certain that was what was
happening.  Whether she'd actually cried out in her sleep, she wasn't
sure.

Calming herself, she listened to the sounds in the night and
concentrated on the motion of the boat.  A wind had come up.  They were
rolling more, but she could not hear the hiss of the hull cutting
through the water.  Had they stopped, she wondered?

She listened again and thought she heard a rattle.  Was someone at the
door, or was it the creaking of the boat?  After her dream, she felt
paranoid.  True, she'd regarded Jack Kidwell favorably the night
before, but now he seemed an anathema, a danger.  She hated to think he
was in his bunk drinking and that he might get so drunk, he'd pay her a
visit.

Stephanie had gotten herself worked up, which wasn't good.  Climbing
from the berth, she went to the port on the starboard side.  It was
pitch-dark.  The silhouette of land was nearby.  They seemed to be
anchored in some sort of bay.  There was no sign of a town, so maybe
Jack had decided to put in at some remote spot to get some sleep.  She
could only hope it was as innocent as that.

Stephanie returned to her bed and tried to make sense of her
predicament.  She hardly knew the woman she'd been yesterday, yet here
she was, stuck with her legacy.  But she'd survived--which was
remarkable considering she'd never faced the likes of Oscar Barbadillo
or Jack Kidwell before.  With luck, her troubles with Barbadillo were
behind her.  And Jack, well, he was simply someone she'd hired to help
her escape, no more important in the greater scheme of things than a
taxi driver.

And yet he was all that stood between her and disaster.  That gave him
power, power that he had to be aware of.  The man was no fool, she'd
already seen that.  His character was the problem.  He was a drunk, a
womanizer and, by his own admission, a criminal.  He'd cheated, stolen
and was willing to flaunt the law for money.  His saving grace was that
he'd made no attempt to hide that, which showed a certain amount of
honesty.  Or indifference.  She couldn't be sure which.

But in an odd way, the man had managed to inspire confidence.  He was
likable.  He had the ability to make his frailties a source of charm.
He didn't seem like a con man, though reason told her he was.  The real
question was if she could count on him to work in her interest.

The pitch and roll of the boat was more pronounced, and the wind had
risen.  Could it be a storm?  Was that why they'd dropped anchor?  Her
uncertainty made her nervous and she wondered what Jack was doing.
Sleeping?  Drinking?

She decided to investigate, knowing she'd feel better if she knew what
he was up to.  She put on the shorts he'd found for her, uncomfortable
at the thought of being caught sneaking around in nothing but a
T-shirt.

The boat was tossing so much now that she began to feel nauseated. God,
all she needed was to get seasick.  As she opened the door of her
cabin, the boat rolled and she was thrown against the bulkhead,
bruising her shoulder.  The main salon was even darker than her cabin.
Only the gray disks of the ports were visible against the pitch-black.
But then, on closer examination, she saw a faint glow of light coming
from Jack's cabin.  It brightened and dimmed as the door swung to and
fro, faintly creaking as the boat rolled.  He hadn't secured the door
that afternoon, either, making her wonder if perhaps the latch was
broken.  Or did he like to keep an ear open to the goings-on in the
boat?

Whether he was drunk or sober, asleep or awake in his bunk, she
couldn't be sure.  Another wave of nausea hit her and her gorge rose.

Stephanie wondered if Jack had some Dramamine.  That was an excuse to
be up, true, but she did need something for her nausea.  And if she
found him in a compromising state, she wouldn't disturb him.  On the
off chance he was awake and sober, she'd ask for help.

Making her way across the dark cabin, bumping into something only once,
she found Jack's door.  Cautiously peeking in, she saw his berth in
disarray, but no sign of the man himself.  The light coming from a
wall-mounted reading light was dimmed by a cloth that was hanging over
it.  Could he be in the head?  Checking, she discovered it' too, was
empty.

The Lucky Lady rolled sharply and Stephanie had to grab the doorway to
keep from falling.  At the same moment she heard a sound behind her.
Turning abruptly, she discovered it was a box sliding across the deck.
Her gorge rose again and she knew she had to get some fresh air.  Jack
was probably topside, anyway.

At the head of the stairs she was met with a gust of warm, moist air.
It carried rain, large wet drops of tropical moisture spattering
randomly--first hitting her shirt, then her forehead, then her arm. The
waves surrounding the boat were white-tipped and angry--not the
monsters of a stormy Pacific Ocean,

but neither were they the tranquil moon-kissed wavelets of the early
evening.  The wind was hot, tossing her hair, warning of greater fury
to come.

Stephanie fought the lurching in her gut.  Overhead, the halyards
clanked against the mast and the taut lines hummed soprano in the
gale.

"Jack!"  she cried over the cacophony of the squall.  "Jack, are you up
here?"

Her hand on the lifelines, she made her way to the cockpit.  There was
no one there.  Had he fallen overboard?  Or gone ashore?  She gazed
through the diaphanous veil of rain at the dark shoreline.  Unless Jack
had passed out in some dark corner below, she was alone.

Stephanie tried to keep her rising panic under control.  She forced her
brain to calculate the implications.  The fact that they were at anchor
probably meant he hadn't fallen overboard.  Most likely he was ashore.
But for what purpose?  And where?  She couldn't make out so much as a
single light anywhere along the coast.  Why would he go ashore here?

Then a terrible thought struck her.  What if he'd sold her out?  He had
to wonder if maybe information on her whereabouts would bring a reward.
Was he capable of that sort of treachery?  She had no reason to think
he wasn't.  He owed her nothing.  What loyalty she had, she'd bought.
It was entirely possible she'd he outbid.

A sudden, pronounced roll threw her off balance and she fell against
the coaming.  A terrible sickness overcame her and she thrust her head
over the side just as she upchucked into the sea.

She'd hardly eaten, which probably made it worse.  She lay her head
back, her stomach lurching as the rain pounded her body.  Her shirt and
shorts were soaked and her hair was plastered to her skull.  Again her
gorge rose and she hung her head over the side just as a wave splashed
seawater into her face.  She spit and vomited again.

Stephanie wasn't sure how long she lay curled up, her face pressed to
the wet vinyl seat cushion, the wind howling through the rigging so
loud at times that she wanted to cover her ears and scream.  Once she'd
tried to get up, but she was so weak, and her footing so unsteady, that
the wind blew her back down.  She began shivering, then crying, her
fear as much a source of torment as her illness.

Stephanie knew she had to get below, out of the rain.  She willed
herself to her hands and knees, deciding she was better off to crawl to
the companionway rather than risking a fall and possibly being tossed
overboard.

She proceeded at a snail's pace, weeping, spitting, fighting the dry
heaves, shaking off the constant spray of seawater showering the deck.
She hated it that her life had come to this.  She'd done nothing to
deserve it.  Nothing.

When she was near the entrance to the companionway, she heard the throb
of a motor.  Looking toward shore, she could barely make out the dark
silhouette of some kind of craft moving toward her.  Was it Jack? Would
he be alone?  Or were they coming for her?

At this point Stephanie almost didn't care.  Even the torment of Oscar
Barbadillo would be a form of respite--so long as they took her
ashore.

Seeing no point in pressing on, she leaned against the cabin house, her
bare legs under her.  She pushed a wet hank of hair from her eyes.  The
craft was closer now, one of those rubberized things.  She could only
see one figure aboard.

By the time the craft was alongside, she was able to make out Jack's
face.  He wore foul-weather gear and was half standing, one hand
stretched back to the handle of the outboard motor.  He stared at her,
incredulous.  Because of the swell and sloshing of the waves it took
him a minute to maneuver so that he could tie the craft alongside.  It
was a few seconds more before he clambered aboard.

"Stephanie," he cried as he reached her side.  "What happened?"

She gazed into his eyes more with relief than uncertainty.  "I'm sick
as a dog," she moaned.

Jack took off his jacket and wrapped it around her.  "You've got to get
below."

She shook her head.  "If I go down there, I might die."

The bastard actually smiled.  "Seasickness is rarely fatal."

"Go to hell," she said, letting her head fall against the side of the
cabin house more heavily than she intended.

"Sounds like you've got a little life left in you."

"Where have you been?"  she demanded.  "I thought you'd abandoned
me."

"I went ashore to see what I could find out about the path of the
storm."

"You went for a weather report?  Dear God.  I could have told you what
to expect.  Heavy wind and rain, Jack.  Better than ninety percent
chance.  Lord."

"You still have your sense of humor," he said.  "A sign you'll probably
survive.  Come on, we've got to get you below and into dry clothes."

They went down the companionway, the steps slick with saltwater.  Jack
turned on a light in the salon, but it was faint because of low
batteries.  When they finally got to her cabin, he switched on the
light and helped her off with the rain slicker.  Stephanie sat on the
berth, hugging herself, partly because she was chilled, partly because
the wet T-shirt was translucent.  It was not cold in the cabin, but her
teeth chattered, anyway.

"Looks like you got a little too much weather," he said.  He took a
towel from a cabinet and began drying her hair and face, giving her a
good tousling.  Then he dried her arms and bare legs.

Stephanie looked up at him, feeling dependent, childlike.  It was not a
familiar sensation.  She couldn't remember if a man had ever dried her
off this way, since her father had when she was tiny.

Seeing the extra T-shirt on the chair, he tossed it on the bed beside
her.  "All right, off with your clothes."

"I'm not letting you undress me!"  she said with' indignation.

"Think of me as a nurse."

Stephanie rubbed her arms as a wave of nausea rose.  "I'll think of you
as just what you are!"  She swallowed hard, trying her best not to be
sick again.  "If you want to help, turn around."

Jack complied.  "False modesty is a waste of energy when you're
battling the elements," he said over his shoulder.

"You can spend your energy as you wish and I'll spend mine as I .. .
"

The boat rolled and pitched simultaneously and Stephanie was sure she
was going to toss her cookies, as Zanny used to say.  With great
difficulty she'd gotten the clinging shirt about halfway off, but her
stomach rose and she couldn't fight it off.  She doubled over, her head
between her knees, and began belching dry heaves.

"May I help?"  Jack asked as she continued to retch.

After several moments, Stephanie came up for air.  "Oh, God, I want to
die."

Jack turned around then and, taking charge, pulled her shirt off.
Stephanie made a halfhearted effort to cover her breasts.  Ignoring
her, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, vigorously
rubbing her back.  "Lie back," he commanded.  "We've got to get your
shorts off."

Stephanie complied, pulling the corners of the towel over her chest.
Jack moved forward like a surgeon, grim-faced--probably because it
looked more politic-and untied the cord in her shorts.

"I don't have on any underwear," she managed to say in a small voice,
her chin quivering.

"Don't worry, I've seen it before."

Lifting her hips, he stripped off her shorts.  Stephanie crossed one
leg over the other and covered herself with her hand.  Jack did not
even look at her.  Turning, he shook out her shorts for no apparent
reason other than to occupy himself.

"Can you crawl up to the head of the berth?"  he asked.

"Yes."

While his eyes were averted, she struggled to the top of the bed,
dropping heavily onto the pillow.  It was hard just to pull the sheet
over her, but she managed.  Jack came to the side of the berth, his
legs spread apart to brace himself against the motion of the boat.  He
gazed down at her, his hands on his hips, his expression both paternal
and amused.

"Had I known, I'd have offered you some Transderm, but it's too late
now."

"If you have any cyanide, that'll do."

He grinned broadly.  "I'll get a little water for you to sip."  Jack
left the cabin.  Stephanie was surprised to discover she was having a
cold sweat.  The nausea was unrelenting.  If there was a way and a
place to surrender, she would.  Anything to end this.

Jack returned with a small plastic dishpan and a washrag, as well as a
half glass of water.  Stephanie, the sheet clutched under her chin,
watched as he sat beside her.  The disorientation was bizarre.  Jack
Kidwell's face seemed the only point of reference.

"I think you'll feel better if I wash some of that saltwater off your
skin," he said.  Then, moistening the cloth in the small puddle in the
bottom of the pan, he began to wipe her face, pushing her hair off her
forehead.  Next he washed her eyes and her neck.  All the while
Stephanie watched him, surprised at his gentleness.

"You make a good nurse," she said.

"I'm a specialist in seasickness."

"Is undressing your passengers routine?"

"No, actually, you're the first ever.  Due to seasickness."

"I'm glad you qualified that."

Jack gave a small smile and put the pan aside.  Then he handed her the
glass of water.  "Just small sips for a while."

She took a couple, then handed back the glass.  He put it on the
bedside table.

"How do you feel?"  he asked.

"Like hell.  The only thing I've had that's worse is a kidney stone.
Even having a baby wasn't this bad.  It was more painful, but not so
unpleasant."

"You have children?"

Stephanie had forgotten he didn't know.  "I did."

She started to explain, but emotion rose out of nowhere and she choked
up.  Jack let it go.

"How about you?"  she croaked as tears rolled out of the corners of her
eyes.

Jack shook his head somberly.  "None."  He reached for the towel and,
taking a corner of it, dabbed her eyes.

"So, what's the weather report?"  she asked, trying to sound more
cheerful.

"Not good.  There's a category-two hurricane bearing down on the
Leeward Islands."

"Where are the Leeward Islands?"

"They're the northernmost of the Lesser Antilles.  Roughly from the
Virgins down to Guadeloupe.  They're projecting it to hit about
seventy-five to a hundred miles south of here.  But we're feeling the
effects."

"So I noticed."

"I knew from the sky we were in for a blow, and the barometer over the
last couple hours confirmed it.  I just wasn't sure how directly it was
going to hit.  According to the weather service, it was just a tropical
storm and on a more southerly course until about six or eight hours
ago.  But it's swung north and intensified.  We should be in port
battening down the hatches."

"Category two is bad?"

"It could be worse.  But hundred-mile-an-hour winds are nothing to
sneeze at."

"It won't be that bad here, though.  Right?"

"Not if the storm holds course."

Stephanie noticed a particularly acute roll and her stomach gave a
lurch.  "Where are we?"

"Leinster Bay, on the north coast of St.  John.  When the wind started
kicking up, I put in.  Figured I'd better know what we were up against.
With my radio out and being totally unprepared, looking for a telephone
was all I could do."

She could tell he was embarrassed.  She knew nothing about seamanship,
but it was obvious they'd been sailing by the seat of their pants.  He
wasn't to blame, though.  She'd been the one to force a hasty
departure.

"Where did you go?"  she asked.  "I looked out and didn't see so much
as a light."

"Believe it or not, to a pay phone.  Much of St.  John is a national
park and there are telephones along the road."

"So you called in for a weather report from a pay phone?"

"I called a friend."

She noticed his uneasiness.  He wouldn't look into her eyes.

"What else happened, Jack?"

He took a moment to formulate his answer, then plunged ahead.  "There's
apparently a massive search being mounted for us.  By your friends."

A heaviness came over her.  "I'm not surprised."

"You're worth twenty-five thousand to them," he said.

"That's the word on the streets.  And they know you're on the Lucky
Lady."

"That's bad, right?"

"It makes for a difficult game of hide-and-seek."

"So, what's your point?  They're going to find us anyway, so you might
as well turn me in and pick up the reward?  Are you trying to let me
down gently, Jack?"

"No, I'm not turning you in.  What's twenty-five grand?  I used to
spend that over a weekend.  For nothing.  Of course, that was years
ago."

"When you were a tycoon."

"Right."

Stephanie didn't know whether to believe him.  He might already have
told them where she was and was baby-sitting her until they came to
pick her up.  Should she confront him directly or try to inveigle the
truth out of him?  She decided on the subtler approach.

"What happens now?"  she asked.

"That's what I'm trying to decide.  We're going to have this weather
for a while, which means we're tied down, but so are they.  There'll be
a respite from search planes, but once the weather clears we'll be
sitting ducks."

"What you're saying is the game's over.  We've lost."

"We're in a corner," he said.  "The question is if we risk venturing
out in the storm and making our escape under cover of the elements, so
to speak."

"You mean you'd actually be willing?"

"Well," he said, "I guess that depends."

She stared at him in the dim light of the cabin, uncertain of his
meaning.  The conversation had been very offhand, but she sensed they
were getting to the bottom line.  "Are we talking about money,
Captain?"  His hesitation was the answer.  But then he surprised her by
saying, "Yes and no."

For a second she didn't understand.  Was he being coy?  Then she
understood.  It was about money, but it was also about something else.
Lord, he wasn't going to exact sexual favors on top of getting paid,
was he?  Surely not.

Jack met her gaze.  Stephanie sensed she was now dealing with the
person who'd ended up in prison, the con man who'd operated out of the
back of a Cadillac convertible, as he put it.

"Why don't you just tell me what you want?"  she said, her insides
heaving as much from disgust as motion sickness.

"First, I'm risking my neck," he said.  "Granted, it's not worth much
in the greater scheme of things, but I've got my pride."

"Give me a figure, Jack."

"Let's say five grand for the personal risk."

"And?"

"There's the boat.  It could be damaged or lost."  "What's a new one
cost?"

"More than the traveler's checks you've got in your purse."  Her
eyebrows rose.

"I snooped earlier when you were in the head."  "Sneaky but honest,
aren't you?"

"I don't like flying in the dark."

"But if the price is right, you'll consider sailing in the dark."

He smiled.  "I guess you've got to be quick to get into Stanford."

"How did you know?"

"Alumni-association card in your wallet."

"Where did you go to college?"

"State school on a baseball scholarship.  I majored in girls."

"More candor."

"People do business best, and, for that matter, make love best--when
they know where the other person is coming from," he said easily.

"So you want me to indemnify your boat."

"I'll take your promise that you won't leave me high and dry if the
Lucky Lady gets trashed."

"That's awfully vague," she said' "not to mention trusting."

"Having decent people feeling a moral obligation is a little like
insurance."

"Okay, I'll promise to do what I can within my means.  But we're still
only partway down your list.  What else?"

Jack rubbed his gris led jaw, looking a little embarrassed.

He did want sex!  She felt her stomach clench and knew she was going to
be sick again.  When she sat up, pressing her trembling fingers to her
mouth, Jack handed her the dishpan.  Stephanie hung her head over it,
retching.  When she came up, she was gasping.

She fell back onto the pillow, once more in the depths of misery.  Jack
put the damp cloth on her forehead.  She was grateful, yet wary.

"Just say it, Jack," she murmured.  "What else do you want for my
life?"

He absently ran his finger across her cheek, much the way the Cuban
had.  It made her quail.

"What I'd like," he said, "is more detail about what's going on.  The
fact that some shady characters are after you because they think your
husband ripped them off is a little vague.

"You want to know you're risking your life for a good cause.  Is that
what you're saying?"

"More or less."

He said it so easily and with such innocence that Stephanie almost felt
like congratulating him.  But she didn't believe him, Oscar Barbadillo
and his friends at Inter-America Ventures wanted her, yes, but they
wanted the disks even more.  Jack must have found out.  If it was
Barbadillo he'd talked to on the phone, Oscar would have told him to
find out where the disks were.

"You seem unsure," he said.

"Do I?  I tend to without makeup."

He gave her a smile and more innocence.  "It's not reasonable that I
ask," he said.  "The risk is considerable."

"How specific do you want me to be?"

"Let's start with what business you and your husband have with these
crooks."

Clever, she thought.  Start with the innocent stuff, then move in for
the kill.  "As best I can tell, my husband was accepting investment
money for his venture capital firm from illicit sources.  It may have
been some sort of laundering scheme, I don't know.  I guess there were
losses and they feel Jean Claud owes them twenty million dollars."

"Twenty million?"

Stephanie nodded.  "That's more than I carry around in my purse,
too."

"So, why did they kill him?"

"I don't know.  They were either vengeful or stupid, I guess.

"They obviously think you have the key to getting their money back."

She immediately thought of the locker key in her purse and wondered if
Jack had spotted it while snooping.  But his blue eyes were so open and
innocent, it was hard to believe he'd gotten that far.  They were,
however, getting around to the disks, which was where he'd been headed
ever since he'd gotten back on board.  "I guess twenty-five thousand
says they think I do," she said.

"Are they right?"

Clever, Jack, she thought.  "No, I don't know how to get their money.
So far as I'm aware, it's been lost for good."

He appeared to accept that with equanimity.  "You're saying they're
barking up the wrong tree."

"Yes."

Now it was Jack probing for truthfulness.  He read her eyes, clearly
trying to divine the depth of her veracity.  "Why didn't you just
straighten them out?  Seems it would save us all a lot of trouble."

She shook her head.  "I tried."

"They didn't believe you."

"Right."

He pondered that.  Then an expression of confusion replaced
thoughtfulness.  "This is probably a stupid question, but why didn't
you go to the police when your husband was killed?"

She'd been sparing with her explanations to this point, but decided
this was her opportunity to appear to open up.  So she told him about
Audrey, the divorce, the phone call Jean Claud had received from that
man, Dave, and the explosion at the beach house.  The only thing she
left out was that she'd made copies of Jean Claud's files.  "You see,
it all started out innocently," she said.  "I figured the world thought
I was dead and that a week or so in St.  Thomas would give me time to
clear my head.  I also wanted to talk to my friend, Leslie, and her
husband before I decided who to trust."

"But the bad guys were a step ahead of you, apparently."

"So it seems."

Jack took that in with equanimity.  She watched him closely, figuring
the way he reacted would probably indicate how much he knew and what
his intentions were.  She'd sidestepped the issue of the disks and he
wouldn't bring them up unless he knew of their existence.

"Well," he said, "they can't get blood from a turnip, but I guess
you've got to worry about them killing you while they try."

"That's kind of the way I look at it."

He nodded thoughtfully.  He was either as clever as she, or totally
ignorant of the disks.  She hoped for the latter, but knew it behooved
her to assume the former.  Jack reached for the glass and handed it to
her.  Stephanie lifted her head and took a couple of sips.  Then she
listened.  The wind had died down and the boat was rocking less than
before.  Or was she just getting accustomed to the motion?

"Is it my imagination, or is there a lull in the storm?"

"It's a lull," he said.  "And time to make a decision.  Your life is at
stake as much as mine.  Do you want to make a dash for Nigel's place,
or wait and take your chances after the storm's blown over?"

"If you're willing, I assume that means the odds against us aren't too
stiff."

"I'm not suicidal, if that's what you're asking."

Stephanie smiled and Jack did' too.  He hadn't slipped up yet, which
either meant he was sincere or very, very good.  The smart thing, she
decided, was to signal friendship and trust.  If she came across as
naive, he might let his guard down.  But whether Jack Kidwell was
guileful or not, their destinies had been hitched together by the
storm.  The uncertainty was if their true objectives were compatible.

Surprising her, Jack reached out and took her chin.  "So, what'll it
be, princess?"

His touch sent a flutter through her.  "I guess I'm willing if you
are," she said.

"Willing to make the crossing, you mean."

She blinked until she realized he was being cute.  "What else, Jack?"

His grin was completely devoid of apology.  He got to his feet.  "Now's
the time to put some distance between us and your friend' Barbadillo.
It'll be light in a couple of hours."

"Jack..."

He stopped at the door.

"How did you know his name was Barbadillo?"

"You told me last night, Stephanie.  You said Oscar Barbadillo, with an
outfit called Inter-America Ventures, thinks you have their money."

"Oh," she said.  "I forgot."

He studied her.  "If I'd talked to Barbadillo on the phone, like you
suspect, I wouldn't be taking you to the British Virgins, now, would

I?"

"You would if you were trying to lull me into a sense of
complacency."

He shook his head.  "Why take the risk?  I'd simply have said we're
safe here."  Then, giving her a wink, he left the cabin.

Sir Francis Drake Channel, British Virgin Islands

By dawn, they'd been at sea nearly three hours.  Jack had given her a
Transderm patch and it had helped.  At first she'd stayed below,
sipping water and broth.  For the first hour the seas weren't bad.  The
worse part, according to Jack, was that their course took them almost
directly into the wind, making for slow progress.  When the gale picked
up to thirty-five to forty knots with waves of fifteen feet or more,
Jack really had to struggle.  Stephanie, battling seasickness again,
put on a rain slicker and went topside.  The air, and being able to see
the horizon, helped' but the fury of the storm scared her.

Jack made her put on a life jacket and she clung to the lifelines,
sometimes for dear life when the boat rolled and water rushed across
the deck.  They were hit several times by waves that came at them like
a locomotive, exploding as they crashed against the hull, jolting them.
Stephanie looked at Jack, terrified, certain he hadn't anticipated
this.  After a particularly ferocious jolt she looked around in near
panic, wondering if there was a place where they could take refuge.

Astern, St.  John was little more than a hazy gray smear on the
horizon. Another island--Jack told her it was Tortola--lay five or six
miles to port, and on the starboard side there was a string of smaller
islands, closer but less sheltering.  Stephanie wondered if maybe they
shouldn't make for the nearest one.  When she found the courage to
suggest it, Jack told her there was no safe harbor and the best that
could happen was that they'd wash up on a beach.  "Conditions aren't
that desperate!"  he shouted over the roar of the storm.  She wondered
how much worse they needed to be.

At the end of a long tack toward Tortola, a huge wave rose up like a
sea monster.  Jack pointed at it and shouted for her to hang on.
Stephanie grabbed a stanchion with one hand and a winch with the other.
The wave exploded over the starboard bow and rushed along the deck,
hitting them like a huge fist, knocking them against the back of the
coaming and very nearly over the side.  Jack grabbed her by the life
jacket and pulled her back as the water subsided around them. 
Stephanie sat sputtering on the deck while Jack steered.

"That was a doozy," he shouted with false heartiness.

"That's what you call it?"

He tried a smile, but the blowing rain and salt spray made him squint.
Spinning the wheel, he brought the sailboat sharply to starboard,
crossing the eye of the wind.  Even with deeply reefed sails, the
pressure was tremendous.  Jack had been watching the sails and rigging
warily.  Stephanie knew they were sailing on the edge; she didn't have
to be an expert to see that.  As she watched Jack, hoping and praying
he was as competent as he seemed, she heard a loud ping coming from the
bow.  Simultaneously, the jib loosened on the head stay and began
shaking furiously, making a terrible clatter.

"Oh, shit," Jack said, "there went the shackle.  I've got to fix that
or we're going to lose the sail.  Here, take the wheel.  Hold a steady
course and if we heel too far, ease into the wind a bit, but don't let
go."

She had no idea what he meant, but he was gone before she could get
clarification.  Stephanie gripped the wheel, watching him as he moved
forward, pulling himself along the stanchion lines when the bow pitched
upward and holding himself back when the bow dipped into a trough.
Moving along the deck looked treacherous and she was afraid that at any
moment he'd be swept away by a wave.

When the boat heeled sharply to starboard, Jack motioned to her to
bring the bow more into the wind by making a big circle with his arm in
the direction he wanted her to turn the wheel.  Stephanie did as he
indicated, over correcting so that Jack had to signal her to swing back
the other way, giving her a thumbs-up when she had it right.  Then he
went to work replacing the shackle.

She felt unsure of herself at first, much as when she'd learned to
drive a stick shift and didn't fully understand the function of the
clutch.  In time, though, she began to get the feel for the boat and
began correlating steering corrections to the response of the yacht.
Best, perhaps, was that she was no longer seasick.  Fighting the wind
and waves enabled her to stay in harmony with the motion of the boat.
In that sense it was a little like horseback riding.

As Jack labored, she saw another gargantuan wave coming toward them
with the relentlessness of an enormous shark.

Jack, his back to the wind, didn't see it.  She began to scream, but he
couldn't hear her over the roar of the wind.

Her breath wedged in her throat, she watched in horror as the bow of
the Lucky Lady rose suddenly on the cliff like face of the monstrous
wave.  Jack's head spun, but it was too late.  The wave broke over the
bow with tremendous force, swatting him like a Ping-Pong ball and
hurling him over the cabin trunk and along the deck, his body
disappearing over the bulwark starboard side, enveloped in a frothy
envelope of spray and splash.  For several horrifying seconds the boat
seemed submerged, the spent wave washing sedately over the stern,
coming as high as Stephanie's waist before draining back into the
sea.

Panicked' she searched the sea off the starboard side, afraid Jack was
lost.  But then she saw his head and arms.  He was clinging to the
lifeline, trying to pull himself aboard.  Stephanie wanted to rush
forward to help, but she was afraid to let go of the wheel--fearing
that if they were swept by another wave they might capsize.  On the
other hand, without Jack, both she and the boat both would be lost
anyway.  Torn, paralyzed with uncertainty, she clung to the wheel and
watched him struggle, praying he'd get aboard.

For a while it looked as if he'd make it.  He managed to get one leg
over the side when another large wave hit the Lucky Lady jolting her so
hard she shuddered and bouncing Jack violently against the hull an
instant before the rush of water scraped him cleanly off the boat.

Stephanie reacted instantly, rushing to the starboard side, thrusting
her torso between the bulwark and the lifelines just as Jack came
floating by.  She reached out as his hand rose from the water, clasping
her wrist at the very last instant.  The drag of his body nearly pulled
her in, but she managed to loop her other arm around a stanchion.  He
clung to her arm as if it were a rope, the force so great it felt as
though her arm would be pulled from the socket.

Their eyes met.  She saw terror on his face, the desperation of life
about to slip away.  For an instant he seemed to hesitate, as though
the thought of letting go had entered his mind.  He could save her by
abandoning himself.

"Pull, Jack!"  she cried, the strain on her body making it difficult to
get out the words.

Climbing hand over hand, he pulled himself up, the pain in her arm
excruciating.  Their faces were only a couple of feet apart.  Again,
they looked into each other's eyes.  Again, she saw doubt.

"Come on!"  she pleaded.

Jack made an effort, but she could see he was exhausted.  He made a
desperate grab at the stanchion, but missed.  His other hand slid along
her arm and she thought he'd slip away.  But then the Lucky Lady slewed
down another wave, raising her stern from the water.  Jack's body
slammed against the hull and when the stern dropped, the water rose,
popping him up like a cork.  For an instant, his head was above hers.

The respite was just long enough for him to grab the stanchion, first
with his free hand, then with the other.  She took hold of his life
jacket.  At the same time, the water rushing along the deck reached
them, but its force was spent and, with her help, Jack managed to hang
on.

He got his leg up and, with her pulling on him, he rolled over the
bulwark and into the cockpit.  For several moments Jack lay on his
back, staring at her, his mouth agape as he breathed.  She remained
hunkered against the coaming, dazed, breathing hard.  He didn't have to
say, "Thank you."  It was in his eyes.

Jack struggled to his knees when the boat began to heel.  Seeing they'd
nearly jibed' he frantically spun the wheel.  Seconds later they were
back on a southeasterly course, headed for one of the smaller islands
on the windward side of the channel.

Stephanie crawled back to where he'd planted himself, once more
battling the storm from the helmsman's seat.  Without a word, Jack put
his arm around her shoulders and pressed her hard against him.  He
kissed her forehead and her cheek with clumsy exuberance.  It was the
most poignant and heartfelt gesture of thanks she could have gotten.
They were bound now, in a new and special way.

Cooper Island

The Lucky Lady lay anchored in the shallows on the lee side of the
island, bobbing in the relatively tranquil waters, waiting for the last
of the storm to blow itself out.  Jack had said they wouldn't be going
anywhere unless they pumped out some of the water they'd taken on and
got the sails and rigging in serviceable condition.

From inside the cocoon of her rain gear Stephanie watched Jack working
on the shackle that had nearly cost him his life.  It was raining
lightly with occasional gusts that served as a reminder of what was
possible.  "You've looked death in the eye before, haven't you, Jack?"
she asked.

He gave her a grin she found totally incongruous.  "A few times, I
guess."

"Is it a male thing to bounce right up as though nothing happened.  or
is it just you?"

"I'm working to avoid another disaster," he said.  "This fight isn't
over."

"But aren't you just a little dazed to think you came within inches of
buying the farm?"

"Fortunately, Stephanie, I had you."

"Anything I did was purely accidental," she said.

"Say what you will, I owe you one.  A big one."

She was grateful for the acknowledgment, but she liked his earlier
wordless thanks better.  Still, she couldn't help wondering how their
misadventure would affect his attitude.  What was really going on in
his mind?  Thoughts of twenty million dollars?

"Jack," she said, "if we were back in St.  John and you knew what you
know now about the storm, would you still have come?"

"Probably not."

"So was it a mistake?"  "I knew it was risky."

"Life is precious," she said.

"Thanks to you, we're still fighting," he replied.  "And we're way
ahead of the game.  I'd say we're a good twenty-five miles farther
afield than they suspect.  Once I get this baby patched, we can make it
forty by nightfall, maybe even all the way to Nigel's."

Stephanie shook her head.  The man was definitely back up on his horse.
Jack glanced down at her from his work and explained what he was doing.
The shackle that had broken provided the anchor point for the sail on
the Lucky Lady's stern head.  It had exploded under the torrent's force
of the wind on the sail, leaving twisted bits of shiny metal in its
place.  Fortunately, Jack had a spare shackle in his tool kit and was
quickly able to make the deceptively simple yet crucial repair.

"So, how are you bearing up?"  he asked.

"Physically or emotionally?"

"Both."

"Physically I'm at about six," she said.  "Emotionally it's more like
four.  I need a rest."

"That was the whole point of making this dash--to get you someplace
where you can feel safe."

"I bet I sleep for twelve hours," she said.

Jack put down his tools.  "I hate to ask anything of you, considering
you're a paying customer, but if you wouldn't mind working the bilge
pump while I fix the rigging, we'll be able to get under way sooner."

"Sure.  I want to do my part."

Jack led her below to the engine room and showed her how to operate the
pump by hand.  They'd taken on a lot of water.  The air was close below
and Stephanie took off her slicker.

She caught Jack glancing at her breasts under the T-shirt.  She was
embarrassed but things were not exactly normal when in survival mode.
And they'd had the bonding experience of saving one another's lives.

"Think you'll be all right down here?"  he asked.

"Sure.  Believe it or not, i've cleaned a few toilets in my life."

"if it gets claustrophobic and we start rolling again, feel free to
come up for air."

"I will," she said.

They were standing close in the cramped space.  Jack had another half
day's growth of beard on his jaw and, if anything, looked more
bedraggled than when she'd first seen him.  But there were
compensations.  She felt an intimacy that transcended superficial
considerations.

Stephanie sensed Jack was feeling it, too.  His grin was warm.  He put
his hand on her shoulder.  "You're as fine a mate as I've ever sailed
with," he said, his voice edgy with emotion.  "Thanks again for what
you did out there.  I'd be fish food now if it wasn't for you."

She shrugged, her cheeks coloring.  "Enlightened self-interest."

"I won't forget it," he said.

Stephanie did what seemed like the most natural thing to do--she hugged
him, laying her head against his shoulder.  Jack held her and for
several long moments they clung together.  He pressed his face against
the top of her head in an endearing way.  Then he let go of her, saying
there was work to do.  He went topside, leaving her ankle deep in
seawater.

She started to work, finding the rhythm of the task agreeable, even
comforting.  It was an odd thing that life had brought her here, to
this place where good and bad were in such sharp contrast.  When she
thought of the existence she'd been leading as recently as a week ago,
she was amazed--amazed that she'd fallen so far, but also amazed that
her former life had felt satisfactory.  She'd found meaning in it, the
comfort of familiarity, but in retrospect it seemed so empty, so
staid.

Whatever else Jack Kidwell was, he was real and he was a man.  Jean
Claud, by contrast, had been a phony and a coward.  But she also knew
it would be a mistake to idealize either Jack or this experience.  He
had his qualities, but she knew what he was, and it was best she keep
that in mind.

Bel Air,

Las Angeles, California

Julius Behring sniffed the honeysuckle in the air, liking it even
though his sense of smell was no longer keen.  There was lots 'of
honeysuckle in his garden.  He'd told the landscaper to put it in when
he'd bought the house.  Lots of honeysuckle and other plants that
smelled good.

The yard had matured considerably in the ten years since he'd purchased
the house from Lola Leyton, the film star.  She had entertained a great
deal and the house had been set up for it.  Behring had changed all
that.  A home to him was a sanctuary.  He closed the place in with
hedges and walls and filled the grounds with vegetation.  The backyard,
which he was especially fond of, had a rose garden, a small maze, beds
with flowers year-round, a putting green, which he no longer used, the
pool area where he occasionally sunned himself, and his favorite spot,
the arbor with its flowering vines.  Having put in several hours
already at his desk, Julius had been in the garden for half an hour
now, listening to the bees, enjoying the fragrant air and thinking.

Recently he'd thought a lot about Anita, who'd been dying of cancer
when he bought the place.  She loved flowers and floral scents even
more than he did.  Julius had wanted it nice for her in her last days.
It had been important to him because he hadn't been much of a husband.
Business, his responsibilities came first.

Anita, his little Cuban chiquita as he called her, knew all that when
she'd married him.  "Love me the best way you know how, provide for me
and my children, Julio, and I will be happy," she'd told him.

Julius had done what she'd asked, but only that.  It was a deal he was
willing to make and he kept his end of the bargain, discovering in time
it probably wasn't enough.  Maybe her Catholic guilt had gotten to him
in the end, maybe it had been a mistake to take her as his wife in the
first place.  In the fifties it wasn't so common for a Jew and a Latina
to marry, but Julius Behring had always done everything his own way.
Maybe they'd both paid a price.  He'd never said so to a living soul,
but for some time now he'd been convinced his penance was Rico.

Behring loved his son, but he'd admitted to himself long ago--though
never to Anita--that their child was cursed with the worst of each of
them.  Rico had his mother's fiery temper and passion, but not her
heart.  The boy had Julius's single-minded determination, but not his
judgment.  The poor bastard was a loose cannon at times, and dangerous
to himself and everybody around him.  Oscar, on the other hand, was
smart.  Julius could forgive him for allowing the Reymond woman to
escape.  It was a freak thing, that truck parked under the window, but
from what Oscar had said when he'd called Julius to tell him what had
happened, it had humiliated him to fail and that wasn't necessarily
bad.  It could help Oscar down the road to be a little more forgiving
of Rico's weaknesses.  Yet Julius had his doubts that either of them
would learn from the other's mistakes.  There was too much bad blood
between them.

It had been risky bringing his nephew into the inner circle, but Julius
had always admired his wife's brother's son.  Oscar had the best of
Anita's family in him.  And his Latin background had enabled him to
work effectively with the South Americans.  He was intelligent, loyal,
serious-minded and mature, many of the things Rico was not.  It was no
wonder his son was jealous.

Drawing in the sweet scent of the honeysuckle as if it was sustenance,
Behring tried to sweep his mind clear.  His mother had preached often
about the evil of worry, but it was a lesson he'd never quite
learned--women didn't fully appreciate the importance of work, that was
the trouble.  A guy who didn't understand that was a guy who lived out
his days on social security checks.

Julius Behring consulted his watch.  It was time for his midmorning
refreshment.  He looked down over the rose garden toward the house.
Almost on cue George Molina, in his starched white jacket, came out the
sunroom door.  He was carrying a silver tray with a tall glass of
fresh-squeezed orange juice.

George made his way up the slope.  Julius monitored his progress. There
was nothing hurried about George.  Everything the houseboy did, he did
with due deliberation.  Julius liked that.  Make haste slowly.  It was
a good philosophy in business and a good philosophy in life.

George climbed the last of the steps leading to the arbor.  Julius
closed the file, which had lain open on his lap but little consulted,
placing it on the table beside him.  Upon reaching the shade of the
arbor, the houseboy, now in his fifties, looked at Julius, who looked
at him.  They had been together long enough that they could greet each
other without so much as a nod.  George's greatest virtue, as far as
Julius was concerned, was his ability to anticipate Behring's desires
and needs without being prompted.  Nor did he question a thing.  It was
very difficult to find people like that anymore.

George put the glass of orange juice on the table at Julius's right
hand.  Then he stepped back, the silver tray now under his arm, waiting
to see if there would be instructions.  Behring stroked his chin.
George Molina was silent.

"The tax attorney is due at two?"  Julius asked, though he knew the
answer.

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

"And that's my only appointment?"

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

"Hmm."  Julius picked up the glass.  "There hasn't been any word from
Rico, has there?"  he asked.

"No, Mr.  Behring."

"Nor Oscar, either, I suppose."

"No, sir."  Again George waited.

"The orchids," Julius said, waving his arm toward the display at the
rear of the arbor, "I think it's time to rotate some new plants in from
the greenhouse.  These are looking tired.  Mention it to the gardeners,
will you, George?"

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

Julius took a sip from the glass of orange juice.  "I'll have lunch in
the sunroom today."

George Molina nodded.  He knew it was the end of the conversation.  He
began retracing his steps toward the house, the silver tray under his
arm.

Julius tried to relax, get his mind into that nice easy rhythm that
came with being in control.  It had been difficult of late because of
that god-awful mess in the Caribbean.  When they'd torn apart the home
and office of Reymond's mistress and found nothing relating to his
business, Julius figured it was the wife who knew the procedure for
getting the money out of the Cayman Islands bank.  Whether it was by
design or accident, he didn't know.  A lot remained murky, but a few
things were clear--the woman's money was on the line the same as his.
There would be thirty million in a Cayman bank soon, and she was on the
run in the Caribbean.

George had nearly reached the house when the telephone at Julius
Behring's elbow rang.  George stopped and looked back but, realizing
Julius would get it, the houseboy continued down the steps.  Julius
took the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Pop."

"Rico," he said, smiling.  "Good to hear your voice."

"Yeah, me, too."

"So, how's the vacation?"

"Good and not so good, Pop."

"Explain."

"Well, we almost didn't get into the fucking island.  Some goddamn
hurricane was in the area.  But we made it."

"Any news from our partner?"

"Haven't made contact with her," Rico replied with surprising subtlety.
Julius had schooled him on the importance of obliqueness when
communicating by phone.  "But we expect to soon."

"Oh?"

"With the hurricane, she couldn't have gotten far.  There'll be eyes
out looking at daybreak tomorrow.  Oscar hired two planes.  I hired
three more."

"Yeah, and we had a turn of luck.  Oscar got an anonymous call from
this broad saying she's a friend of the sea captain who is with our
little pigeon.  She says the guy wants to know the score, wants to know
if we're dealing and if so how much."

Julius Behring was pleasantly surprised.  "What did Oscar offer,
Rico?"

"Twenty-five for the woman.  A hundred if she comes complete with
computer stuff."

"And?"

"We haven't heard back, but our thinkin' is the guy's workin' on the
computer part of the deal.  Oscar also thinks he knows what happened to
the computer disks.  When our friend got off the plane in St.  Thomas
all she had with her was her purse and her suitcase.  It didn't hit him
until later, but when Oscar first saw her in Miami he thinks she also
had a carry-on bag."

"The disks are in the missing bag."

"Yeah, Pop.  That's what we figure.  They're either in Miami, which we
doubt, or they're here someplace.  Oscar thinks she could have given
the bag to another passenger.  We're checking that out.  Our friends,
the cops, are in the process of running down all the passengers for us.
Some of them could be gone already, but who knows, we might get lucky.
But if we catch up with our little pigeon first, it might not
matter."

"Sounds like you're off to a good start, Rico."

"Yeah, everything's under control.  I figure in two or three days I'll
have had all the sun I need.  And since comfort's the key, I've hired
lots of extra help.  Folks are so friendly down here, everybody wants
to join the team."

"How's Oscar?"

"Pissed, Pop.  Pissed that he got outsmarted.  He especially hates it
that it was a broad.  You know how he is about women.  Thinks they
should all worship his cock."

Julius didn't say anything to that.  His nephew was a ladies' man, all
right, but Rico was the one with the problem with women, and he didn't
even know it.  He used them the way he used everything else.  Julius
had warned him that his abusive attitude was going to be his undoing,
but the boy wouldn't listen.  And it hadn't gotten any better since his
marriage.  His relationship with Rhonda, it seemed, had only made his
problem worse.

"So, all in all, things are looking up," Rico crowed.

"You may be on to something with the sea captain," Julius said.  "What
do you know about him?"

"Word is he's a charmer and needs the bread.  He also has a past.  Did
time in Florida for some real-estate scam."

"Sounds like a man we can deal with.  Maybe you can afford to be a
little more generous, Rico.  Let's up our offer to a quarter of a
million."

"For the package?"

"For the package."

"That's a hell of a reward."

"There's a lot at stake."

"Christ, why not?"  Rico said with a laugh.  "Quarter of a million it
is, Pop!"

Isola Lovejoy,

British Virgin Islands

Nigel Lovejoy's island was only a few miles off the northwest coast of
Virgin Gorda, toward the eastern end of the chain.  It was dusk when
the Lucky Lady floated serenely toward the cove where visiting
sailboats took haven.  The storm had challenged them all but the last
few miles of the voyage, though with far less intensity than the early
leg of the crossing.  In the course of just an hour, the winds dropped
from thirty knots to a caressing breeze.  The last clouds moved off to
the west, swept along in the skirts of the receding storm.

Stephanie had spent most of the final hours of the trip in the cockpit
with Jack, watching the sails, the irregular profiles of the islands
drifting by.  They hadn't talked a lot once they'd gotten under way
again, except about the boat.

"What do you suppose the repairs will cost me?"  she'd asked earlier,
after he'd un reefed the mainsail to take advantage of the lighter
winds.

"Most of it's cleaning up," he replied.  "Labor.  I may need to have a
little electrical work done and some tinkering with the auxiliary
engine, but I don't think there's anything major.  Structurally, she
seems perfectly sound."

"I wish I could say the same," Stephanie said, her mouth bending into a
smile.

Jack had given her a sly look.  "For a lady who's been through a
hurricane, you look just fine."

"Having an excuse doesn't make me feel any better," she said.

"At Nigel's you can have a nice warm shower, wash your hair, and come
out as beautiful as you've ever been."

"Oh, heaven."

He gave her knee a friendly pat.  She hadn't wanted to make anything of
his comment, but there was something about the way he'd looked at her
when he said it, and the pat on her knee, that made her quiver
inside.

Jack had done nothing overt since they'd hugged down in the hold, but
she'd sensed that he was no longer fearful of offending.  His subtlety
in that regard made his new attitude especially provocative, though she
held fast to her cautious ways.

In the fading light of dusk, Isola Lovejoy, its profile flat to the
water and prickly with palms, seemed as much an oasis as an island.  It
was only seven acres in size and was owned in its entirety by Nigel
Lovejoy.  The major improvement on the island was the manor house,
which Nigel had built according to his own design, incorporating both
modern and colonial elements.

The water they'd taken on had knocked out the auxiliary engine,
limiting Jack's ability to maneuver, and they approached the island
with a deliberateness that was agonizing.  Once the mouth of the cove
was fully visible, the manor house came into view, its white, columned
facade golden from the sun-kissed clouds behind them.  The structure
sat on the slope of the hillock that rose beyond the cove.

Stephanie thought of Mount Vernon as seen from the Potomac, though both
the perspective and the grandeur of the manor house were much less
assuming.  It did look civilized and inviting, however.  And the
thought of a shower had her drooling.  She was a bit in awe at the lush
tranquillity of this place.

"Nice, huh?"  Jack said.

"It's beautiful."

"Worth braving the storm?"

"All's well that ends well, I guess."  Jack's only response was a
nod.

Stephanie moved forward for a better look, walking along the port side,
her eyes on the trees and lawns.  Only a few hours ago the Lucky Lady
had been awash with seas, fighting for her life.  Now they were in
paradise.

Jack dropped anchor in the middle of the cove.  He said he'd take her
ashore, introduce her to Malva, Nigel's housekeeper, and come back
later to tend to the boat.

"What's our story?"  she asked.

"Malva's been alerted that we were on our way and that it's a discreet
visit, but that's all.  There'll be no need to explain more."

"You make it sound like this is a regular occurrence."

"Do I?"

"Or is it just that you have trusting friends?"

He gave her a quirky smile.  "I have trusting friends."

With Stephanie's help he lowered the inflatable dinghy into the water.
She had stuffed her clothes into a paper sack earlier, and she went
below to get it and her purse.  When she returned, he helped her into
the small craft.  After yanking on the starter cord of the outboard a
couple of times, he managed to get the engine going.  They putted
toward the small sandy beach at the base of the cove as dusk closed in
around them.

It wasn't until they were practically ashore before Stephanie saw the
huge man in the shadows at the foot of the lawn.  He wore a dark brown
sleeveless shirt and baggy pants that came to the middle of his calves,
and his feet were bare.  He was obviously native to the islands.  When
the bow of the boat plowed into the sand, he moved forward.

"Captain Jack, how you doin', sir?"  he said, splashing into the water,
his big white-toothed grin coming as a relief to Stephanie.

"Howdy, Joseph," Jack said, stepping out of the boat and into the
water.

The two men shook hands, Joseph so large that he dwarfed Jack, himself
no waif.  Close up, Stephanie could see that the man was not young, his
hair white, his big body slightly stooped.  But there was nothing frail
about him.  He had the look of a man who spent his days lifting heavy
things, yet was at peace with the world.

"You surely didn't sail that little boat of yours through that storm,
did you, Captain?"  he said, tossing his head toward the cove.

"I surely did.  With the able assistance of Ms.  Reymond."  Joseph
glanced down at her, bowing deferentially even before Jack introduced
them.  Stephanie stood.

"Welcome to Mr.  Nigel's island," Joseph said, taking the hand she
offered in his paddle-like paw.  "You two must be mighty fine sailors,
comin' through that hurricane, even if it only was the edge.  Wasn't so
bad here, but we heard on the radio the wind was sure strong down by
St.  Croix and St.  John."

"We came through a pretty good blow," Jack said.

Stephanie moved to the edge of the boat to climb out, but Joseph
motioned for her to sit.  "I'll pull you up onto the beach, missus, so
you don't have to get your feet wet."

Once she was seated, the huge man took hold of the line and dragged the
craft a good ten feet onto the beach, seemingly without effort.  Then
he helped her out of the boat as Jack joined them.

"That all you got?"  Joseph said to Stephanie, nodding toward the paper
bag in her arm.

"Yes, I'm traveling light."

He accepted that without comment.  To Jack he said' "Malva says you
should come up to the house.  Tess'll have some supper for you soon."

"That sounds good."

"You know the way, Captain.  Go on up."

Jack took Stephanie's arm and they started up the sweeping lawn.  The
light on the house had a moonlike glow, though it was still dusk.  She
was surprised at how unsteady she felt.

"It'll take a while to get your land legs back," he said.

"Solid ground does feel funny."

"Joseph's wife, Tess, is a hell of a cook, assuming you have a taste
for Creole cuisine."

"I could eat anything," she said, only now realizing how hungry she
was.  "It could come right out of a can and I'd be happy."

As they neared the house, a figure appeared on the veranda.  It was a
woman in a plain white sundress, an attractive mulatto with her hair
pulled back sleek and exotic, a mature woman, perhaps in her late
forties.

"Jackie!"  she said with unmistakable delight.

"Hi, Malva."

They embraced and for a moment she held his face in her hands, smiling
at him with the assurance and familiarity of an old friend.  "We didn't
think you'd make it."

"I had my doubts for a while, too," he said with a sly grin at
Stephanie.  "Malva, I'd like you to meet my friend, Stephanie Reymond.
Stephanie, this is Malva, queen and reigning monarch of Isola
Lovejoy."

"Queen, my ass," she said, giving him a playful slap on the arm.  "The
day I'm queen of anything is the day I'm dreamin' or dead."  She turned
to Stephanie, a smile on her lips.  "Welcome."  Malva offered her hand
and Stephanie took it The woman's grip was firm and more welcoming than
her eyes.

"Thank you," Stephanie said.

There was warmth on Malva's face, but also judgment.  Stephanie glanced
at Jack and saw something unspoken passing between them.

In light of Malva's earthy elegance, Stephanie was even more
self-consciously aware of her own tattered condition.  She ran her
fingers through her brittle hair, feeling gritty and unworthy.

"I bet you'd like me to show you to your room," Malva said.

"Yes, please.  And the bath even more."

Malva glanced back into the falling darkness.  "Is Joseph bringing your
luggage up to the house?"

"I'm afraid this is my luggage," Stephanie said, giving the sack a
squeeze.  "I lost my suitcase in St.  Thomas."

"In other words, you'll be needin' something' to wear.  Follow me,"
Malva said, leading her inside.  "You can look after yourself, Jackie,"
she called over her shoulder.  "You'll be sleepin' in your usual room.
Supper's in half an hour or so."

The entry was large and dimly lit by a huge wrought-iron chandelier.
The floor was a terra-cotta tile and the furniture
Mediterranean-Italian and Spanish antiques, it appeared--but the walls
were covered with Caribbean art, sunny and colorful.  The main salon,
which Stephanie peeked into as they went by, was much more contemporary
and relaxed.  It was lighter in color, the sofas and chairs cushiony,
pillowed and pastel, the art modern and geometric.

The aromas and sounds coming from the back of the house suggested the
kitchen.  Malva led Stephanie in the other direction, out a wing of the
house with what were likely guest rooms lined up on either side.
Stephanie's room was at the end.  "The guest-of-honor room," Malva
said, opening the door.

The four-poster, queen-size bed seemed so sumptuous and pristine after
what she'd lived with the past twenty-four hours that Stephanie felt
unworthy.  And, to make matters worse, when she caught a glimpse of
herself in the dressing-table mirror, she was horrified.

Apparently, Malva saw her glancing longingly toward the white-tiled
bath, because she said' "That's what you're lookin' for, I guess."
"Everything's in there you'll need Towels, shampoo, body lotion, hair
drier."

"I can't tell you how delicious that sounds."

"I'll have clothes for you to choose from laid out on the bed when you
get out."

Stephanie sensed a reticence, but it was difficult to tell if ii was
just Malva's way, or there was something going on because of Jack.  He
hadn't indicated they had a special relationship, apart from the fact
that the woman worked for his friend, but there had been a familiarity
between them.  The possibilities were obvious.  "I appreciate your
kindness," Stephanie told her.

"It's my job."

"Have you been here long?"

"Going on five years.  But I don't stay on the island all the time. I'd
go nuts."

"You aren't from the Virgin Islands originally?"

"No.  I was born in Georgia.  But my mama was Jamaican and I came down
here to the Caribbean with her when I was twenty.  Then I followed a
man to St.  Thomas.  That ended, but I stayed.  Few years after that
was when I met Jackie.  Him and me go way back."

The comment didn't confirm Stephanie's suspicions, but it went a long
way.  She could see Malva was as curious about her relationship with
Jack as the other way around.  "He's done me a very great favor, so I'm
in his debt," Stephanie explained.  "I imagine he told you I was forced
to leave St.  Thomas under emergency conditions."

"No, he didn't explain.  In fact, it was Sonia who called.  But she did
say you weren't the usual charter passenger.  There's some things I
know not to ask about."

Stephanie saw that explanations weren't necessary and that there was a
great deal of trust involved.  She did wonder who Sonia was, but
decided asking about her was not the politic thing to do.

"Well," Malva said, "I expect you're dyin' to get in that shower, so
I'll let you be."  She bowed her head graciously and drifted away.

Jack slapped the lime-scented cologne on his face and put the bottle
back in the cabinet where he'd found it.  The sting persisted for
several moments at the corner of his mouth where he'd nicked himself
shaving.  A spot of blood oozed from the invisible cut, and he pressed
the skin to stop the bleeding, taking the opportunity to appraise the
way he looked in the mirror.  The faded green polo shirt and chinos had
long been favorites so he'd brought them from the boat after he and
Joseph had secured the Lucky Lady.  He probably could have found
something nicer around the house to wear, but the shirt and pants were
clean, if not perfectly pressed, and he'd much preferred wearing his
own clothes.

When he'd seen Malva on his way to his room, she'd told him to hurry as
there'd be hors d'oeuvres and drinks on the veranda.  Tess was already
grumbling that dinner was ruined.  Jack had shaved and showered
quickly, but an hour had passed since their arrival, which meant he was
probably holding things up.

Leaving his room, he made his way through the house, encountering Tess,
who'd come out as far as the hallway to get a sense for how the party
was progressing.  She was standing akimbo, her huge round hips like
shelves on which her fists rested defiantly.

"You just now goin' out, Captain Jack?"  she asked irritably, not
bothering with niceties.

"Hi, Tess," Jack said' pinching her jowl.  "You're pretty as ever."

She brushed his hand away, the furrows deepening on her gleaming
forehead.  "This dinner's as good as ruined.  Already is ruined!"

"One of your ruined dinners is better than any three un ruined dinners
from the best restaurants in the Virgins."

"You may know that, Captain Jack, and I may know that but that don'
make my ruined dinner taste any better.  Now get on out there and tell
Malva dinner's about to be served.  One drink and no more!"

Jack went off dutifully.

Arriving on the veranda, where the air had grown soft and still, Jack
found Stephanie staring out at sea and Malva at table, pouring wine
into a glass.  They both turned at the sound of his footsteps.

Stephanie had been transformed from the sea urchin in the baggy,
oversize shorts and T-shirt to a woman of considerable elegance.  She
was wearing a white cotton halter-neck dress with a slim skirt.  Her
auburn hair was slicked back, exposing her neck.  He wasn't sure what
to make of her.

"Soap and water seems to agree with you," he said.  She reacted with
embarrassment.  "You, too."

"That dress looks like it was made for you, Stephanie."

"Hardly," she said, coloring.

"Really.  You look great."

"Thank you."  As she said it, she turned back toward the sea.

Jack was amused.  It was the reaction of a much younger woman.  Their
harrowing experience and the intimacy that resulted seemed to have
affected her a little more deeply than he'd first thought.  The
wariness and suspicion had been replaced by self-consciousness, and he
decided that was good.  At least things were moving in the right
direction.

Malva drifted over.  She had a sherry in one hand, which she gave to
Stephanie.  In the other was a tumbler half filled with a tea-colored
liquid and a couple of ice cubes, which she extended to him.  "Your
scotch, Captain."

Jack took it' staring down at the roiling liquid, a mini panic
gathering in his gut.  He could picture himself muttering, "Cheers,"
and downing a hearty gulp without so much as another thought.  Aware
they were both watching, he sloshed the scotch around in the glass, his
arm aching with indecision.  Then he impulsively thrust the tumbler
back into Malva's hand.  "I don't think I want a drink tonight," he
said.

"Lordy," Malva said, blinking, "what's the world coming to?  Never
known you to turn down a scotch, Jackie."

"Life is full of surprises," he said' his eyes sliding over to
Stephanie.

There was an awkward silence, then Malva said' "Why is it that a man
who hardly shaves always cuts himself?"  Wetting her finger, she rubbed
a spot of blood from the corner of his mouth.  After a tense moment
with Stephanie watching, Malva went back over to the table.

Stephanie fingered the stem of her sherry glass.  "So," he said, "I
take it you're all settled in."

"Yes.  Malva's been very gracious."  He subtly checked out her body,
still struck by how she'd transformed herself and how that had
apparently helped her regain her confidence.  She seemed aware of his
regard, reacting more with equanimity than embarrassment.  Malva
returned with a small tray of canapes.

Stephanie took an hors d'oeuvres, popping it into her mouth.  Jack did
the same.  Then she snatched another.

"I'm famished," she said.  "I must have had five of these before you
got here."

"You haven't exactly been treated to gourmet meals," he said. "Actually
you didn't eat much at all."

"I'm making up for it now."

"Guess I'll go inside and talk to the volcano in the kitchen," Malva
said.  "Finish your sherry then come on in."

"We'll be right there," Jack said, his eyes on Stephanie.

Malva withdrew.  Stephanie sipped her drink, looking at him over the
rim of the glass.

"Well, here we are," she said.  "You told me you'd bring me to safety
and you have.  I'm in your debt, Jack."

"You paid me well and saved my life along the way.  I'd say we're even,
or maybe I still owe you."

"I don't think we need to talk in those terms.  As I said, all's well
that ends well."

"You're safe for the moment, but you're not completely out of the
woods," he said.

"Yes, I know.  I guess I need to take a few breaths before I start
worrying about that."

He nodded, sensing a noticeable shift in attitude toward him.  She
probably felt safer now and didn't feel the need to be defensive.  But
it was too soon to tell just how friendly things were going to be.
There was no need to rush things, though, and anyway he judged her to
be a woman who wasn't easily rushed.

"You were afraid of me when you first came aboard the Lucky Lady,
weren't you?"  he asked, probing.

"Jack, I hardly had time to be afraid of you.  In a way, you were the
least of my worries."

"Well, I hope you feel better about me now."

"Of course I do.  You've proven yourself under fire, if that's the
right phrase."  She again sipped her sherry.

"Relationships are strengthened through adversity," he said.

"Friendships are."

He smiled.  "Am I pushing a little hard?"

"Are you pushing, Jack?"

"I guess I'm curious what you're like in a state of normalcy."

"Even this isn't me, I assure you."

"What is you, then?"

She took a moment to think about that, crossing her arms, her glass in
one hand.  She seemed aware of his scrutiny, even as she pondered the
question.  "You know, for the first time in my life, I have no
automatic answer.  I'm not the person I was three or four days ago,
that much is certain.," Her brow furrowed.  "What an odd problem to
have, not knowing who and what I am, I mean, I know who I was, but I
can't exactly be that person again."

"Are you saying you can't go home?"

Again she thought.  "I suppose I am... at least at some level.  Because
even though I'd like to say, 'of course I could go home," I seem to
have trouble with the words."

"Maybe because you don't want to."

She nodded.  "I don't want to be the person, the twit, I was before,
that's for sure."

He studied her.  "I'd say you've had a transforming experience,
Stephanie."

She laughed.  "Is that what you'd call it?"  Her mood darkened.  "Well,
my husband and sister were killed before my eyes.  My lawyer was
murdered.  I was kidnapped and I've been through a hurricane on a
sailboat with..."

"A drunk with a questionable background."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"You didn't have to.  I did."

"You aren't a drunk, Jack."  There was more hopefulness than conviction
in her voice.

"I'm trying not to be."

She processed that, seeming a bit troubled.  He was sorry now he'd
brought it up.  But then, why hide from the truth?  If Jack had learned
anything in this life, it was not to fear the truth.

Stephanie continued to struggle.  But after a few moments, she let go
and went on.  "Anyway, I've been through all that in a matter of just a
few days," she said.  "So, yes, I guess I have had a transforming
experience."

"How have you changed?"

"My, you do want to make a point of this, don't you?"

"Don't answer if you don't want to."

She looked off, twisting her body back and forth as though the question
made her uncomfortable.  "It's probably terrible of me to say this,
Jack, but you know how I feel?  I feel free."

"Free?"

"Yes, and it's not just because Jean Claud's dead.  At the purely human
level, I'm still traumatized by his death, but you know what?  This
experience has opened my eyes to the fact that I have been living my
life in a cage--one of my own making to a certain degree, but still a
cage."

"Interesting."

"I must sound like I'm nuts," she said.  "Or at least totally
insensitive."

"Not at all, Stephanie, I empathise with you."

"Jack, how can you?  My life is... was so alien from yours.  Do you
have any idea, for example, how bizarre it is that I'm here, in this
place, standing here talking to you?  If Jean Claud hadn't... well,
let's just say I could be at Stanford right now, this very minute,
attending an association executive-committee meeting or something of
the kind.  I've never even fantasized about having an adventure like
this.  If my mind wandered at all at a meeting, it would be to wonder
what I needed to pick up at the supermarket on my way home."

"But now you're free."

"And feeling a little guilty about it.  I don't want to seem completely
heartless."

"Speaking purely for myself, I'm glad you're here and sorry you feel
guilty."

She contemplated him a bit warily.  He had pushed, a bit too hard, he
realized, and he told himself to slow down.

Jack gave her his most innocent smile.  Stephanie smiled back,
seemingly uncomfortable with the energy flowing between them.  She
finished the last of her sherry.

"So," she said, "Malva seems quite fond of you.  You must be good
friends."

"In a way she's like a sister."

"Sister, Jack?"

Her meaning was obvious from the way she said it.  She'd obviously made
up her mind about him, and even if there was some attraction there,
nothing he could do would convince her she was mistaken.

Glancing over at the scotch on the table, he yearned to gulp it down.
Funny how that worked.  The least bit of stress and the first thing he
thought about was having a drink.

He turned his attention back to Stephanie, watching her push a wisp of
hair off her cheek.  The gesture moved him.  He thought of the way
they'd embraced on the boat and he wanted to touch her again, even
knowing she wouldn't be receptive.  There was something about this
woman.... "Hey, you two, dinner."  It was Malva at the door, sleek and
cool.

"Oh, good," Stephanie said, "I could eat a horse."

She put her empty sherry glass on the table and, with only the briefest
glance at him, went off.  He followed along behind, watching her body
move beneath her dress.  Malva pointed her toward the dining room, then
slipped a note in Jack's hand, arching an eyebrow as she did.

He stopped to look at it, having difficulty reading in the dim light.
Malva had written:

Sonia wants you to call.  It's urgent.

When Stephanie saw that she and Jack were going to be dining alone, she
urged Malva to join them.

"I've got an early morning," Malva said.  "Mr.  Lovejoy calls on
Sundays from his home in Cornwall before he heads back to London.  It's
usually around seven here when he does.  Besides, three's a crowd.  I'm
sure Jackie will keep you entertained."

Her sly look at Jack made Stephanie wonder.

Malva went to the sideboard, took the open bottle of wine and poured
some for Stephanie.  Then she went to the other end of the table where
Jack put his hand over his glass.  "So," she said, "found yourself a
reason to quit, have you?"

"Why, Malva, you know I'm a responsible man."

She laughed.  "You're full of shit, Jackie, that's what you are."
Putting a hand on his shoulder, she said' "You two enjoy your supper."
She tousled Jack's hair, then withdrew.

Stephanie observed the interplay, knowing there was history there,
probably more than Jack had admitted to.  He regarded her and she
regarded him.

Stephanie picked up her wineglass and took a sip.  Then she glanced
around.  The room had an English feel, with an antique sideboard and a
series of staid looking oils, mostly on the theme of hunting.  It was
so traditional compared to the rest of the house that she had a feeling
it was Nigel Lovejoy's joke, a tongue-in-cheek shot of humor.  When she
turned her attention back to Jack, she found him stroking his chin.

"I think I need to explain something about Malva," he said

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."  He peered at her from the other end of the table which
was large enough to seat twenty.  "I met her in a bar in Frenchtown not
long after I arrived in St.  Thomas.  I was drunk and got cheeky with a
couple of big bruisers who didn't much like my mouth.  Malva dragged me
from harm's way before I got sliced up and fed to the fish."

Stephanie sipped her wine again.  "I see.  So, she saved your life and
you've been dear friends ever since," she said.  "Kind of a recurring
theme in your life, isn't it, Jack?"

He grinned as if to say he'd caught her.  "Are you suggesting that we,
too, can become dear friends?"

"Well, friends perhaps, but not dear friends."

"Malva and I were never lovers," he said.  "The main reason Malva and I
are close," he said, "is because I was once engaged to her cousin.  She
and Alicia were like sisters.  Alicia worshiped her..."  His voice
dissolved on the last words and trailed off.

His sudden emotion took Stephanie by surprise.  Questions immediately
came to mind, but before she could ask them Tess entered with the soup
tureen, grumbling under her breath, her wooden smile half hidden
beneath her puffy cheeks.

"I hopes you enjoys it, missus," she said to Stephanie.

"It'll be about the only thing that ain't burned to leather or dried up
like a prune."

Stephanie was sorry for the interruption.  "I'm sure it will be
delightful."

Tess grunted and, after serving her, waddled to the other end of the
table where she ladled soup into Jack's bowl, saying only, "Enjoy,
Captain," before leaving the room.

Alone again, they were silent.  Stephanie couldn't tell if he was
thinking of her or the fiancee he'd mentioned.  She took a spoonful of
soup.

"So, what happened to Alicia?  I assume you never married her."

"No, she was killed in a diving accident a few weeks before the
wedding.  Alicia worked with me as a hand on the Lucky Lady.  We were a
team.  She cooked and helped with the sailing.  And she was a marvelous
diver.  Gave lessons.  Died trying to save some bastard who'd ignored
her instructions and went way too deep.  It was so unnecessary."

He'd spoken in a quiet, matter-of-fact manner, but she could see it was
painful for him to talk about.  And having heard his story, she
realized his attitude toward women was probably more complicated than
she'd thought.  Pain had to figure into it as prominently as
selfishness.

"I loved Alicia very much," he went on, his voice thick with emotion.
"She was my salvation in more ways than one.  When I lost her, I felt
as though I'd lost my life."  He gathered himself, then said, "I'm
ashamed to say I've used that as an excuse for some of the mistakes
I've made since.  It's not a pretty picture, I know, but it's true."

She fingered her wineglass.  "It takes courage to admit it' Jack.
Courage most people lack."

"Thank you for saying so, but I can live with the reality of who I am
and what I've done."

She ate some more soup.  "Out of curiosity, why did you tell me about
Alicia?"

"Compulsive honesty, I guess.  That and the fact that I don't like
surprises--getting or giving them."

"That, too, is commendable."

He smiled.  "You're just bubbling over with compliments this evening,
aren't you?"

"Compulsive flattery," she quipped.

They fell into silence.  Stephanie realized she wanted to do a little
soul-baring of her own.  After gathering her courage, she said, "My
main tragedy is my daughter.  We lost her in an automobile accident
just over a year ago.  She was home from college for the summer, and
went out riding with a friend.  Their car went off the road and rolled
down an embankment..."  Her voice trailed off as the image came into
her mind.  "Zanny was my life in many ways."

Emotion that had been pent-up for a long time flooded her.  Tears came
to her eyes and she wanted to cry.  It was only then that she realized
she hadn't had a good cry since that night in the motel in San Rafael.
She'd been like a student during finals week, running on caffeine and
Benzedrine.  But, through everything, her daughter was always with her.
No matter what happened in her life, Suzanne would always be there in
her heart.  Stephanie wiped her eyes with her napkin, chastising
herself for having gotten so emotional.

"The picture of the little girl in your purse.  Is that your daughter?"
he asked.

"Yes, Zanny at ten.  She wasn't quite twenty when she died," Stephanie
said.

Jack looked up the table at her, his face filled with compassion.
Perhaps he was thinking of his own loss as well as hers.  Tragedy was
one thing they seemed to have in common.

She recalled that moment of affection that they'd shared aboard the
Lucky Lady.  He'd held her.  The embrace hadn't been threatening
because it was borne of pain and fear and need--some of the same
emotions she was feeling now.

After a few minutes Tess mercifully arrived to clear their soup bowls.
She served a whitefish in wine sauce, then withdrew.

Stephanie searched for a topic of conversation, realizing a change of
mood was called for.  "I suppose since I'm eating at Mr.  Lovejoy's
table and drinking his wine, I should know something about him," she
said.  "I believe you said he chartered your boat."

"Nigel financed the purchase of the Lucky Lady, actually.  When we met
I owned a smaller boat, which I sailed when I was still in real estate.
Nigel sort of set me up in the charter business, you might say. That's
how it started.  Obviously, we've been good friends ever since."

"What exactly does he do, anyway?"

"Nigel owns an advertising firm in London.  Plus he's got offices in
New York, Paris and Rome.  He's a pretty big player in the
multinational arena, but Nigel's smart enough to delegate
responsibility.  Makes sure he gets in plenty of leisure time.  I don't
think he'd be offended if I described him as a sixty-year-old English
playboy who likes his wine, his girls and his good times.  This island
is his playpen, the site of many a wild bacchanalia, as he calls
them."

"You paint a colorful picture."

"Believe me, Nigel is determined to go through this life wringing out
every bit of pleasure possible.  He's a self-proclaimed hedonist and
leaves no stone unturned 'when," as he says, 'in pursuit of a good
time."

"That could almost describe you, Jack."

"If you believe that, you don't know me."

She realized he wasn't being glib--he meant it.  And from his
perspective, that was probably true.  She was beginning to see that, to
Jack, partying was a refuge, not a goal.  His real battle was with life
itself.  In fact, there'd been a moment during the storm, when he'd
been washed overboard and she was hanging on to him, trying to pull him
back onto the boat, when she'd seen a look in his eyes that said he
wasn't certain if he wanted to live or die.  At first, it seemed he'd
elected to die, but then she'd screamed at him to fight.  And he did.

"Why aren't you drinking tonight?"  she asked.

He took a careful bite of fish.  "Doctor's orders."

"Then you weren't being flip earlier."

"It's only been recently that I've thought of myself as having a
drinking problem.  But then, I guess that's the pattern Let's just say,
I'm trying life without it for a while."

"I hesitate to compliment you," she said.

"Oh, go ahead"' he said, giving her a crooked smile.

"There's a lot about you to like."

"Thank you, but why the warm fuzzies?"

Stephanie considered the question.  "I don't know."

"I guess I'm feeling the same things," he said.  "Maybe we want what
happened between us during the storm to mean something."

"Now that's a frightening thought," she said, drinking some wine.

"Maybe I stated it a little too strongly."

"Why can't we just say we're friends and leave it at that?"  She cut
her fish and took a bite.

"That old demon, fear."

"I like you, Jack.  You're attractive and you know it.  That's a
dangerous combination.  Worse, I'm sort of stuck with you.  That gives
you an unfair advantage."

He put down his fork and pushed his plate away.  "You haven't been hurt
by it yet.  Or are you saying you're afraid I might seduce you?"

She colored, astounded that he'd actually said it.  "You have a lot of
gall, you know that?"

He laughed.  "You get the bad with the good, sweetheart.  That's the
way life works."

Stephanie wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended.  Was this a
seduction?  she wondered.  Of course, she could simply tell him to go
to hell, but she didn't want to do that because, for the moment, she
needed him.  Maybe the thing to do was treat it like a game.  She
sensed that was what he was doing.

Before she could conjure up a retort, Tess entered the room with a
conch souffle, which she served without speaking.  Stephanie lavished
compliments on her for the fish.  Tess accepted them with equanimity.
After the woman left the room, Stephanie picked up her spoon.  For a
minute or two she and Jack ate, their interrupted conversation hanging
over them.

"Tell me," she said, opening the discussion again, "does it go like
this with most of your women?  This coy, titillating banter, I mean."

He repressed a smile.  "No, every relationship is unique.  But surely
you know that from your own experience."

"You want honesty?  I'll give you honesty, Jack.  I was married for
over twenty years and I was never with any man besides my husband."

"You're kidding."

"But there must have been men before him."

He was hinting at a question that her own sister never dared to ask.
Apart from Leslie, no one had ever gotten the story of her sexual
history from her.  Maybe because she felt defensive about it.  Her sex
life wasn't exactly something worthy of glorification--not considering
it was more a source of embarrassment than anything else.  And yet,
Jack's off-hand comment almost compelled a response.

"Just one," she said after a brief hesitation.  "My freshman year of
college.  I figured I needed to have sex and get it over with, as a
sort of last step into adulthood.  It was in a motel after a fraternity
party.  We'd both had a lot to drink.  The part I remember best was the
discomfort and getting sick."

"My condolences."

"Thank you."

Jack fell silent.  They ate for a while, the incomplete conversation
still dangling, the pressure in her building.

"So, are you surprised by my sexual history?"  she blurted, hardly
giving her words a thought.  "Or did you have me pegged the moment you
saw me?"

Jack rubbed his jaw as though the question were a difficult one.
"Naturally, one can never be sure without a little .. . hands-on
experience, shall we say... but you definitely didn't strike me as a
libertine."

"That's safe enough," she said, coloring.

"I could tell you were uncomfortable with me," he said.  "And with your
own feelings."

Her heart began to beat harder as she stared up the table at him.  The
topic was not only an intimate one, but the conversation itself had
turned highly personal.  Incredibly, though, she felt drawn right into
it.  "I saw you making love with the girl," she ventured.

Jack was only moderately surprised.  "How did you feel about that?"

Stephanie was surprised he would ask such a question, much less believe
she would answer honestly.  But she decided to do just that.  "I was
jealous," she said bravely.

Jack smiled.  "That's nice.  Refreshing to hear."

"Don't gloat."

"I'm not.  I like candor in a person."

"Don't make too much of it," she said.  "It wasn't you personally. It's
more a commentary on my life."

"Now there's a subject."

"One I'd rather not get into, thank you."  She took a sip of wine.
Despite her brave words, she was seized by the urge to jump right back
into the conversation.  Thinking this might be an opportunity to ask
him a question that had been niggling at her, she plunged ahead.  "But
if you don't mind, I would like your opinion about something.  That man
who kidnapped me, Oscar Barbadillo, said something that shocked me.  He
said he could tell my husband didn't understand my needs.  He said I'd
never been with a real man.  And he... well, volunteered his services.
It was as though he didn't need to do any more than look at me to know.
Is that possible?"

"Some guys have a special sense about things like that.  Male
intuition, I guess."

"I hate to think I'm that transparent."

"There's not a lot of pretense in you, Stephanie.  You're as innocent
as you appear.  Even I can see that."

"Oh, God," she said, lowering her face into her hands.  Could she
actually be having this conversation--telling Jack about her sexual
frustrations and insecurities?  It took courage for her to look up at
him, but she finally did.  "I think maybe I've had too much to
drink."

Tess came to clear the dishes.  And not a minute too soon.

"Y'all want some coffee?"  she asked.

Stephanie said she did.  Tess made her way to the other end of the
table.  "Captain?"

"None for me, thank you, Tess."  He got up.  "But there is something I
have to do.  If you'll excuse me for a minute, Stephanie, I need to
make a call."

He went off without further explanation, leaving her to wonder who he
was phoning.  Could it have anything to do with her?  Was he selling
her out?  But if that were the case, why hadn't he simply turned her
over to them back at St.  John?  Unless he was haggling about the
price.

Waiting anxiously, she'd just about finished her coffee when Jack
returned.  His face contained no clue as to what had transpired.  She
wanted to ask him, but she'd already been outspoken enough that
evening.

Ironically, Jack looked especially appealing as he took his seat.
Innocent as could be.  If he had sold her down the river, he'd
disguised it well.  But was the bastard secretly gloating?  She hoped
not--for her own sake, sure, but also because of what it said about
him.

He looked at her, smiling as he draped his napkin across his lap.
"Coffee good?"

"Better for me than the wine."

"Don't try to undo our conversation," he said.  "It was a good, honest
one."

Jack, she could see, knew exactly what she was thinking.  She hoped to
God he wasn't like Oscar Barbadillo, reading her every thought.  No,
they were nothing alike.  She was just insecure.

"Then let's talk about you," she said.  "Everything all right at the
office?"

He gave her a thoughtful, appraising look.  "Maybe we should talk a
little business."

His tone gave her a sinking feeling.  It reminded her of Jean Claud
when he had something serious to discuss.  That steely directness
always sent an icy stab right through her.  She braced herself.  "Okay,
fine. What do you have in mind?"

"Why don't you tell me what you want to happen," he said.  "Best-case
scenario."

She saw no harm in being dead honest.  "I want to go home," she said.
"which probably means going to somebody like the FBI--assuming
Inter-America Ventures hasn't bribed them, too."

"Inter-America Ventures..."

"The bad guys."

Jack nodded.  "Well, if you want to return to the States, that means
getting you to an airport.  The trouble is, it has to be one far enough
away that it isn't under surveillance by your friends.  The
international airport in the British Virgins is on Beef Island, which
is only hours from here, but I have reason to believe it's being
watched.  There are other possibilities farther afield that may be
safer, but there are obstacles to them, as well.  The major
requirements would be time, money and a passport."

"That's another problem," she said, suddenly weary.  "Unless you take
American Express, I don't have any cash left, at least with me.  I've
got nineteen hundred in traveler's checks in my purse, and I owe you
seven thousand."

He considered that.  "I'm sure you're good for it, Stephanie.  You can
send me a check when you get home."

"That's very trusting."

He smiled.  "I'm the one with the criminal record, not you."  She
thought how different he was from the man who'd staggered up onto the
deck of the Lucky Lady the previous day, wearing little more than a
pair of shorts and a cigar.

"The irony is, I can't be sure what I'll be facing when I get home,"
she said.  "The police will want to know what I've been doing and why.
Which is only reasonable since I've been wondering the same thing
myself."

"Well, if you decide to run off to South America instead, you're going
to need more than nineteen hundred dollars."

"I have more, actually," she said.  "It's just not with me.  I've got
fourteen thousand dollars in cash and traveler's checks back in St.
Thomas.  If I could put my hands on it, I could pay you to get me out
of here and still have a dime left to call a lawyer if I end up needing
one."

He seemed to like her attempt at humor.  "What are you saying?  That
you want to go back to St.  Thomas and get the money?"

"Hardly.  Not considering what we went through to escape.  Besides, in
the greater scheme of things, fourteen thousand isn't much.  I can
always send somebody for it later."

"Then what do you propose?"

Stephanie contemplated him, deciding in the end to say what was on her
mind.  "Mind if I first ask who you called?"

"No, I spoke with my friend, Sonia, in St.  Thomas to get an update."

"And?"

"I was told they're still looking for you and plan to intensify the
search.  There's been no change that would affect a return to the
States."

His tone sounded honest, but she had no way of knowing whether what he
said was the truth.  They were at a crossroads.  She anguished over
telling him about the disks.  She wanted to trust him, but reason urged
caution.  Ultimately she had to rely on herself.  The days of being
taken care of by a man were over.

"So, what do you want to do?"  he asked again.

She chewed her lip, her insides in a knot.  Did she tell him about the
disks or didn't she?  "Promise you won't betray me, Jack," she finally
blurted.

"I won't betray you," he replied without hesitation.  "I promise."

She glanced toward each door.  "Could we go outside?  Maybe take a
little walk?"

"Sure."

They got up from the table.  At almost the same moment, Tess entered
the room with a couple of tarts and the coffeepot.

"Don' y'all want dessert?  More coffee, missus?"

"We're going to take a little walk first," Jack told her.  "Why don't
you leave it on the table and we'll have it when we come back?"

"If that's what you wants, Captain."

They left, Jack touching her waist with his warm hand as they passed
through the door.  They walked through the dimly lit entry hall,
Stephanie's heart beating uncertainly.  Jack had her totally confused,
her body and her mind going in different directions.

They went onto the veranda.  The air had cooled.  She stepped to the
edge where she faced the ocean breeze to gather herself.  Taking a deep
breath, Stephanie still wasn't sure whether to tell him about the
disks.  Jack put his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring way, but now
she found his touch unsettling.

She decided to plunge ahead.  "There's something else I've stashed away
in St.  Thomas besides my money," she said, giving him a sideward
glance.

"You mean your husband's computer disks?"

Stephanie was incredulous.  "You know about them?"  He nodded.

"Barbadillo announced that publicly?"

"No, they've informed me about them through my friend."

"What do you mean, 'informed' you?"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Stephanie," he said' "but the
price on your head has gone up to a quarter of a million dollars."

Her mouth sagged open.  "A quarter of a million?"

"Right.  But that's for the package--you and the disks."

"My God."  She searched his eyes in the moonlight, trying to comprehend
what he was really saying.  Was it that the bounty was too tempting or
that their friendship had no price?

Then she understood.  Jack had her, but he didn't have the disks.  "So,
what are you going to do?"

He shrugged indifferently.  "Me?  Nothing."

It occurred to her then that there was nothing he could do, unless it
was to beat information about the disks out of her.  She was seized
with uncertainty.  What was Jack's angle?  Was he trying to lull her
into a sense of complacency?  What a stupid question.  They were
talking about a quarter of a million dollars.  of course he was!

"You seem troubled," he said.

"Jack, how long have you known about the disks?"

"Since I made that call from St.  John."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"We were about to make that crossing in the storm.  I didn't think you
needed another reason to worry."

"Or to doubt you?"

"Maybe that, too," he said.

"Why tell me now?"

"Because we're talking about what you're going to do.  And you were
about to bring it up yourself, anyway."

"You could have played dumb."

"Not a guy who's compulsively honest."

She couldn't help smiling.  He either was honest, or the smoothest con
man she'd ever met-which wasn't much of a contest, of course.  He was
the only con man she'd ever known.

Jack surprised her then by reaching out and caressing her cheek.
"You're thinking about that guy selling swampland from out of the back
of a Cadillac, aren't you?"

She blinked.  "You do read minds, Jack."

"In your shoes, I'd think about that.  Anybody would."

Stephanie took a deep breath.  They'd come to the moment of truth, this
one turning on the question of trust.  The best course, she decided,
was to proceed cautiously, but to appear open and forthcoming.  Jack
would eventually tip his hand.  All she had to do was watch and listen
carefully.

"So, did Inter-America tell you why they want the disks?"  she asked.

He shook his head.  "I think you'd know the answer to that better
than

I."

"Obviously they want the twenty million they invested with Jean Claud.
They're probably counting on getting it out of a company that's being
sold to the public in a few weeks, an account called Halcyon
Technologies."

"Does that explain why they'd want your husband's com files

She shrugged.  "If so, I don't know why."

"Maybe they don't know about the sale and are trying to find out where
their money is."

Stephanie considered that.  "That's possible, but I have a feeling
they're after something more specific.  Barbadillo [hadn't questioned
me long before I managed to escape, but the feeling I had was that he
thought I could tell them how to get their money."

"Could they expect you to make good on your husband's obligations?
Won't you be in control of his business once his affairs are
settled?"

"I'm not sure.  Jean Claud never discussed things like that.  But I do
know he'd set up a secret fund with Inter-America's money.  I think he
must have been laundering it for them, which means it would have been
under the table.  I doubt their money would show up in an audit of Jean
Claud's assets."

She glanced at Jack, who seemed to be pondering what he'd said.  She
could smell his cologne mixed with the sweet scent of flowering vines
and felt a sudden vulnerability.

"It could be that they know that," he said after a while.  "Your
husband must have put their money in an account he controlled, probably
disbursing the proceeds through an offshore bank.  My partner and I ran
a scheme like that in Florida.  Only we weren't laundering.  We were
saving our investors tax money and saving ourselves a little, as
well."

"Is that one of the reasons you went to jail?"

Jack smiled.  "No, if they'd caught us at that, I might still be behind
bars."

"That certainly inspires confidence," she said with a touch of irony.

"Need I remind you, Mrs.  Reymond, that you married a man who did
business with people desperate enough to kill him?  I, on the other
hand, am retired from a life of crime.  At present, I'm a simple boat
driver."

He put his arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her against him.
It was a brazen move in light of their conversation, but she didn't
object.

"Let's walk a little," he said.

She was wary, but found herself saying, "Sure," just the same.

Jack took her hand and helped her down the steps, keeping hold of her
fingers as they walked.  The path of crushed white rock shone
distinctly in the moonlight.  How long had it been, she wondered, since
she'd walked hand in hand with someone other than her child?

"As for your friends at Inter-America," Jack said, his tone reasonable,
patient, "my theory is they're convinced the key to getting the funds
is on those disks."

"I looked at them briefly," she said, "and I didn't see anything to
indicate how the money would be distributed from the Halcyon sale.  Of
course, I wasn't as interested in that as much as what Jean Claud had
done with my own money.

"What do you mean?"

"My inheritance is in that company right along with Inter-America's."

"Which means you two are fighting for the same bone."

"It's more like I'm running and they're chasing me, thinking I have
it."

"But in fact you buried it."

"In a manner of speaking."

Jack folded her hand over his arm as they followed the path, which had
taken them around the house and down toward the sea on the back side of
the island.  The vegetation was dense and it was darker, the moon
scarcely visible through the trees.

"I guess what this is boiling down to is whether the disks contain the
secret to accessing the funds," he said.  "Your friends obviously think
so.  They're betting a quarter of a million on it."

"None of which tells me what to do."

"You have several options," he told her.

"Such as..."

"Well, I could go back to St.  Thomas and get the disks for you, but
you'd be reluctant to agree to that because I could take them to
Barbadillo, tell him where you are and collect a cool quarter of a
million."

"But, of course, you wouldn't do that because you're an honorable man
and you're my friend."

"True, but you'd be a fool to count on that.  I certainly wouldn't in
your shoes."

"Why?  Because you know yourself better than I do?"

"Because it wouldn't be a smart move, Stephanie.  I'm trying to look at
this practically, not cajole you into doing something stupid."

She could sense this was leading somewhere.  "There must be another
option you'd recommend, then."

"I may still be your best bet," he said.  "But I think the key is for
you to find a way to ensure my loyalty."

"And the best way to do that is..."

"To appeal to my entrepreneurial instincts," he replied.  "In other
words, if I were you, I'd make me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Like what?"

"Like a significant piece of the action.  Right now, I'm a
five-thousand-dollar partner in what could be a thirty-million-dollar
deal.  I have options, however.  I might be able to pick up a quarter
of a million by getting in bed with Barbadillo, or I could make a
better deal with you."

Stephanie's hand dropped from his arm and she stopped walking.  Jack
turned to face her.  It was so dark that she could barely make out his
features, but she searched them just the same.  "Jack, you're
blackmailing me."

"No, that's not it at all.  An honorable man does not blackmail his
friends."

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better," she said sarcastically "So, what
d() you call it?"

"Look, Stephanie, I'll be blunt.  Right now you've got a hundred
percent of nothing.  Wouldn't eighty percent of several million be
better?  if you can take on a partner who'll help you get the result
you're after, why cling to a losing strategy?"

"You're saying you want twenty percent of my inheritance."

"Twenty percent of what you're able to get out of Halcyon assuming I'm
instrumental in making it happen.  That's a reasonable condition and
I'll honor it."

"Why should I pay you, if I can wait until Jean Claud's estate is
settled and get a hundred percent of what I'm legally entitled to?"

"Didn't you say he'd probably hidden most of the money and it wouldn't
turn up in an audit?"

"Who knows what he did?"  she said, realizing that was probably true.

Jack reached out and took her by the shoulders, signaling his
determination.  "If you can get your money through legal channels,
fine, but based on what you said, your husband would have that money
going into an account that's beyond the reach of the courts, creditors,
tax authorities, friends, enemies, wives..  you name it.  What I'm
saying is, you may well have to resort to extralegal means to recover
your money."

"And who better to turn to than an experienced criminal?"

"I'll overlook that and consider it a negotiating ploy," he said,
dropping his hands from her shoulders.

Stephanie sighed.  "It was bitchy.  I'm sorry."

"Don't sweat it, Stephanie.  We're talking big bucks.  I understand
you're uptight about this Hell, so am I."

She fell into a reflective silence.  Jack was certainly willing to lay
things on the line.  He didn't lack for courage.  Or was it gall?

The honest truth was she didn't know what to make of him anymore.  He'd
known about the disks since St.  John, and he'd been wooing her ever
since.  Sure, he was her protector, but Jack Kidwell was a knight in
shining armor who knew an angle when he saw one.

Stephanie shivered, rubbing her arms as the night sounds seemed to grow
louder.  A high-pitched chirping came at them from all directions.  She
glanced around at the darkness.  "Are those crickets?"

"Frogs."

She shivered again.  "At least you didn't say snakes."

Jack laughed.  Then he stepped over, put his arm around her waist.
"Come on," he said, drawing her along the path.  "It's only a few more
yards to the nicest beach on the island."

Another minute of walking and the sound of surf grew more pronounced.
They came out of the trees and onto an open beach, brightly lit by the
moon.  Jack's arm fell away and Stephanie walked onto the sand, letting
the ocean breeze caress her.  Jack had gone to a small lean-to nearby
where several lounge chairs were stacked.  He carried a couple over to
where she waited.

"Here, might as well be comfortable," he said, arranging the chairs
side by side.

They sat and watched the gentle waves rolling onto the beach.  Jack
seemed content.  Stephanie thought over their conversation and wondered
if she wasn't being set up.  This whole thing might be an elaborate
scheme to get her to tell him where the disks were.  Even his comment
that she'd be foolish to tell him could have been calculated to get her
to do that very thing.  Even his offer of partnership might have been a
sham--anything to throw her off balance.  Now she was more confused
than ever.

Jack spoke.  "Do you have any idea what the usual arrangements were
when your husband disbursed the proceeds from a public sale of
stock?"

More probing.  But was it for himself or for them?  she wondered.

"Only a general idea," she replied after a moment.  "Jean Claud's
investment bankers would deposit money coming out of an initial public
offering into a trust account in the name of his venture capital firm.
From there it was distributed to the investors.  But I don't know
anything about the accounts, who had signature power or anything like
that."

"Do you know the name of the investment banking firm?"

"Yes, it was Meriwether & Handley in San Francisco."

"Do you know the principals?"

She thought for a moment, then decided there was no harm in telling
him.  "I know Tom Handley.  We saw him and his wife socially.  Tom and
Jean Claud were close."

"I wonder if you could get any information about the procedure from
him," Jack said.

She rolled her head along the back of the chair to look at him.
"There's a problem with that.  I'm sure Tom, like the rest of the
world, thinks I'm dead.  A call from me would be a bit of a surprise,
don't you think?"

"Hmm," Jack said, stroking his chin.  "Well, what if I called him,
posing as your executor or lawyer or something, and pretended I was
organizing your estate and needed information on your assets?"

"I suppose that would be possible.  But I don't see what good it would
do."

"You never can tell what might turn up in conversation.  People like to
show off their insider status, and you sometimes can learn from what
they refuse to say."

"You really do have a criminal mind."

He chuckled.  "Yes, I guess I do.  But there is honor among thieves,
you know."

She could see how he might have become a millionaire at a young age.
All Jack Kidwell seemed to need was a cause that got him excited.  A
thirty-million-dollar public offering had apparently done the trick.

"So, what do you think?"  he said.  "Shall we see what we can learn?"

Playing along with him seemed the safest course.  "Fine," she said. 
"If you want to, do it."

"It'll have to wait until Monday to call Handley."

"You think we'll still be alive and well by Monday?"

He reached over and put his hand on hers.  "I hope so, sweetheart.
Because if we aren't, we went through a hell of a lot for nothing."

Stephanie didn't want to think it was true, but she realized then that
Jack might have endured that storm for thirty million dollars, not her.
And the funny thing was, she couldn't be sure of his true intentions
until it was too late.  But she had a decision to make.  Jack had an
offer on the table from her enemies.  Did she try to buy his loyalty,
or tell him to take a hike?  Either course could lead to disaster.  But
she couldn't see any middle ground.

The wind rose a little.  It felt so delicious Stephanie had trouble
believing she was in danger.  Why couldn't this be innocent?  Why
couldn't Jack Kidwell be attracted to her and not her money?  How nice
it would be if she'd simply come to the Caribbean to rest and renew
herself as planned, and in the process met a man who was willing to
help her out of her shell.

Sighing, she thought of a time a few months ago, one of those rare
summer evenings in the Bay Area when the cooling ocean fog didn't come
rushing in the Golden Gate as usual, and the temperature stayed in the
eighties well past midnight.  Jean Claud had been away on a business
trip, and she'd gone out back around ten o'clock and gotten into their
spa with nothing but a glass of Chardonnay for company.  The water had
been so sensuous she'd taken off her suit and let the streaming jets of
water caress her.  She remembered thinking how nice it would have been
to have someone with her who she loved, someone who loved her.  The
saddest part had been that she hadn't been able to come up with a
single candidate, not even one from her imagination.  That's how alone
she was.

"How about a swim?"  Jack asked suddenly.

"Now?"

"Sure.  The water's as warm as a bathtub.  You'll never find a more
isolated spot for a moonlight swim."

"I appreciate the invitation, but I don't think so," she said.

"What are you afraid of?  Me or the ocean?"

"I'm not afraid, I'm just not interested."

"There is nothing, absolutely nothing, as wonderful as swimming naked
in a tropical sea."

"I'll take your word for it."

"If it's modesty, I won't look at you.  On my honor as a gentleman."

She gave him a level look.  "Jack, why are you being so insistent?"

He shrugged.  "I don't see how you're going to trust me with thirty
million bucks if you can't trust me with your body."

"Ah," she said' seeing there was a point to this, after all "I don't
recall having entrusted you with my money just yet Besides, what does
one have to do with the other?"

"The point is building trust."

"I'm not going swimming with you, Jack, for the sake of trust or
anything else."

"To each his own."

Jack got up and removed his shirt.  Then he unbuckled his pants.
Stephanie realized he was going to strip right in front of her.  She
thought about leaving, but that would be priggish.  Why should she let
him scandalize her?  The hell with him.  If he wanted to take off his
clothes, let him.

She shut her eyes and lay back, doing her best to ignore him, focusing
on the air wafting over her body.  After a few moments she heard his
clothes being plunked down on his lounge chair and, when she opened her
eyes, she saw him sauntering toward the water, naked.  His buns showed
much whiter in the moonlight than the rest of his well-tanned body.  He
had a good physique, no longer the young Adonis he must have once been,
but muscular and in fine shape.

Reaching the water, Jack waded out until the waves reached his upper
thighs.  Then he dived in and began swimming.  Stephanie kept track of
him until he was perhaps eighty or a hundred yards out.  When he
stopped swimming and there was no more splashing, it was more difficult
to see him.  She lost sight of him for a time, but then picked him up
again, only to have him disappear in the obscurity.

Stephanie wondered what he was thinking.  Regardless of what his
intentions had been, he must think her a prude.  Damn it, she thought,
why didn't she have the gumption to prove she wasn't as repressed as he
thought?  Was she afraid of him?  Or afraid of the effect he might have
on her?

When she searched the dark sea again and couldn't find him, she figured
this might be an opportunity for her to take a quick swim.  It was one
way to prove she wasn't afraid, and she could be back and dressed
before he came ashore.

Getting to her feet, Stephanie started taking off her clothes.  Her
conservative side, her cautious, repressed side, screamed at her to
stop.  But she kept going and, when she was naked, she dashed toward
the surf, scouring the sea as she went.  Jack was nowhere to be seen.

Unlike him, she waded into the warm water.  He was right, it was
heaven.  Stephanie luxuriated in the sensation, walking slowly until
the water rose nearly to her chin.  Then she did the breaststroke,
keeping her eyes trained on the sea, vigilant for any sign of him.  if
she did spot Jack swimming back, she'd simply return to shore and dress
before he got there, not in a panic, but casually and with
confidence.

After ten minutes and no sign of Jack, Stephanie began to worry.  What
if he'd gotten a cramp?  He might be in trouble.  Walking backward
toward shore and out of the water where she'd have a better view of the
entire cove, she searched as far as she could see.  There was still no
sign of him.  Turning, she plodded to the beach, only to look up and
see Jack in his lounge chair, waiting for her.  Wearing a big grin, he
waved.

Stephanie was knee-deep in water and tried covering herself, knowing
she hadn't enough hands.  Turning to take refuge in deeper water, she
tripped and fell as a wave rolled in.  She came up sputtering.

"Would you at least be gentleman enough to turn around?"  she yelled at
him.

Jack dutifully got up from his chair.  He had on his trousers but no
shirt.  After turning the lounge chair around so that his back was to
her, he plopped down again.  Stephanie walked up the beach to her
chair, snatching her clothes.  She stood behind him.

"What a mean trick," she said through her teeth as she hastily slipped
on her panties and pulled her dress over her wet body.

"It wasn't a trick.  I didn't know you'd gone into the water until I
got back."

"How did you get here?"

"I swam to the point over there and walked around the beach.  I thought
you saw me."

"I didn't."

"Well, no harm done."

"Easy for you to say.  I didn't undress for your benefit.  It was to
swim.

"I knew you weren't trying to seduce me," he said, "if that's what
you're worried about."

Steaming, she stood in front of him and glared, her hands on her hips.
"You are a bastard, Jack Kidwell, an arrogant bastard!"

"Hey, aren't you blowing this thing out of proportion?  If you were
thirteen, I'd understand it.  Honest, Stephanie, I'm not that eager to
see you naked.  Besides, I already have."

That humiliated her even more, but it was the truth in what he was
saying that hurt most.

"Here, use my shirt to dry your face," he said, tossing it to her.

She wiped the saltwater from her eyes and dried her neck.  Then she
handed back his shirt.  "Thank you."

"Listen, I can understand how you'd be upset, thinking I'd played a
trick on you.  But I honestly didn't.  Embarrassing you is the last
thing I'd want to do."

His contrition made her feel guilty.  She could see she'd overreacted.
"You're right, Jack, no harm was done," she said, running her fingers
through her wet hair.

He sat upright, dropping his legs to either side of his chair.  Then,
reaching into his back pocket, he took out his comb.  "Here, sit down
and let me comb the tangles out of your hair."

She was about to decline but, having said no to every overture he'd
made, she decided maybe it was time to show a little courage.  Without
a word, she sat on the end of the lounge chair, between his legs.

Jack began combing her hair, being careful with the tangles.  It was a
surprisingly intimate gesture, and yet she didn't feel threatened. Jean
Claud had never done anything remotely like this.  The closest he'd
come was putting suntan lotion on her back.

Jack was making quite a production out of the ritual.  She couldn't
exactly feel his body heat, but knowing he was so close sent shivers
through her.  She thought about his comment of building trust and
wondered if that was what was going on.

He'd finished combing her hair and leaned close to her ear.  "I think
we'd make a great team, sweetheart," he said.  "And I'd like the
opportunity to prove it."

"You asking me to take you as a partner?"

"Yes."

Jack, she realized, was making his move.  His breath on her neck told
her it was a two-pronged assault--he was making a play for both her and
her money.  In her mind there was resistance, but not in her body--at
least not when he put his arms around her and cuddled her against his
chest.  She wasn't sure what to do, though she couldn't help tensing.
It was reflex.

"You cold?"  he asked, his voice disbelieving of another possibility.

"Maybe a little.  I was wet when I got dressed."

He moved his face closer until his warm cheek grazed her ear.  He was
hovering, threatening to kiss her.  Wary, she knew the thing to do was
stop him.  What he was trying to do was so transparent, and she knew
exactly what he was after.  The only thing she wasn't sure of was how
far he'd go.  Yet, oddly, she was equally torn between wanting him to
continue and wanting him to stop.  It was like waiting for a collision,
not willing it, but not preventing it, either.  Then, when his lips
grazed her neck, she drew a breath.  She didn't move, sitting very
still as he kissed her skin.  His mouth was warm and moist, making her
flesh tingle.  She tried to resist, but the sensation was too inviting,
too compelling.  Finally she turned to him, making her mouth available.
He kissed her and they sank back against the chair.

"Jack," she said, her protest getting no further than his name.

They kissed some more.  This was something she often imagined, but
never experienced--being in the arms of a stranger.  She watched as he
moved his hand over the plane of her stomach.  Things kept occurring
without her consent, like a game of Mother-May-I gone awry.  Jack was
in control and she made no attempt to assert herself.  It was a
self-destructive impulse, yet instead of being horrified, she was glad,
happy it was beyond her control.

Stephanie laid her head back on his shoulder, savoring the feel of his
body.  Above, the moon floated in the star-strewn sky, a silent
witness, the last vestiges of the storm forgotten.  Would it stop at
this?  she wondered.  Would it be enough to hold her and kiss her?

She didn't resist when he cupped her breast.  She felt as though she
were fifteen again, being touched for the first time.  And after a
couple of minutes she grew very excited.  Her breathing became erratic
and her heart started hammering.  Jack laid his hand on her mound and
she arched against it, turning her face to kiss him, allowing his
tongue to slide in the corner of her mouth.

This was so unlike her, she could hardly believe that she would be
doing this with the man she'd watched making love to that girl.
Realizing that he was touching her now, that it was her body that was
aroused, heightened her excitement.  Her nipples hardened and she
writhed against his hand.

She pulled up her skirt.  Jack slipped his finger under her panties and
drew it up to her moist center, making her cry out.  She gyrated
against his hand, drawing the sea air into her lungs in gasps, along
with the salty heat of his body.  She was amazed by how easily and
automatically it was happening.  It was as though her five years of
abstinence meant nothing.

"Oh, God," she moaned as she felt a climax building.  "Stephanie," he
murmured, kissing her more fervently.  She'd surrendered completely
now, giving herself to this man of the sea, of tropical nights, of
storms and sun and writhing naked bodies.  Jack was sex and fantasy,
lust and sin.

This was, she began to realize, something that had to be done, like
when she gotten drunk and given away her virginity.  She could not be
with this man and remain innocent.  The realization flew in the face of
everything she believed, the way she'd lived her life, but it was also
irrefutable.  From the moment she'd seen that girl writhing on Jack
Kidwell's body, Stephanie had known that she would have to experience
that same pleasure, know him in the same way.

She undulated against his hand, opening her legs wide.

Within moments she came, shuddering, pressing his hand hard against
her, unable to breathe, her body rigid, waiting for the storm to
pass.

In time it did, though her insides continued to throb.  Slowly her
muscles relaxed and she drifted back to reality.  Shame clamored in the
background.  And embarrassment.  This had been no fantasy, she
realized.  It was raw, unbridled sex.

Uncrossing her legs, she removed his hand.  Jack kissed her ear.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.  "I can't tell you how much I want
you."

She'd been oblivious to his desires until now.  He'd given her pleasure
and now he wanted his.  An odd, guilty panic started bubbling in her.
"What do you want, Jack?"  she asked, though she knew the answer.

"To make love with you."

She stopped his hands from roaming over her and held them against her
stomach.  "I know you've given me pleasure and now you want yours," she
murmured, "but I don't want to make love."

"Why not?"

How did she explain?  There wasn't an explanation that didn't sound
selfish, insensitive.  "I should have stopped you."

"Why?"

"Because it isn't fair that you aren't..  satisfied."

"Stephanie, I thought we were making love, not scratching each other's
libidos.  I don't have a score sheet and you shouldn't, either."

Pushing his hands away, she scooted to the end of the chair, then got
to her feet, pulling her skirt down before turning to face him.  She
was red-faced, utterly humiliated, grateful for the partial darkness.
Jack looked up at her, partly perplexed, partly annoyed.  She could see
it on his face.

"Did that offend you?"  he asked.

"Jack, I don't know what got into me.  I'm thoroughly embarrassed and
ashamed."

"Are you saying that for my benefit or for yours?"

"Please don't make this any harder than it is."

"I'm having trouble understanding the problem."

"Dear God," she said, bringing her hands to her face.  She wanted to
turn and run, but she was determined to salvage what dignity she could.
"Do you know how long I've known you?"

"Something over twenty-four hours."

"Yes, and I've been a widow for only a few days.  You know my sexual
history.  I'm..  traumatized by what I did--not what you did, what I
did."

"You think I think you're a slut?  Is that what you're saying?"

Stephanie abruptly turned away from him, crossing her arms over her
chest.  Tears came from nowhere and started rolling down her cheeks.
She bit her lip hard, trying not to sob.

"I'm sorry," he said, "that wasn't fair."

She shook her head.  "It wasn't your fault.  That's what I'm trying to
tell you.  I'm apologizing, Jack.  To you!"

She heard him climbing from the chair and she cringed, knowing he was
going to touch her.  He put his arms around her, and he felt so warm
and strong, she wanted all the more to cry.  Unable to help herself,
she sobbed a couple of times.

His lips were by her ear.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.  "I badly misread
you."

She wept more deeply, and he turned her around and held her tight
against his body.  She pressed her face into his neck, crying.  Jack
stroked her back.  She felt like a silly child.  "I just want to go
home," she said.  "I'm so tired."

"What you need is sleep.  We'll deal with your situation in the
morning."

She looked up at him, sniffling.  "Why are you being so understanding?
Men are supposed to hate this.  What I did was unfair.  Why aren't you
mad at me?"

He gave her a sad grin and wiped the tears off her cheeks with his
fingertip.  "I don't know, kiddo, maybe I'm just a nice guy."

Sunday

September 29th

Charlotte Amalie, St.  Thomas

Rico Behring had had a little too much Jamaican rum and woke up with a
hangover.  But with that hurricane blowing outside--even if it was only
the ass end--there hadn't been much to do except drink and fuck.  When
the morning sun came in the window, warming his face, he lifted his
head from the pillow and saw that the blonde was gone.  Then he heard
the sound of the shower.

Dragging himself from the bed, he went into the bathroom.  The place
was steamed up.  The hooker, whose name he couldn't remember to save
his soul, was singing softly as she soaped herself behind the frosted
glass door.  After relieving himself, Rico wrapped on the door with his
knuckles.

"Make it snappy, babe.  I've got work to do.  Time to go home."

"Yeah, sure," she said.

Rico returned to the bedroom and put on his robe.  Then he went into
the sitting room.  Oscar was lounging in an armchair, in a powder blue
sport coat, black shirt and trousers.  His legs were crossed and he had
a cigar in one hand.  He had that goddamn superior look on his face.
Oscar always looked superior.

"Morning, cousin," Oscar said.  "Sleep well?"

"Fuck you, Oscar."

He just smiled.

Rico couldn't look at him without remembering the way Oscar, who was
five years older, used to torment him when they were kids.  Once, when
his family had visited the Barbadillos in Florida, Oscar and his
friends took him out to the garage and made him take off his clothes so
the neighborhood girls could see his pecker.  It still rankled him'
after all these years.

"What's the matter," Oscar asked, "didn't the hooker give you a good
time?"

"She was a piece of ass," Rico replied dryly.  "What do you want for
finding her, a medal?"

"It wasn't easy coming up with a blonde with big tits on two hours'
notice, Rico.  Not in this place.  The locals have a corner on the
market, and they ain't blond."

"So you're a hero," he said, going to the table by the window where a
breakfast of juice, coffee and pastries was waiting.  Standing, he took
a slug of the orange juice, wincing when it hit his stomach.  He put
down the glass.  "So, have we got a line on the Reymond broad?"

No but we're looking," Oscar said, drawing on his cigar.  Jutting his
chin, he exhaled.  To Rico, he seemed to be saying, Fuck you."

"You damn well better find her," Rico said, dropping into one of the
chairs and pulling the robe over his bare leg.  He stared out the
window at the bay, filled, it seemed, with a million boats.  "I still
can't believe you fucking had her in your hands and let her get
away."

"Believe me, I'm as pissed about that as you are about blowing her
husband to pieces when he was the one with our money."

"Don't get on my case!"  Rico said, pointing his finger threateningly.
"I told them to scare the shit out of the sonovabitch.  I didn't tell
them to kill him!"

Barbadillo exhaled more smoke, a little smirk at the corner of his
mouth, as if to say he didn't believe it.

Rico was steamed.  If Oscar wasn't his goddamn cousin, he'd beat the
goddamn arrogance right out of him.  "Point is, none of that shit
matters if we can put our hands on the broad and the computer disks,"
Rico said.  "Where do things stand, anyway?  Update me."  "The planes
are out looking for her.  So far there's nothing, but they tell me
Kidwell can't hide a boat like that forever.  It's just a matter of
time."

"I hope so," Rico said.  "The old man is anxiously waiting to hear we
got this under control."

"Personally, I think our best shot is the boat jockey."

Rico perked up.  "Any word from him, yet?"

"His lady friend hasn't gotten back to me, but she said she would after
she talked to him.  It's still early."

"Any luck getting a line on her?  If Kidwell doesn't play ball with us,
it'd be nice to track him down and beat what we want out of him.  His
friend should be able to tell us where he's hiding if we can find her;
that is."

"Already working on that, Rico.  She's white, I figure, and speaks with
some kind of European accent.  How many women can there be in the
Virgin Islands who know Kidwell and fit that description?"

"if you locate her, I want to know about it," Rico said, pouring
himself some coffee.  "I'm not going to let another broad slip through
your fingers."

"Tell you what," Oscar said.  "I won't let her get away, if you don't
blow her to pieces.  Fair enough?"

"Fuck you, Oscar."

"Let's keep things in perspective, that's all I'm saying."

Rico tore off a chunk of pastry.  "You want to do something useful,"
Rico said, stuffing the pastry into his mouth, "find me a real woman. A
nice, classy Cuban broad.  You gotta know a hundred, Oscar.  Fly one in
from Miami, if you have to."

"I thought you were happily married, cousin.  Or has Rhonda stopped
giving you blow jobs?"

Rico flipped him off, smirking.  "You know what your trouble is, Oscar?
You spend so much time trying to get in their heads, you never get any
ass."

Oscar puffed on his cigar, grinning.  "The real pleasure of sex is in
the mind, Rico.  You do that and the body takes care of itself."

The door to the bedroom opened and the blonde stepped out.  Seeing
them, she froze momentarily.  Rico and Oscar both looked at her.  She'd
combed her hair and put on makeup, but her face was puffy.  The sizzle
was gone.  Rico realized what she reminded him of--a Christmas tree in
the middle of January.

"Oh, sorry," she said.  "Didn't mean to interrupt.  I'm going, okay?"

"Hold on, sugar," Rico said.  "I want to ask you something."

She had a wary look.  "What?"

"How was I last night?  Was I a stud or was I a schmuck, a putz?"

She frowned.  "Huh?"

"Scale of one to ten," Rico said.  "Was I good, or was I bad?"

"No, wait," Oscar interjected.  "That's not the right question.  Mind
if I rephrase it?"

Rico rolled his eyes.  "Sure, why not?  You're the expert."

"What's your name, honey?"  Oscar asked her.

"Shelly."

"Here's the thing, Shelly," he said.  "We're leaving this afternoon, so
there's not going to be any repeat business, but you can earn yourself
an easy hundred bucks right now."

She hesitated.  "Like how?"

Oscar took his money clip from his pocket and peeled off a
hundred-dollar bill.  "By telling us the God's truth, honest from the
heart."

"Like, what do you mean?"  Shelly asked, confused.  "Come here," Oscar
said.  "Come get the hundred."  She didn't move.

"It's okay," he said.

Shrugging, she clomped toward him in her four-inch heels and tight
little gold miniskirt.  Oscar handed her the bill.

"Now go on to the door," he told her.  She did as he asked.

"Here's the question," he said.  "As far as johns go, how was Rico last
night?"

She looked back and forth between them as though she figured she was
being set up for something.

"The honest truth," Oscar said.  "There's no right or wrong answer,
just tell me how he was."

Rico looked at him, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Well," she began cautiously, "he was... all right."

"Be more specific," Oscar said.  "Was he a great lover?  Did he blow
you away?"

She cleared her throat.  "He was... well, really into fucking me, I
guess."

"Meaning?"

"He was kinda rough."

"Kinda rough, huh?"

"Rougher than most guys, I'd say."

"Last question, Shelly," Oscar said.  "Say you're setting your little
sister up for her first trick.  You get to pick the john.  Scale of one
to ten, ten being the best.  What do you rate Rico, here?"

"My sister?"

"Right."

She pondered the question, then said, "I don't know.  Three, maybe
four, something like that."

"Thanks, Shelly," Oscar said.  "You can go now.  Buy yourself a new
dress."

The woman left the suite.

Rico glared at his cousin.  What the fuck was that supposed to
prove?"

"I wanted you to see yourself through Rhonda's eyes," Oscar said.

"Rhonda?  What does she have to do with this?"

"I'll give you odds she'd rate you the same way as Shelly."

"Yeah, well, fuck you, Oscar!  If you're so goddamn smooth, why'd the
Reymond woman jump out of the window?  Why wasn't she begging to suck
your cock?"

"Excellent point."

"Huh?"

"I mishandled her, I admit.  Next time I get hold of her, it's going to
be different."

"Don't tell me.  You're going to have her on her knees, begging for
it."

Oscar drew on his cigar, smiling.  "Rico, you're smarter than I
thought."

Rico gulped down some coffee and got to his feet.  "All right,
Casanova, you've had your say.  Now we both know that you think like a
whore. Great.  How about getting your butt out of here and finding that
goddamn housewife?  Seems to me a perfect job for a guy with your
talents."

Oscar got to his feet.  Chuckling, he left the suite.

Rico stared after him, feeling the same hatred for Oscar he'd felt
toward him as a kid.  It was like having to take his clothes off in
front of the girls all over again.  Fuming, he went to the bathroom to
shave and have his shower.

He was in the middle of lathering his face when he slammed the brush
down in the sink and stomped into the bedroom, where he picked up the
phone.  He dialed a number in Long Beach.  It took him five or six
rings before there was an answer.

"Yeah?"  came the sleepy voice on the other end of the line.

"Driscoll?  Rico Behring.  Look, I know it's the middle of the night,
but I want to know what my fucking wife has been doing?"

"Doing?"  the groggy voice replied.  "She hasn't been doing anything
special."

"Do you have somebody watching the house?"

"Yes.  We've got her under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, just
like you wanted."

"And she's alone there with the kid?"

"As of the last report I got."

"When was that?"  Rico asked.

"Seven o'clock last night."

"Christ, she could have fucked a motorcycle gang since then.  Find out
what's happened since seven, will you?  I gotta know."

"You want me to find out now?"

"Yes, something wrong with that, Wayne?  I'm paying you good money,
aren't I?"

"Right, Mr.  Behring.  Let me try to raise Jerry on the radio.  Give me
a minute."

"Take as long as you want.  I just want to know what the bitch has been
doing."

After Wayne Driscoll put down the phone, Rico stood there impatiently,
looking at the bed.  The hooker had been gone for ten minutes, but he
could still smell her perfume in the room.  What was it about cheap
hookers and their cheap perfume that always gave him a hard-on?  He
almost wished now he'd had her stay.

In a couple of minutes the private investigator came back on the line.
"I talked to Jerry," he said.

"And?"

"Your wife has been at home all night."

"Anybody come over?"

"Not a soul, Mr.  Behring."

"You sure?  Your guy didn't go out for a pizza or anything?"

"Somebody's been there watching the house every minute."

"When she leaves, I want to know every fucking place she goes, Wayne. I
don't want thirty seconds unaccounted for."

"I know that," Driscoll said.  "That's what you're paying for, that's
what we're doing."

"I'll call for a report later."

"Yes, Mr.  Behring."

Rico put down the phone.  There was a crumpled pillow on the side of
the bed nearest him that the blonde had wedged under her hips when he'd
fucked her.  He picked it up and pressed it to his face.  But he didn't
picture the blonde, he pictured Rhonda and thought about what Oscar had
said.  It was true, Rhonda sometimes told him he was too rough, but
he'd hardly given it any thought.  She came when he fucked her.  What
more could she want?

In a sudden pique of anger, Rico hurled the pillow across the room,
hitting a lamp and knocking it over.  "Bitch," he muttered under his
breath.  Somebody was boffing her, he was sure of it.  He'd have sworn
it was her personal trainer, especially when Rhonda insisted the guy
was gay.  So Rico had hired a couple of thugs to take the sonovabitch
apart.  They beat him to a bloody pulp, but they didn't get a thing out
of him, except that he really was a queer, like Rhonda said.  Rico
ended up having to give the guy ten grand to quiet him down, and he
still didn't know who was fucking his wife.

And now he had this bitch, Stephanie Reymond, to worry about.  She was
making fools of all of them.  She was also on the verge of slipping
away with their money.  Rico was determined that wouldn't happen. 
Whatever it took, he'd nail her ass and he'd get their money back. 
She'd find Out it didn't pay to fuck with Rico Behring.  If the world
didn't know that already, it would soon enough.

Isola Lovejoy

It was after nine when Stephanie awoke.  By the time she'd showered,
done her hair and put on one of the little summer dresses Malva had
left her, it was quarter to ten.  She wandered into the kitchen where
Tess, perspiring despite the mild temperature, was squeezing oranges,
having half filled a pitcher with fresh juice.

"Malva's out in the garden, doin' her books," the cook said.  "She say
you can come on out, have your coffee and breakfast, if you wants.  I
got the fix ins for a nice cheese omelet, if you want."

"That'd be fine, Tess.  Where's Captain Kidwell, by the way?  Is he up
yet?"

"Oh, he been up before me.  We have us a cup of coffee with the birds
and he gone down to his boat.  Say he be busy all day long.  "Spect
he's comin' back when he gets hungry enough."

Stephanie thanked Tess and headed for the garden, wondering what Jack
was thinking... and if she'd have the courage to look him in the eye
after last night.  The sleep she'd gotten had refreshed her, but she
was no less confused than she'd been the night before.  Common sense
told her what he really wanted was a cut of the money.  He'd said as
much.  Sure he'd tried to seduce her, but she'd be a fool to think that
had anything to do with his feelings.  It was all part of his scheme.
And yet, as certain as she was of that, she didn't want to believe
it.

Stephanie found Malva, sleek as a fashion model in a little purple
crepe dress and ivory jewelry, at a table in the garden.  Her ebony
hair was slicked back like the night before, but she had on more
makeup.  Light filtered down through a vine-covered lattice arbor that
sheltered the patio.  The area was enclosed on the back side by a rock
garden with ferns and a gurgling fountain.  Open before the housekeeper
on the table were a commercial checkbook and ledger, and what appeared
to be a stack of bills.

"Good morning, Mrs.  Reymond," Malva said, looking up.  "How did you
sleep?"

"It's Stephanie, please.  And I slept well, thank you.  Your
hospitality has been wonderful.  I'm very grateful."

Malva indicated for her to sit.  "Any friend of Jackie's is a friend of
ours."

Stephanie sat across from her.  "Do all his friends call him Jackie?"

"I don't know about all.  Alicia did.  I'm not sure which of us started
it."

"Alicia is your cousin, the one Jack was engaged to."

"Yes."

Stephanie wondered if Jack and Alicia were a sensitive issue for Malva.
But she was curious about Jack's past and she wasn't sure she'd have
other opportunities to hear about it from a third party.  "He must have
loved her very much," she said tentatively.

"Oh, he did.  Told me once when they were together it was the only time
in his life he was happy.  She made him feel good like his money never
did.  Stopped drinkin' for her, too.  "Course, she gave him an
ultimatum.  For two years he didn't drink at all.  After she died..
well, it wasn't pretty."

"Losing someone you love is the hardest thing in life to bear,"
Stephanie said.

"Jackie's had his miseries, all right.  He lost his baby when he lost
Alicia," Malva said.  "She was pregnant when she drowned."

"Oh no."

"Nobody but Jackie and me knew she was carryin' his baby.  That's when
they decided to get married.  Not that they wouldn't have, anyway. That
girl was so happy.  She talked what a lovin' man he was.  Strong man
with a soft touch.  And she was the prettiest little thing you'd ever
seen.  Could have been a model if she wanted."

Tears welled in Stephanie's eyes at the thought of the pain Jack had
been through.  "Poor guy."

"I been tellin' him he needs to fall in love again, but he don't want
to hear it."  Malva closed the check register I don't know if I should
be sayin' this, but when he's around you, I see a little extra sparkle
in his eye."

"Jack likes women."

"No, Stephanie, this could be different.  He likes you I can tell."

Stephanie's first thought was that Jack had enlisted Malva in his
conspiracy, that he was going to slip her a little money to help him
win the woman's confidence.  But that was so cynical, she didn't want
to believe it any more than she wanted to believe Jack's attraction to
her was insincere.  And yet, how could she ignore the possibility?

"He has a definite business interest in me, Malva," she said.  "My late
husband's business has created a..  financial opportunity... and Jack
wants to help me exploit it.  We're kind of in negotiations now. That's
probably as good a way to put it as any."

"I see."

"If you were in my shoes, would you trust him?"  Stephanie asked.

"That's a little like asking' if you're going to like my favorite
chocolate cake as much as I do.  I trust Jackie personally, but should
you?  Lordy, how would I know?"

"Seems to me a man is either trustworthy or he isn't," Stephanie
said.

"I think it's a whole lot more complicated than that, honey.  Every
situation has many questions.

"Relative morality."

"Ma' am?"

"I think I understand you, Malva."

"I won't say a bad word about Jack Kidwell," the woman said.  He's
always been a friend to me.  And I've never known him to hurt a
soul."

"He's had trouble with the law in the past."

"That was in a different life.  I don't expect you're the same person
today you were ten years ago," Malva said.

It was a good point.  If Jean Claud Reymond's wife of ten years ago
could have seen her on the beach last night with Jack Kidwell, she had
no doubt she'd have been aghast.  But sexual mores weren't her
principal concern.  The fact remained--if Jack was thinking twenty
percent of thirty million, they were talking six million dollars.  That
was enough to test anyone's values.

Malva began gathering her papers.  "Well, if you'll excuse me, please,
I've got a lot to do.  Mr.  Lovejoy had a little surprise for me this
mornin' when he called.  Him and his French girlfriend are comin'.
They'll be arrivin' tomorrow night."

"He's coming here?"

"Yes, ma'am.  He likes to drop in without much notice.

"I guess that means we'd better start looking for a hotel."

"No, no.  When I told him Jackie was here with a lady friend, he was
thrilled out of his shoes.  They've been close for years, you know."

"They cut a wide swath across the Caribbean from what I understand."

"Mr.  Lovejoy likes nothin' better than to have a good time.  So I hope
you're ready."  Malva got to her feet and lifted the stack of papers.
For some reason there was sadness in her smile.

"I think I'd better talk to Jack," Stephanie said.  "I'm sure he'll
give an honest opinion whether I should go or stay."

"He already told me he's expectin' you'll stay."

Tess came out the door with a tray.  Malva gave Stephanie a
conspiratorial smile and left.

Stephanie didn't know what to make of the conversation.  Was the hand
of Jack Kidwell behind Malva's advice, or was she being paranoid again?
There was much she would have to accept on faith, Stephanie realized,
if she was going to do business with the man.  Should she trust him or
not?  And just as important, could she trust herself?

After breakfast Stephanie found a book in Nigel's library and went onto
the veranda to read.  From the big wicker chair where she sat she was
able to see the Lucky Lady.  Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Jack,
shirtless and in sunglasses, moving around the deck.  But most of the
time he was below, probably repairing the damage caused by the storm.

Having thought about it, she decided he was avoiding her, probably to
give her space, knowing she'd be embarrassed.  She needed time to
recover her dignity, time to fret about what to do, time maybe for her
desperation to grow and to want to throw her lot in with him.

Only two things were certain--Jack always had the option of selling her
to Oscar Barbadillo, but if he wanted the quarter of a million, he
needed the disks.  They were her ace in the hole.  With them, she was
worth much more.  What she couldn't be sure of was whether Jack was
really going for the grand prize, the six million.  And, if so, should
she be glad?

Tess came out the door then, interrupting Stephanie's brooding.  The
woman was puffing hard and seemed to be looking for someone.  ""Scuse
me, missus, but you seen Joseph?"

"No, not this morning."

"Oh, Lord, wouldn' you know.  Malva say he got to tell Captain Jack
Miss Sonia done call again.  He have to call her back, urgent-like."

"Do you want me to tell him?"

"Would you mind, missus?  The way I move it'll be suppertime by the
time I get down there, and I still got lunch cookin' on the stove."

"I'd be glad to," Stephanie said, getting up.

She headed for the steps and Tess went back inside.  Stephanie was
halfway down the sloping lawn when Jack reappeared on deck, flipping
his dark glasses down from where they were nestled in his sun-bleached
hair.  She called out to him, but he didn't seem to hear her.  So she
hurried to catch him before he went belowdecks again.  "Jack!" Running,
she called to him again.  "Jack!"

This time he looked up, shading his eyes as he peered toward the shore.
She waved.  Spotting her, he waved back.

"Want to come on board?"  he called to her.

"Malva said you've had an urgent phone call."

Jack acknowledged her with a flick of his hand.  He went to the other
side of the boat, where she assumed the launch was located.  Seconds
later, she heard the outboard engine start.  The boat appeared and,
within minutes, he'd reached shore, stepping out into the ankle-deep
water.

"Do you know who called?"  he asked.

"Your friend Sonia."

"Oh, maybe your pals at Inter-America have upped the ante.  Could be
you're worth half a million now," he said with a sly grin as he dragged
the launch onto the beach.

"Great.  Is that remark meant to put me at ease?"

"Better than playing coy, isn't it?"

They started up the lawn, and he surprised her by putting his arm
around her waist.  "So, how are You this morning?"

"I'm okay.  How are you?"

"I've been worrying," he said.

"About what?"

"The way you'd react after last night."

"I'm doing my best to salvage my dignity, but frankly, Jack, I'd rather
not talk about it."

He pulled her against him and their hips bumped.  "That's cool."

Stephanie couldn't believe he was being so open, so carefree.  It
wasn't the response she'd expected.  She managed to separate herself
from him, and they walked along, side by side.

"So, Sonia is the go-between with Oscar.  Is that how it works?"

"Yes."

"You must feel she's trustworthy."

"I do.  Why?"

"I've been thinking.  She knows where you are and therefore where I am.
What's to keep her from doing.  business with Inter-America herself?"

"Friendship."

"She must be a very good friend."

"Don't worry about Sonia.  She's good people."

They'd arrived at the house.  Stephanie stopped at the top of the
steps.  "Well, good luck," she said.

Jack glanced back.  "Let's hope all's well."  He went inside. Stephanie
drifted over toward the wicker chair where she'd been sitting, wishing
she didn't feel so powerless, so Out of control.  For all she knew,
Jack was selling her at this very moment, and there wasn't a damn thing
she could do about it.

The number on Malva's note was not Sonia's telephone number.  That gave
him pause.  Jack calculated the possible dangers and could see nothing
immediate.  He dialed.

"So, hello?"  came a frail, Spanish-accented voice on the other end of
the line.  It was a woman's voice, but totally unfamiliar to him.

"Is Sonia Velasco there, please?"

"Who thees is?"  the aged-sounding woman asked.

"Jack," he said, warily.

There was fumbling on the other end of the line, then Sonia's voice.
"Jack?"

"What's going on, Sonia?"

"Trouble.  A friend of Enrique's in the police department called late
last night and told me your friends were offering five grand for the
name and address of your white lady friend with a European accent.  He
told me to get out, so I tossed some things in a bag and came to
Enrique's mother's place on Fortuna Bay."

"Is that where you are now?"

"Yes, and I'm not feeling real good about it."

"Will you be safe there?"

"I think so, but I can't hide out forever."

"You won't have to, Sonia," he said.  "This thing should be over in a
few days.  I'm really sorry it's come to this.  I'll make it up to you.
I promise."

"I don't expect anything.  I did it to help you."

* "I appreciate that, too"' he said, "believe me."

"I don't know what you've gotten yourself into," Sonia said, "but that
woman is trouble.  Enrique's friend said the police are trying to track
down everybody who was on her flight to St.  Thomas.  Unofficially, of
course."

"You're kidding."

"No, you can't believe the money that's being waved around, Jack.  I
wouldn't be surprised if the governor declares a territorial holiday so
the citizens can pitch in and help find Reymond."

He couldn't hear anything in Sonia's voice that indicated
Inter-America's largesse was talking to her.  She had money; though she
wasn't rich, she lived comfortably--before marriage to Enrique Velasco,
during and since.

"Maybe you should lay low," he said.  "No sense taking unnecessary
risks."

"You don't want me to tell them what you've decided?"  Jack thought for
a moment.  "Can you get word to Barbadillo without compromising
yourself?"

"A phone call should be safe enough."

He glanced toward the closed door of Nigel's study, lowering his voice.
"Tell them I should be able to put my hands on the disks in two or
three days."

"Is that all?"

"No, say I've confirmed that they contain Reymond's complete book of
accounts, including the skinny on Inter-America Ventures.  And tell him
the price is five hundred thousand for the package, half on delivery of
the disks, half for the woman."

There was a silence on the line.  Then, "Jack, are you sure about
this?"

"Trust me, Sonia.  I know what I'm doing.  But I don't want you taking
any risks.  Keep your pretty head down, okay?"

He could almost hear the wheels turning.

"Speaking of pretty heads," she said, "what does this woman look
like?"

He drew a long breath.  "She's attractive."

"Somehow I thought she was."

"Why?"

"Oh, Jack," Sonia said with a sigh, "I just know."

Her tone, more than her words, made him uneasy.  "It's business," he
said.

"Yeah, sure," she said.  "Well, you've got this number if you need
anything."  Then she hung up.

Stephanie had been thinking about Nigel Lovejoy's arrival and wondered
if he might not be her best bet for getting back to the States.  True,
he was Jack's friend, but Nigel was also a successful businessman, and
bright men were usually reasonable.  Jean Claud had been... at least
when it came to business.

"My, but aren't you a study in rapture?"

She looked over to see Jack leaning against one of the columns.
"Hardly," she said.  "I was thinking about my husband, to be perfectly
frank."  That was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was close enough to
the truth.

"Maybe reality is beginning to hit you."

"I don't think so.  I can regret his death, but not my loss."

Jack walked over, pulling up a straight chair, signaling he wished to
talk.  He'd washed, but hadn't shaved.  The Jack Kidwell she saw was
reminiscent of the one she'd seen that first day on the Lucky Lady. His
proximity, his direct, unapologetic manner, made her feel wobbly. This,
she now knew with certainty, was a man who could put practically any
woman off her game.

"I'm afraid your enemies have turned things up a notch," he said.  He
told her what he'd learned from Sonia.

Stephanie had an awful, sinking feeling as she calculated the
implications of questioning the other passengers.  What were the
chances the police would track down Brian and Tiffany?  She didn't know
how long they planned to stay in the Caribbean, but chances were they
hadn't left for home, which meant it was a good bet Barbadillo would
eventually find out the alligator case had been stored in the locker.

"If they're talking to people from the plane, the game may be over
soon," she said obliquely.

"Did you give the disks to another passenger?"

"To put in safekeeping, yes.  But they'll have no problem making her
say where."

"Can you contact her?"  he asked.

"I don't know where she's staying, Jack.  Or even if she's still on St.
Thomas."

"We can hope she's left."

"I wouldn't want to bet on it."

They each considered the situation in silence.

Then Jack said, "if you'll tell me her name, maybe I can have Sonia
track her down so you can warn her.  A dozen calls would probably do
it."

It was the closest he'd come to asking outright where the disks were
hidden.  Did that mean Oscar Barbadillo had asked him to find out if a
passenger from the plane was involved and, if so, who?  "The poor
girl's on her honeymoon," she said.  "I don't want to spoil it for her
by making her worry."

"The police could spoil it for her if you don't."

"Yes, but all she'd have to do is tell them the truth, and she has no
reason not to."

"Meanwhile, you lose the disks and maybe your inheritance," he said.

She looked him in the eye.  "I guess that's a risk I'm willing to
take."

Jack did not seem pleased, but he didn't argue.  "It's your decision,"
he said.  With that he got up, but he didn't walk away.  He stared up
at the sky as though there were something in the big fluffy clouds he
needed to know.  After a while he turned to her, his face relaxed, the
intensity gone.  "I've got work to do, so if you'll please excuse
me."

Stephanie immediately felt bad.  It was as though she'd accused him
falsely.  Poor Jack, damned by his past.  "Need help?"  she asked.

He refused.  "Thanks, but no.  I'm used to working alone."  With that,
he walked away.

Brentwood,

Las Angeles, California

Julius Behring, unshaved and in a foul mood, peered out the window of
the big Mercedes SL500 as it pulled to the curb a few doors down from
his son's home.  Abe Green, a friend from the old days, was next to him
in the back seat.  A man who worked for Abe named Sammy was driving.
The other car with four more of Abe's men were behind them.

Julius and Abe rarely saw one another anymore, not since Julius had
severed all connections with local organized crime some twenty years
ago.  Abe understood and, because their relationship had been more
personal than professional there 4 had been no repercussions.  Five
years ago Julius had done his friend a favor and now he was calling in
the marker.  He didn't like needing Abe's help, but he couldn't see any
way around it.  Julius knew that, left to his own devices, Rico would
kill somebody and end up in prison or worse.  So, Julius had
reluctantly taken matters into his own hands.

"That must be the private investigator," Julius said, gesturing toward
the sedan parked across the street.  It was dawn and the light was
still a bit weak for his aging eyes.

"Whoever it is, he's getting out," Sammy said.  He was a big kid, with
the bad habit of talking a little too loud.  "Want him to come here,
Mr.  Behring?"

"Yes."

Sammy lowered the window and waved his hand.  The door of the sedan
slammed closed and Wayne Driscoll, looking disheveled, made his way
toward them.  He walked to the Mercedes and climbed in front on the
passenger side.

""Morning, Mr.  Behring," he said, glancing at the others and looking
none too pleased with what he saw.

"These are friends of mine," Julius said, knowing it was best not to be
more specific than that.  "So, what's the story?  Romeo still there?"

Wayne Driscoll, a bland man in his late forties, nodded.  "Yeah, Mr.
Behring, that's his Carrera in the driveway."

Julius looked, shaking his head.  "He couldn't even park up the
street?"

"It's been there all night and so's he."

"What could the bitch be thinking?"  Julius said, incredulous.  "It's
like she wants to get caught."

"She must not know Rico's onto her," Driscoll said.

"Well, let's not get into that," Julius said.

The previous evening, when Driscoll had telephoned to say Rhonda's
lover was at the house, Julius decided the time had come to act.  "Two
things," he'd told the PI."  "first is, Rico can't know about it.  I
don't care what he asks, Rhonda's clean.  Second, I've got to hear
everything that happens first, like when the guy arrives and when he
leaves.  if he stays with her tonight, I'm going to pay him and Rhonda
a visit first thing in the morning.  I'll have a few friends with me.
Plan on meeting me at the house at six."

Julius had telephoned Abe, who'd gotten back to him on a clear phone.
"I'm going to need that little favor we talked about," Julius had told
him.

"Sure thing," Abe had replied.  "Just tell me where and when."

So here they were at Rico's, and the guy's car was in the driveway.
Julius didn't have any of his son's Latin blood in his veins, but he
was outraged on Rico's behalf, just the same.

R.J.Kaiser

"Tell me about Romeo, Wayne," Julius said.

"Name's Dan Hachigian," Driscoll replied.  "Sells rugs out of a store
on San Vicente.  Fancy stuff, Chinese, whatever, Guy wears Italian
suits, gold Rolex, diamond pinkie ring."

"Real cute," Julius said.  "And Rhonda's fucking him?"

"She's been in the rug store four, five times the last two weeks.  She
was in there yesterday maybe three hours.  When she came out she didn't
have any rugs.  Nothing ever gets delivered to the house.  This is the
first time he's come to see her, best we can tell.  That's why I called
you.  He hasn't left since we talked and I don't think they're in there
playing gin rummy, Mr.  Behring."

"Good thing Rico's in the Caribbean.  Otherwise there'd be two corpses
in there right now.  What else do we know about Hachigian?"  Julius
asked.

"Married.  Lives in San Fernando.  He's got two sons about eight and
ten."

"The schmuck's not a fucking Arab, is he?"

"Armenian."

"That's better, anyway."

There was an extended silence.  Julius considered the situation.  He
hated the thought of violence, but in this instance he could see no
other way.  Hachigian needed a lesson, but Rhonda needed one even more.
If she didn't learn it this way, she'd never learn it.

"Okay, Wayne, thanks," Julius said.  "You can take off now."

"What do I say when Rico calls?"

"Same as before.  Everything's normal.  I'm the one that gets the
straight story, and only me."

"Right, Mr.  Behring."  Driscoll got out of the Mercedes and returned
to his own car.  Starting the engine, he drove off .

As soon as he was out of sight, Abe spoke in his grumbly voice.  "So,
what are we going to do to the motherfucker?"

"Mr.  Hachigian's going to have to learn that if he fucks another man's
wife, he pays.  I want him convinced, but not permanently injured.  I'm
open to suggestions on how best to accomplish that.  The important
thing is that I don't see him and he doesn't see me.  It's Rhonda, my
daughter-in-law, I need to speak with."

Abe rubbed his jaw.  "How about this.  We'll go in the back and, if
they're in bed, we'll drag them out.  Scare the shit out of them.  One
of the boys can bring the woman to the front room and let you in the
door when you ring the bell.  Meanwhile, we'll work the guy over in
back, make the shithead understand that if we ever see his face again,
he's a dead man.

"My granddaughter will be there, but she's just a toddler.  I'd rather
she not be disturbed."

"We'll ask the guy to keep his voice down while we squeeze his balls,"
Abe said, his burly body shaking as he laughed.

"You might wish to suggest he sell his store and move to Jersey or
something," Julius said.

"He'll be glad to go by the time we finish with him, Julius."

"I'll need to speak with Rhonda for a while, then I'll leave."

"And we'll take Hachigian out in the desert someplace where he's got a
long walk home.  Preferably without shoes."

"You're the expert."

"We ready then?"  Abe said.

"Yes."

"All right," he said to Sammy, "let's do this quick and be out of here
before the newspaper is delivered and the kid wakes up."

Abe and Sammy got out of the Mercedes.  Julius heard the doors of the
car behind them open and close.  He consulted his watch as the men made
their way to Rico's house, a Mediterranean job with a tile roof.  After
they'd entered the side gate and disappeared from sight, Julius sat
staring at little Andrea's tricycle, which was at the foot of the steps
where Rhonda's goddamn lover could have tripped on it.  He shook his
head.  Christ, why couldn't Rico have found a woman like his mother?
Rhonda was a slut.  She'd told Rico she was an actress when they met,
but all she'd done was sleep with producers and directors, hoping to be
an actress.  What kind of wife and mother did a woman like that make?

After another three minutes Julius got out of the car.  He slowly made
his way up the street, his arthritic joints barking until he came to
the walk leading to Rico's house.  There was a big magnolia tree in the
middle of the lawn.  It was beautiful but it needed work.  Julius made
a mental note to have his tree man come over.  At the foot of the
steps, he picked up the tricycle and carried it to the door.  Cocking
his head, he listened.  Inside he could hear voices.  And Rhonda
crying.  He rang the bell.  After a few seconds Sammy opened the
door.

Still carrying the tricycle, Julius walked past him into the entry
hall.  He went to the arched doorway leading to the front room.

His daughter-in-law stood by the fireplace, weeping into her hands, her
red hair disheveled, her long white legs protruding from a filmy
moss-colored peignoir.  One glance and Julius could see it was all she
had on.  Muffled cries came from the back of the house.  Sammy had
already gone off in that direction.  Julius stared at his son's wife,
barely able to disguise his contempt.

"Rhonda!"  he called, his voice sharp.

She looked up, her eyes rounding in horror.  She crossed her arms over
her huge breasts and began shaking her head pleadingly, her eyes
ghoulish from the mascara running down her cheeks.  She sobbed and
moaned, but could manage no words

"Who's bike is this?"  he asked, lifting the plastic tricycle.  Her
mouth opened but no words came out.

"Does it belong to Dan's kid?"  he shouted.

She stared at him incredulously.

"Rhonda!  I asked you a question.  Does this belong to Dan's kid?"

She shook her head.  "No, it's Andrea's," she squeaked.

"Andrea?  Who's Andrea?  Is that Dan's kid?"

"No," she said, sobbing.  "She's Rico's."

"Oh, she's Rico's.  Your husband.  That's who you were sleeping with
last night, then.  Andrea's father, in his bed.  Is that right,
Rhonda?"

She couldn't speak.  She could only sob and shake her head.  Julius
dropped the tricycle on the carpet.  "Am I in the wrong house?"  He
went over to the big wing-back chair and dropped into it heavily.  He
rubbed his chin.  "No," he said, "it's the right house.  But the wrong
guy is in the bed.  That's what's the matter with this picture."

A horrible muffled cry came from the back of the house.  Rhonda looked
toward the doorway and began wringing her hands.  Her body trembled.

"How do I explain this to my son?"  Julius asked miserably.  "Pop,
he'll kill me.  You know he'll kill me.  Please," she implored.
"Please."

"Fine time to be thinking about that, Rhonda.  Better you keep your
pants on when your husband's gone instead of dick around with some
scummy rug salesman.  Don't you see this is my name you're screwing
with?"

"What can I do to make up for it, Pop?"  she begged.  "Please, tell me
what I can do."

He stared at her, hating the fact that he had a whore for a
daughter-in-law.  There was nothing as despicable as a woman without
morals.  If Rico found out, she was dead.  Rhonda had that part
right.

"Come here," he commanded.  "We have to talk."

"Pop," she said, beseeching him.  "Let me get dressed.  Please."

"Dressed?  What for?  Doesn't matter what you've got on.  You're the
same whore clothed or naked.  Come here."

She inched her way toward him, covering her pubis with one hand and
doing what she could to cover her breasts with the other.  Reaching his
chair, she dropped to her knees at his feet.  Tears continued to flow
down her blackened cheeks.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," he said.  "Some of the answers I
already know, some I don't.  But you're going to tell me the truth.  Do
we understand each other?"

"Yes, but are you going to tell Rico?"

"That was a question, Rhonda.  I'm asking.  You're answering."  He
cleared his throat.  "How long you been sleeping with Hachigian?"

"For about a month."

"Where?"

"Mostly in his office at his store.  Once at the Beverly Hilton.  And
once... "In Rico's bed?"

She dropped her face into her hands.  Julius wondered if he wouldn't be
doing everybody a favor by telling Abe to take her and Hachigian both
out in the desert and put holes in their heads.  But Rico wouldn't be
able to live with somebody else having to do it for him, and Rico
definitely did not need to kill his wife.

"How many other guys have there been?"  Julius asked, his stomach
turning to acid.

"Two.  Once with a beach bum in Jamaica when I went there with my
sister.  And a guy at the Mercedes dealership.  The mechanic."

"You fucked a grease monkey?"

"It was after Rico went to Las Vegas with that whore.  Pop, he made me
watch a video of him screwing her while he made love with me in our
bedroom."

Julius rolled his eyes.  "Jesus."

"It was only once.  I was so upset with .... .. . I wanted to punish
him.  It was the first time since my marriage I was with another man. I
swear it.  It was because of what Rico did."

"I don't want justification.  Rico is hotheaded and when he's drunk he
does stupid things.  You knew who and what he was going in.  You're a
woman.  You're supposed to understand his mistakes."

"What about my mistakes, Pop?"  she implored.

"That's what we're talking about now, Rhonda, your mistakes."

"What do you want me to do, Pop?  I'll do anything you want.  Swear to
God.  I'll cut off my finger.  Anything."

"Just answer me this.  Do you love Rico?"  He held up his hand.  "Think
before you answer because I want the truth."

She thought for a moment.  "I love him, but sometimes I hate him."

"Are you going to tell me you were screwing Hachigian and thinking
about Rico?"

She lifted her chin, looking him right in the eye.  "A couple of times
I did.  I wanted to make Rico watch a video of me, just like he made
me."

Julius swallowed the bile in his throat.  "I guess you're saying these
disgusting things because they're true.  Okay, fine, Rhonda, but that
isn't how things are going to be from now on, so listen real careful. I
can't make you into a saint like Rico's mother, but I can be sure you
don't mess around behind my son's back.  First time you get out of
line, Rico hears everything.  But he won't have to believe my words
because I got a video of you and Hachigian in his office.  I went to a
lot of trouble to get it.  So I'm glad you told the truth about fucking
him in his office, because if you didn't, I would have known you were a
goddamn liar in addition to a whore and the same thing would have
happened to you that's happening to Dan."

Just then a moan of agony came from the back of the house, followed by
cries for mercy.  Rhonda looked as though she'd be sick.

"What are you going to do to him, Pop?  You aren't going to kill him,
are you?"

"Do you care?"

"Only because it's my fault," she said, looking him in the eye.  "He
thinks Rico is always gone because he doesn't love me."

Behring was surprised.  It was the first honorable thing he'd ever
heard her say.  "Assuming he does as he's told, he snot going to be
killed.  Right now I'm more concerned about you.  You're either going
to become a new person, or wish you had.  You see, Rhonda, from today
on you're going to be a Good Housekeeping wife and mother, or you're
going to die trying."

"I will, Pop.  I swear I will."

"I want you to tell Rico that, not me."

"Rico?"

"Yes, we're going to call him and you're going to tell him how much you
love him and then you're going to tell him I'm here and that I've come
to take you and Andrea to Disneyland.  Then you're going to let me talk
to him.  Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Pop."

Julius Behring reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cell
phone.  Then he got out his glasses and the slip of paper with the
number of Rico's hotel in St.  Thomas.  He dialed.  "Rico Behring,
please," he said to the operator.

"Yeah?"  came his son's voice after a moment.

"Rico, it's me."

"Pop, I was about to call you, but I figured it was still too early."

"Yeah, well, we need to talk, but first I've got somebody here who
wants to say hello.  Hang on."  Looking deep into Rhonda's eyes, his
finger on the mute button, Julius said, "This is your last chance to
become a good wife and mother.  Start now, Rhonda, or as God's my
witness, I'll kill you myself before Rico has a chance.  It's up to
you."

Rhonda's eyes were huge blue puddles as he shoved the phone in her
direction.  She took the phone, looking as though she might die before
she could speak.

"Hi ya, bunny," she croaked, her lip trembling.  She looked up at
Julius, wiping her eyes, smearing the black all over her cheeks.  "No,
honey, Pop's here at our house.  He's come to take Andy and me to
Disneyland.  Isn't that sweet?  Yeah but I wish you could come, too.
Andy and I really miss you .. .. I love you so much, Rico," she said,
staring at Bering.  "And I've been thinking about you, wishing you were
home.  No everything's fine.  Can't a woman miss her husband?... Do you
really miss me, Rico?  Swear you do?"  She gave Julius a beseeching
look.  "Yeah, bunny, I love you more than ever and I want you to hurry
home.  Now here's Pop."

Biting her lip, she handed the cell phone back to Julius and sobbed
softly.  He pressed the mute button.  "That's a good start," he told
her.  "If you can learn to believe what you just said, you're going to
be a happy woman.  It's all in your hands, Rhonda."

She nodded.  "I know, Pop."

He released the mute button and spoke into the phone.  "Hang on a
second, Rico."  He pressed the mute button again.  "All right," he said
to Rhonda, "now go get dressed.  It's going to be a little messy back
there.  You're going to have to clean up the place later.  But don't
say a word to anybody.  As far as you're concerned, Hachigian's dead.
You never met the schmuck.  You're never going to think about him."

"Okay, Pop."

"Now go."

She got to her feet and ran from the room.  Julius glanced at her ass
through the negligee, shaking his head.  He figured she had a
fifty-fifty shot.  She'd keep her nose clean for a year or two, but he
knew in his heart that making the marriage last was more up to Rico
than it was to her.

"Okay, what's up, son?"  he said into the phone.

"Things are moving fast, Pop.  The captain may be delivering our friend
and the goodies in a matter of days.  I think he's being straight with
us.  Sent word that there are copies of Reymond's account books for our
investments on the disks, which means our ass is hanging out."

Julius did not like the sound of this.  "That makes getting those
materials doubly important, Rico."

"Yeah, and the sonovabitch knows it.  He's getting greedy.  Wants five
hundred big ones for the package."

"So, he's a businessman."

"Goddamn pirate's more like it."

"A sharp trader takes what the market will bear, Rico.  Tell him I'll
pay five hundred once we verify the content of the goods and have the
woman in our hands.  But tell Captain Hook if he tries to squeeze any
more, we might find it cheaper to sink his boat and catch our own
fish."

"I'll tell him, Pop."

"Anything else develop?"

"You know the captain's lady friend, the one we been talking to?"

'yeah."

"Well, we know who she is, but she felt the heat comin' and took a
powder.  So we're lookin' for her, too."

"Christ, Rico, before this job is done you'll be looking for half the
people in the Caribbean.  Next it's going to be that bastard Fidel
Castro.  Better I go ahead and hire the goddamn Marine Corps."

"We'll take what we're owed, plus expenses, out of Reymond's money,"
Rico said.  "I figure that'll come to about thirty million, if we
include profit."

"Yeah, well, there's one more problem.  Our sources tell us that the
money is coming down earlier than they thought, could be as little as a
week.  So there's a little more pressure to get those items, Rico.  It
would be nice if you turn something up in the next day or two."  "I'm
workin' on it, Pop, believe me."

"And how's Oscar?"

There was a silence on the line, then Rico said, "Oscar's Oscar.
Sometimes it seems he's more interested in tail than the work, but he's
fine."

"You two getting along okay?"

"How could we not, Pop?"

"Yeah, well, remember what I told you about two heads being better than
one."

"Right."

"One other thing.  I've hired a man named Alexander Manring to watch
things for us in the Cayman Islands.  He came highly recommended.  He
knows people in the banks and the government.  Manring has your number
and will be contacting you with updates and to coordinate operations,"
Julius said.

"Pop, the Cayman Islands are a thousand miles away.  The woman and
Kidwell couldn't have gotten that far."

"I know, but if they know what we know, that's where they'll be headed.
And if they slip through your fingers, they could always fly there.  I
decided the smart thing was to be waiting for them."

"Okay.  Anything else, Pop?"

"Yes, a piece of advice.  When you come home, why don't you bring your
wife a nice present?"

"What for?"

"Because she loves you, son."

Rico was silent, then he said, "All right, Pop.  If you say so, I'll
bring her something."

"And another thing.  You're a grown man, I know, but I'm going to say
this anyway.  Don't come home with a case of the clap, Rico.  It's not
good for your marriage."

Monday,

September 30th

Isola Lovejoy

Stephanie had breakfast on the veranda where she could watch Jack at
work.  She'd gotten up fairly early, but the household was already
buzzing.  Malva, Tess and Joseph were busy preparing for Nigel's
arrival, and Jack, determined to get the Lucky Lady shipshape, had,
according to Tess, gone out shortly after dawn.  Stephanie had poured
herself some coffee and, over Tess's objection, had carried a plate of
fruit, bread and jam onto the terrace.

The previous evening at dinner she'd asked Jack if it was really all
right for her to be there when Nigel arrived, and he'd assured her
everything was copacetic.  They hadn't talked a great deal more, though
Jack had confirmed his intention to phone Jean Claud's investment
bankers, Meriwether & Handley, in the morning.  Stephanie knew it was a
good idea.  Due to the time difference, they agreed to make the call
after lunch.

Since she'd arrived on the veranda, Jack had been working in plain
view, moving around the deck of the boat.  Once, when a small plane had
flown overhead, he'd stopped to watch it.  Was he concerned, or was it
an expected visit from Barbadillo and his friends?  Stephanie's
momentary panic dissolved to guilt as the plane flew off.

After she'd finished her breakfast, she carried the dishes back into
the kitchen where she found Malva folding laundry as she talked to
Tess.  "Anything I can do to help?"  Stephanie asked.

"You're a guest, honey," Malva said.  "You should be enjoym' yourself.
Why not go for a swim?  You'll never have a better chance.  Let me find
you a suit."  She went off without waiting for an answer.

The suit Malva found was a red bikini, but not totally immodest.  Ten
years ago, Stephanie might even have picked it out for herself.  She
still had the body for it, but she was also past forty, no longer a
kid.

It was a modest, matronly thought, especially for a woman who'd taken
off her clothes only two nights ago and gone skinny-dipping.  But which
woman was she?  The one who'd married Jean Claud, or the one mixed up
with Jack Kidwell?

Stephanie changed into the suit, lathered herself with sun-block and
slipped on the cover-up Malva had provided.  Then, with a big floppy
hat on her head and a beach towel under her arm, she followed the path
she and Jack had taken Saturday night.

The beach was gorgeous, the white sand fine and pure, the water the
color of an emerald.  She got a lounge chair from the shelter and
spread a towel on it.  Before sunning herself, though, she decided to
go for a swim.

This time she dived into the warm sea as Jack had done.  She swam out
forty or fifty yards.  The waves were higher than they'd been the other
night, and it was windier, so she swam parallel to the beach.  After
twenty minutes, she felt as though she'd had a good workout and decided
to go in.

Trudging to shore, Stephanie made her way across the hot sand to the
lounge chair where she put on more sunscreen and lay down.  The sun was
warm, sensuous, and despite herself, she was reminded of those
exquisite moments she'd spent with Jack.  The image of him and Tanya
making love came to mind,

I as well.  That vision had been plaguing her for days, buzzing through
her brain like an insistent fly.

She hadn't realized she'd drifted off to sleep until she felt somebody
gently shake her.  "Hey, sweetheart, you'd better wake up before you're
burnt to a crisp."

Stephanie opened her eyes and found Jack hovering over her.  She
blinked and sat up, a bit disoriented.  "I guess I did fall asleep,"
she mumbled, only then recalling she was in the skimpy red bikini.

"They sent me down to tell you lunch is ready," Jack said, "and make
sure you hadn't been eaten by sharks."

Stephanie grabbed the cover-up and slipped it around her.  "What time
is it, anyway?"

He glanced at his watch.  "Nearly noon.  How's your skin feel?"

"It's a little tender," she said, patting her shoulders and chest.  "I
lathered up with sunblock."

"You're lucky."

She wondered what he was thinking.  Jack had avoided making suggestive
remarks ever since their sexual encounter, though she didn't know if
that was out of respect or a desire not to spoil his business
opportunity.

She slipped on the rubber thongs Malva had given her and got to her
feet.  Jack picked up her hat and plopped it on her head.  She
straightened it and they began walking back toward the house.

"You look every bit the tourist," he said good-humoredly.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Sure.  Tourists are good.  They're my livelihood."

"With all the money I'm worth on the black market, I must look like a
first-class meal ticket to you."

"That remains to be seen."

She decided it was best not to ask him to explain exactly what he
meant.

"I talked to Sonia again a little while ago," he volunteered.

"Oh?  Good news or bad?"

"They've accepted my offer of half a million."

"What offer?"

"I decided to see if I could squeeze a little more out of them, and
they bit."

Stephanie didn't know if he was joking, but she certainly considered
her situation no laughing matter.  "You agreed to sell me?"

"It's a package deal.  You and the disks."

Stephanie forced a tight smile.  "Nice of you to tell me, Jack.  Out of
curiosity, did you decide it was kinder if I knew in advance that I'd
been sold, or is this just more good old Kidwell honesty?"

"Good old Kidwell honesty."

She wondered if he was testing her, but his grin did give her hope.
"That's nice, but not good enough.  Really, what's going on?"

"I wanted to see how desperate these boys are.  They seem to be both
desperate and determined.  They want your sweet little fanny pretty
bad, my dear."

"I am not reassured," she said.

They were in the thickest part of the vegetation on the path back to
the house, and Jack pushed a hanging vine aside.  "In any partnership,
trust is essential," he said.  "I'm doing my best to demonstrate where
my heart is."

"You must know I have my doubts."

"Sure, you'd be foolish not to."

"So that leaves me where I started," she said.  "With no idea what to
make of you and even less idea what I should do."

"The trouble is, anything I say sounds self-serving.  So, we'll just
have to rely on your intuition.  I think deep down you know you can
trust me--at least I hope so.  The real question is if you're willing
to trust your own instincts."

Stephanie gave him a sideward glance as they came out into the open.
Jack Kidwell, she decided, was a crazy-maker.  The harder he tried to
put her mind at ease, the more suspicious she became.  "We both know
I'm stuck with you, Jack.  That isn't the foundation for a stellar
relationship."

"Maybe I'm a little more optimistic than you are."

He put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze.  It
was the same sort of fearless camaraderie he'd shown when she'd gone to
get him from the boat for the phone call yesterday.  Friendly, jocular,
happy-go-lucky Jack.  It was as hard not to like the man as it was to
trust him.  But was his immediate objective sex or business?  The
safest bet, she concluded, was that it was both.

Jack sat behind the desk in Nigel's study, reviewing his notes.  During
lunch, Stephanie had told him enough about Jean Claud's finances for
him to sound convincing when he spoke to Tom Handley about the Halcyon
sale.  Stephanie held the cordless phone Malva had gotten for her so
she could listen in on the conversation.

"Are you sure you're up to playing lawyer?"  she asked.

"Sugar, once a con, always a con."

"That's not very reassuring."

He gave her an amused smile.  "Between your propriety and my
practicality, we're unbeatable.  And, as for playing lawyer, all you
need is the mentality of a whore.  That's a quality I'm familiar
with."

"Make the call and let's get this over with," she said.

Jack dialed information in San Francisco and got the number for
Meriwether & Handley.  Stephanie wasn't entirely sure what he was going
to say, but she knew she'd find out soon enough.

Jack spoke to Tom's secretary first, saying only that he was an
attorney in Florida and needed to speak with Mr.  Handley.  Stephanie
pushed the mute button on her phone while they waited for Tom to get on
the line.

"This is Tom Handley," came the voice Stephanie had heard so many times
over the dinner table.

"Mr.  Handley, this is Arnold Milburn, attorney-at-law, Immokalee,
Florida," Jack said.  "How are you today, sir?"

Jack had affected a southern drawl that was so unexpected Stephanie
nearly burst out laughing.  He gave her an admonishing look.

"Fine, thank you," Tom said.  "What can I do for you, Mr.  Milburn?"

"I represent Edith Conroy, who is the aunt of the late Mrs.  Stephanie
Reymond of Mill Valley, California.  I believe you did business with
her husband, Jean Claud Reymond, also deceased.  Is that correct,
sir?"

"Yes..."

"Well, Mr.  Handley, it seems that shortly before her death, Mrs.
Reymond spoke with my client concernin' her--Mrs.
Reymond's--inheritance, a considerable sum that Mr.  Reymond had
invested on her behalf in a company he'd financed, an outfit called..
let me see here ... Halcyon Technologies.  Does that sound familiar,
sir?"

"Yes, Halcyon is being sold to the public and my firm is representing
the offering."

"That's my understandin', Mr.  Handley," Jack continued.  You see, the
difficulty is that Mrs.  Reymond expressed concern to her aunt that the
sale was bein' conducted under... shall we say unusual circumstances,
and that her inheritance was therefore in jeopardy.  Since subsequent
to that conversation Mrs.  Reymond has passed away, my client wants to
inquire as to the status of her niece's estate, most of which is
invested in the company you're representin'.  Am I makin' the nature of
our inquiry clear, Mr.  Handley?"

"You are.  But I'm afraid I can't be of much help.  I have no
information regarding Stephanie's estate.  You'd have to speak to her
lawyers about that.  My understanding is that death certificates
haven't been formally issued because of difficulty in identifying the
bodies.  And the only reason I know that is because I happen to be a
personal friend of Mr.  Reymond.  The situation seems to be very
confused at the moment."

"Yes, Mr.  Handley, that's my understandin' as well.  Let me be direct.
Our primary concern is the Halcyon sale, particularly since Mrs.
Reymond expressed doubts about the manner in which it's bein'
handled."

"I assure you, Mr.  Milburn, the sale is being conducted according to
SEC.  regulations and in the most professional and competent manner."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that, sir.  Please don't misconstrue my
meanin'.  The sale itself is not my concern.  It's the disposition of
the funds followin' the sale.  Mrs.  Reymond's attorneys have no
information on that and suggested I contact you."

"Well, all I can tell you is that the proceeds will be distributed in
accordance with Jean Claud Reymond's instructions."

"But he's dead."

"Yes, but the instructions were issued by him in his capacity as
president of his firm.  Since his corporation continues in existence,
despite his death, those instructions will be carried out to the
letter."

"Tell me this, Mr.  Handley, will you be distributin' the proceeds of
sale directly to the investors?"  Jack asked, giving Stephanie a
wink.

Tom Handley hesitated before answering.  "I shouldn't discuss that," he
said, "but Jean Claud had us follow the same procedure for years and
it's hardly mysterious.  The funds are always distributed to a trust
account controlled by his firm.  Exactly what happens after that I
don't know.  It's not within our area of responsibility."

"I appreciate that, Mr.  Handley," Jack said, his drawl more
pronounced.  "But the reason I'm speakin' to you is because of our
concern that Mrs.  Reymond's piece of the pie is goin' to..  shall we
say... fall through the cracks.  You see, we understand the money is
goin' to an overseas account."

"Stephanie told her aunt that?"

"Well, yes.  Unfortunately, my client, who is quite elderly, failed to
make note of where.  I'm assumin' it's Switzerland or perhaps the
Cayman Islands, Panama or even Monaco.  But as you can imagine, it
makes a bit of difference which country and which bank."

"That information is confidential."

"Most assuredly it is, sir," Jack continued without missing a beat.
"And if I were Jean Claud Reymond I would expect my investment bankers
to keep that sort of information in the utmost confidence, but I think
it's safe to say Mr.  Reymond is not in a position at this juncture to
register much protest.  In fact, who is?  As I understand it, Mr.
Reymond has no partners.  His wife and child are dead.  The only
parties who could possibly care where that money is are the investors
themselves."

Stephanie found Jack's performance truly impressive.  No wonder the man
had made a million by the time he was thirty- five.  She could envision
buying swampland from him and could only hope she hadn't done just
that.

"You have a point," Handley conceded, "but if you need that sort of
information, there are legal avenues you can pursue."

"Most assuredly, Mr.  Handley.  And if you are unable to take
compassion on us, I will pursue those avenues.  I'll subpoena
documents, deal with receivers, executors, the SEC."  the courts.  And
after spendin' eighteen months and fifty thousand dollars of my
client's social security money, I'll know that the proceeds of the sale
of Halcyon Technologies are in, say, the Union Bank of Switzerland. 
Now that's okay, but simple human decency on your part, a few whispered
words, perhaps, would save poor widow Conroy a great deal of heartache
and grocery money."

Handley chuckled.  "You make a persuasive argument, Mr.  Milburn.
However, I'm a fiduciary with obligations that extend far beyond those
of your client, who is, after all, only one of the parties in interest.
But you have an even bigger problem.  The sale of Halcyon Technologies
has been moved up.  That was Jean Claud's last instruction to us.  With
the sale taking place in four days, you may not have time to intervene
with the bank before they do whatever they've been instructed to do
with the funds."

Stephanie had a terrible sinking feeling, but Jack forged ahead with
the tenacity of an old-time southern lawyer.

"One thing I've learned practicin' the law these thirty-odd years,"
Jack said, "is never say never, Mr.  Handley.  All I need is the
opportunity to be of service to this sweet little old lady in any way I
possibly can."

There was a long silence, then Tom Handley said, "My advice, Mr.
Milburn, is to forget the sale and take a nice vacation.  I understand
the Caribbean's nice this time of year."

"Never have been to the Cayman Islands," Jack said.

"It's a good choice."

"Travel can be expensive.  Know a bank that has exceptional exchange
rates?"

"A friend of mine likes Grand Cayman Bank Ltd."  but I don't know from
personal experience.  Never been there.  But if you'll excuse me, I
have a client waiting.  Sorry I can't help you with your legal
problem," Handley said, "but I wish you luck."

"Sir, you are a scholar and gentleman."

Jack hung up and Stephanie sat shaking her head.

"You're a genius, Jack.  I'm impressed."

"Glad I'm your sonovabitch, sugar?"

"Are you?"

He held up his hand.  "Scout's honor."

"I bet your investors loved you," she said, "right up until you left
with their money."

"Actually, it was my partner who absconded.  I stayed and took the
heat."

"Why did you, anyway?"

Jack shrugged.  "Too softhearted, I guess."

Stephanie sighed.  She was starting to believe in him again--which
either showed she had great people instincts or she was an even bigger
fool than Tom Handley.  Of course, there were probably dozens of women
out there who, at one time or another, had felt the very same way.

Tess came with a pitcher of lemonade and a couple of glasses.  "Y' all
must be thirsty," she said, setting the tray she was carrying on the
desk.

"You're a mind reader, Tess," Jack said.

"Well, I won't have time to do no more mind readin' this afternoon,
Captain Jack.  We done got word Mr.  Nigel's goin' to be here for
supper, so I be mighty busy next few hours.  You enjoy your lemonade
while you can."

She left the room and Stephanie poured them each a glass, handing Jack
his.  He held it aloft.

"Here's to a promising beginning," he offered.

"To the finest criminal mind I've ever seen," she replied in toast.

"You may be hoping so, sweetheart."

They drank their lemonade and contemplated each other.  Stephanie
wasn't sure why exactly, but she found Jack incredibly appealing.
Worse, she was letting down her guard, as though the lesson of the
other night had been completely forgotten.  Maybe she wanted too badly
for things to be right between them.  Or maybe Jack Kidwell simply had
her number.

As she watched him, he picked up a pencil and made a couple of checks
on the pad, his expression pensive.  He was intelligent, but also very
clever.  From her perspective, that was where the danger lay.

"So, we know where my money will be and when," Stephanie said, "but I'm
not sure what good that does us."

"I'm not, either," he confessed.

"Once I get home, I guess I can commence legal action to get what's
coming to me," she said.

"Yes, possibly.  But it may not be all that simple.  Offshore numbered
accounts are not easy to crack, even for the best of lawyers with the
best of reasons."

"What are you saying?"

"That if your husband had any experience in these matters at all, he'd
set it up so that no one could get access to that money but him and
perhaps somebody he trusts."

"Like my sister."

"Yes, like your sister.  We know this was a shady transaction involving
shady people.  For that reason your husband must have intended to keep
the money out of sight, not only to hide it from the authorities, but
maybe from you and your divorce lawyer.  It's hard to say what he was
thinking, but I doubt that money will be easy to recover."

"So, what are you suggesting I do?"

"I think the first thing we do is find out what we can from Grand
Cayman Bank Ltd."

"Are you saying Arnold Milburn needs to make another call?"

"No, I think this time it should be the widow Reymond.  You won't have
any trouble playing the role, Stephanie, and I doubt your recent demise
made the news in the Cayman Islands.  Call them as the grieving widow
now trying to sort out her husband's business affairs.  Jean Claud told
you about his account in the bank and you'd like to find out what you
can about securing the funds."

"Do you think they'll tell me?"

"I doubt it, but any information you get out of them would be helpful.
It would be nice to know what the procedure is.  They probably won't
tell you who's authorized to withdraw funds, but there's no harm in
asking."

Stephanie was suddenly nervous.  She'd never done anything like this
before.  Posing as Jane had been about the shadiest thing she'd ever
done.  "I don't know if I'm cut out for this, Jack."

"Hey, it's your money they've got, isn't it?"

"Part of it is."

"What's wrong with going after what's yours?"

"Nothing, but I hate to lie."

Jack shook his head.  "Sweetheart, if I were asking you to hurt anyone
innocent, I'd understand.  But this is like a game of chess.  The bank
doesn't care what happens as long as they collect their interest and
don't run afoul the regulators.  Jean Claud hid the money and you're
trying to find it before the competition does."

"You really are amoral, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I don't steal from the weak, the infirm, orphans or
widows."

"Including me?"

"Especially you."

Stephanie looked him in the eye, then reached across the desk for the
phone.  She took a sip of lemonade, then dialed the operator and asked
for information in the Cayman Islands.  After obtaining the number from
directory assistance, she dialed the Grand Cayman Bank Ltd.  in George
Town.  Jack listened in on the portable phone.

A woman with a distinct British accent answered.

"Hello," Stephanie said.  "I'm calling on behalf of one of your
customers, Jean Claud Reymond in San Francisco.  May I speak with the
manager, please?"

The woman hesitated.  "And you are...?"

"Stephanie Reymond.  Mr.  Reymond's wife."

There was another hesitation.  "One moment, please."

After thirty seconds a man came on the line.  "Mrs.  Reymond, this is
Harris Ivory.  I am the manager.  How may I help you?"  His accent was
also British, but with a Caribbean Undertone.

"Mr.  Ivory," she said, her voice quavering, "I regret to inform you
that my husband was recently killed in a tragic accident."

"Oh, my.  Mrs.  Reymond, my sincere condolences."

"Thank you."  She drew a deep breath, surprised at how easily her
tragic frame of mind came to her.  "The reason for my call is to inform
you that as my husband's heir, I will be handling his business affairs
from now on.

"I understand."

"My immediate concern is the account Jean Claud has with your bank.  He
told me about it before his death and I wanted to confirm its status
with you."

"Mrs.  Reymond, I would be pleased to assist you in any way I can.
However, I cannot give information about the account over the
telephone.  I'm sure you understand."

"Naturally, I wouldn't want you to do anything inappropriate, but if
you could give me general information that would aid my attorneys,
accountants and me in sorting out Jean Claud's affairs, I'd be most
grateful."

"What do you wish to know?"

"How would I go about gaining access to the account?"

"Already we're in a sensitive area.  I'm sorry."

Stephanie looked over at Jack woefully and he signaled with his hand
for her to keep plugging.  She drew a ragged breath, tears in her eyes.
"You'll have to forgive me, Mr.  Ivory, but as you can imagine, this is
an emotional subject."

"I understand, indeed."

"I suppose I should be truthful.  I'm especially concerned that Jean
Claud invested my personal inheritance in a start-up company that's
being sold in an initial public offering in a few days.  The money from
the sale will be deposited in the trust account Jean Claud established
with your bank.  I was remiss in not insisting on getting account
information from my husband before his death, but these things are
unexpected and now I'm ... stuck."

"Quite.  I understand your dilemma."

"Is there anything you can do to guide me?"  she asked, feeling every
bit as desperate as she sounded.

The man did not respond immediately, and Stephanie, surprising herself,
broke into tears.

"You have my compassion, Mrs.  Reymond," Ivory said, sounding genuinely
uncomfortable, "but regretfully, it is the bank's policy to keep
everything in the strictest confidence."

Stephanie wiped her eyes, feeling silly, despite the authenticity of
her emotion.  Jack, to his credit, appeared pained rather than amused.
An idea suddenly came to her.

"Let me ask you this, Mr.  Ivory," she said.  "Should I wish to
establish additional trust accounts for our clients in the future, what
would you recommend?"

"We have a variety of types and classes of accounts," he replied.

"Well, as you may know, confidentiality and close control is important
in our business.  My interests and objectives are the same as my
husband's.  We're talking similar sums of money to be deposited and
withdrawn in a similar fashion."

Stephanie looked at Jack and saw a huge grin.  He gave her an
enthusiastic thumbs-up.  She didn't know whether to feel elated or
ashamed.

"Well," Ivory said uncertainly, "a numbered account might suit your
needs."

"How exactly does a numbered account work?"

"Well, the funds to be deposited, from whatever source, would be placed
in an account identified only by a special number supplied by the bank.
Your name or your company's name would not appear on the account."

"And should I wish to disburse monies to my investors, how would I do
that?"

"You would simply authorize the disbursement, which, of course, is a
form of withdrawal."

"I would personally?"  Stephanie asked.

"If that's the arrangement you make when establishing the account,
yes."

"I would write a check like any checking account?"

"We have demand accounts, of course," Ivory said, "but that may not be
the most desirable arrangement for transactions of the nature you
describe."

Stephanie again looked at Jack.  "What would you recommend, Mr. Ivory?"
 she said, rolling her tongue through her cheek.

Jack gave her the most delightful grin.  The sheer mischief in it
excited her, making her wonder if maybe he wasn't right about their
chemistry, after all.  Who would have thought that one day she'd end up
like Bonnie Parker, throwing in her lot with the Caribbean version of
Clyde Barrow?

"Some account holders like the security of limiting account access to
in-person withdrawals on the bank premises by the principal upon a
showing of proper identification and signature verification," Ivory
said.

Stephanie again had a sinking feeling.  Jack signaled for her to keep
going.

"That's awfully restrictive, isn't it?"  she said.

"You could authorize another person to have access to the account,"
Ivory suggested.

"By putting them on the account?"

"Yes.  Another way would be by providing them with an access code."

"What sort of code?"

"One example would be a series of numbers known only to you, the person
you provide the code, and, of course, me, the bank."

"You mean, if I give this code to a person of my choice, they could
withdraw funds from the account simply by presenting the numbers?  They
wouldn't need identification or to have their name registered?"

"That's exactly right, Mrs.  Reymond."

"Isn't that dangerous?  I mean, anybody who found my wallet with the
code written down could withdraw all my money.  Or do I misunderstand
you?"

"There are safeguards.  The person would need to know the account
number and they would also have to be aware of the parameters of
withdrawal."

"What do you mean?"

"You might wish to restrict a non signatory ability to withdraw funds
by using the code to certain amounts of money or to certain times. That
is, for example, code withdrawals could be made only within so many
days following a deposit.  Access would be denied if the withdrawal
were attempted for greater amounts or outside the specified time
frame."

Stephanie was bewildered.  "I can see how this can get awfully
complicated," she said, looking at Jack.

He frantically scratched out a note and passed it to her.  She cleared
her throat and again spoke to the banker.  "Let's assume I've decided
to open an account, Mr.  Ivory, and that I'll be down there in a few
days to make arrangements.  Based on your experience, what would you
recommend for the type of business I'll be doing?"

Stephanie knew she was pushing.  Harris Ivory knew it' too.  She could
tell by the way he hesitated before answering.

"If the window of opportunity for making code withdrawals was short
enough," he said, "I shouldn't think you'd need to place any
restriction on the amounts."

Jack pointed to his note and Stephanie nodded.  "What's a reasonable
period that would be effective, yet safe?"  she asked.

Ivory cleared his throat.  "I don't know ... perhaps five days."

Jack's face lit up and he gave her the thumbs-up once more.  She was
pleased.

"Five days isn't long," she said.

"No," the banker replied, "especially if you don't have reasonably
precise information about deposits.  But these are the sorts of things
we can discuss when you come in to set up the account."

"Yes, of course.  This has given me food for thought and I'm grateful,"
Stephanie said, feeling elated.  "I expect to be making a trip to the
Cayman Islands soon.  You've been most accommodating, Mr.  Ivory.  I'll
definitely be seeing you."

"I look forward to that, Mrs.  Reymond."

Stephanie hung up the phone as Jack came around the desk.  She got to
her feet and they embraced.  It started as a gleeful hug between
comrades, but another sort of awareness came into play: he was holding
her body; not just her.

"You were sensational, Mrs.  Reymond," he said.  "You know that?"

"Jack, this is far from over.  I can't get to that money because I
don't know the code."

"A mere detail."

"What do you mean, a mere detail?"

"It's got to be on the disks," he replied.

"What makes you so sure?"

"i'm not, but it makes sense.  Why else would Inter-America be so hot
to get their hands on them?  It couldn't be just to look at your
husband's books.  My guess is, Jean Claud destroyed his files or
otherwise put them out of reach of Inter-America and so they figured
they have to get your copy if they have any hope of getting the
code."

"I think that's exactly what Jean Claud did," she said.  "And I know
Oscar Barbadillo thinks so, too.  At least that's what he told me when
I was being searched.

Jack nodded.  "It may also be that they want to avoid the embarrassment
of the information about their operation falling into the wrong hands.
In any case, I think they're convinced the code is on the disks, and so
am I."

"It could be you're both wrong."

"Possibly," he said.  "But I'd rather go with the assumption there's a
map leading to this treasure."

"Jean Claud didn't need the code."

"No, but your sister did.  And he'd never have set up the arrangement
if he didn't intend it to be used."

She pulled her head back so she could look into his eyes.  "Jack, you
have a devious mind."

He tightened his grip around her waist.  Then he gave her that quirky
smile of his and kissed her mouth.  It was sexy, it was sensuous.  And
when it was over he didn't apologize.

Charlotte Amalie, St.  Thomas

The BMW pulled into the circular driveway in front of the hotel and
stopped.  Rico Behring waited for one of the step-and-fetch-its to open
the door so he could slide out of the back seat.  Oscar Barbadillo,
who'd been driving, came around the car.  Rico was pissed, and he was
hot.  He headed directly for the door, relishing the thought of the
air-conditioning.  This tropical-humidity shit was getting to him.

"I hope that's the last schoolteacher from Cleveland the stupid cops
have us talking to, Oscar," Rico said, slipping off his coat and
slinging it over his shoulder.  "That was a goddamn waste of time and I
don't like to waste my time."

"From now on I'll talk to them first," Oscar said as they went through
the doors.

"The cops in this fucking place don't know what they're doing" Rico
lamented.  "It's now what... three days they've been looking for the
Reymond broad, and almost as long for the captain's friend and they
don't got a clue where either one of them is.  Not only that, they're
supposed to bring me the passenger that's got that bag and what do I
get?  An old lady with denture breath.  Jesus, Oscar, what do we gotta
do?"

Oscar shrugged.  "Well, the old lady was keeping a suitcase for her
friend who went to St.  Croix."

"Yeah, well, the wrong friend and the wrong suitcase."

They'd come to the bank of elevators and Rico watched the floor panel
impatiently.  He removed his tie and cuff links, stuffing them in the
pocket of his jacket.

"So, how many of the passengers have we tracked down?"

"About half," Oscar replied.

"The other half will be gone if we don't get our asses in gear.  Can we
get more cops on the payroll?"

"We're already making a lot of waves, Rico.  Maybe too many.  The
governor's starting to ask questions and people are thinking about
their jobs."

The elevator car arrived and they stepped inside.  Oscar pushed the
floor button.

"I think we've got to put the fucking governor on the payroll," Rico
said.

"Yeah, well, good luck.  We're on thin ice as it is.  What you'd better
hope is that Kidwell comes through for us.  I think he's our best
shot."

"What's he waiting for?  Isn't half a mil enough?  What is this guy, a
leech?"

"My guess is, he's having trouble putting his hands on the disks."

"Well, if she won't tell him where they are, he ought to beat it out of
her."

The doors opened and Rico pushed his way past a middle-aged couple
standing in the hall.  Oscar followed him toward the suite.

"What's with the broad from Miami?"  Rico asked over his shoulder.  "Is
she here yet?"

"Should be.  Her flight was due in an hour ago."

"I hope so.I could use a piece of ass."

They came to the door of his suite and Rico took the room key from his
pocket.  Unlocking the door, he pushed it open.

Standing at the window opposite was one of the finest sights he'd ever
seen.  Her back was to him, the waist tiny, ass round and tight,
well-shaped legs protruding from a black leather mini-skirt that
dropped just below the cup of her rear end.  She was small, but propped
up on four-inch heels, her legs looked long.  Her feet were spread
apart and her hip cocked, a hand with bright pink, inch-long nails
resting on the curve of her haunch.  More than anything, her appearance
was dominated by the huge mane of hair that dropped to below her
shoulders. It was tawny-colored with dark streaks.

She turned at the sound of the door opening.  Rico stood looking at
her.  She wore a leather halter top, exposing a well-tanned midriff.
Her boobs were not huge, but they were round and firm and proportionate
to her figure.  Her face looked small under the hair, except for her
leering dark eyes.  She had a small nose and mouth, though her pink
lips were full, like Rhonda's after she'd gotten the collagen shots.

"Well," Rico said, sauntering into the room, "what have we here--Miss
Miami?"

"This is Maria," Oscar said.  Then to the woman, "Honey, meet Rico
Behring."

She smiled at him, smacking her gum.  "So, Mr.  Big, huh?"

"Baby," Rico said, feeling an erection coming on, "if you're lucky,
you'll find out just how big."

She grinned, chewing her gum loudly.  "I can hardly wait."

"Yeah, well, ditch the gum.  You're coming to a classy operation
here."

Maria took the wad of gum out of her mouth and looked around for a
place to put it.  Oscar pointed to the ashtray on the table.  She
walked over and deposited the gum.  Rico, who had his shirt half
unbuttoned, finished taking it off and tossed it on a chair as he
watched Maria return to her place at the window.

"Thanks, Oscar, you done good," he said.

"Anything for my favorite cousin.  But if you'll both excuse me, I've
got business to tend to."

"Hold on, Oscar," Rico said.  "Could I ask a favor?"

"What do you need?"

Rico removed his wallet and took out his company American Express
corporate card.  "You've got good taste," he said, handing the card to
Oscar.  "Will you run downtown to one of those fancy jewelry shops and
pick up a little something for Rhonda?  A ring or a bracelet or
something."

"How much do you want to spend?"

"I don't know.  Five, ten G's.  All I care is that it looks
impressive."

"It'd be my pleasure."

There may have been some sarcasm in Oscar's voice, but Rico didn't
care.  He was liking what he saw too damn much.  As his cousin left,
Rico went to the most comfortable chair in the room, which also
happened to face the window where Maria stood preening.  The phone
rang.

"Shit," Rico said, deciding to ignore it.  Instead he contemplated the
curves of Maria's body, silhouetted by the late-afternoon sunlight
coming in the window.  Her big dangly earrings sparkled through her
hair.  Rico gazed at the hem of her miniskirt, half consciously
calculating the distance to pay dirt.  The phone persisted, so he got
up and answered it.

"Yeah?"

"Mr.  Behring?"

Rico didn't recognize the voice.  "Yeah?"

"This is Alexander Manring in the Cayman Islands.  I have some
information for you."

Rico tore his attention away from the woman, concentrating instead on
the voice on the other end of the line.  It was the man his father had
hired to cover the Caymans for them.  "Yeah, Manring, what you got?"

"We've had contact with Mrs.  Reymond."

Rico's brain clicked into full consciousness.  "No shit?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hang on a second, will you?"  He put down the phone and went to the
window where Maria stood.  He moved to within inches of her, close
enough that he could smell the heavy scent of her perfume.  She gazed
up at him, tilting her head, smiling as though it was the happiest
moment of her life.  He casually reached his hand out, letting his
fingertips touch her bare thigh.  Then he brought them up so that they
were just under the edge of her skirt.

"You got panties on under this, babe?"  he murmured.

"Yeah," she said, her mouth twisting into a wry grin.  "I happen to be
classy, too."

"What say we get down and dirty?  You go into the bedroom and take off
your panties.  Leave everything else on, though.  I like the outfit."

"And?"

"There should be a bottle of champagne in there.  Think you're strong
enough to open it?"

"You'd be surprised what I'm strong enough to do."  Rico gave the hem
of her skirt a firm tug, winked, then tossed his head, signaling for
her to leave.  He watched her pick up her shoulder bag from a chair,
then swing her butt as she made her way to the bedroom, closing the
door behind her.  He went back to the phone to finish his call.

"So, Manring, are you saying she's there, she's in the Caymans?"

"No, but she called the bank.  My informant, Cynthia, rang me up a
little while ago with the news."

"So what happened?"

"Mrs.  Reymond asked to speak to the manager.  Had a five-minute
conversation with him and that was it."

"We know where she called from?"

"No, unfortunately."

"Anything else?"

"Cynthia tried to eavesdrop, but couldn't get much except that they
were talking accounts.  Mrs.  Reymond asked a number of questions.  At
the end she indicated she was coming to the Caymans."

Rico beamed.  "Hey, that's beautiful!  Good work!"

"Yes, but we didn't get anything specific.  She didn't say when she was
coming."

"It's got to be soon, doesn't it?  The money's going to be there in a
few days.  Are you watching the airport?"

"Yes, around the clock."

"Well, start watching the bank every minute the doors are open.  Hire
as many men as you need.  Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

Rico hung up the phone, feeling great.  If Stephanie Reymond slipped
out of the Virgins, then they'd be waiting for her at the other end.
One way or the other, they had her cold.  Finally he had something
positive to report to his father.

Rubbing his hands together, he thought of the piece waiting for him in
the next room.  He was going to have himself the fuck of his life.

Isola Lovejoy

Stephanie checked herself in the mirror, knowing she didn't have long
before her host arrived.  She'd slicked her hair back again.  The image
was sexier, more in keeping with the tropical setting.  She wanted to
look her best, and there was nothing surprising about that-except for
the fact that it was Jack's reaction she cared about.

To her surprise, she'd enjoyed the tricks they'd played on the banker
and Tom Handley that afternoon.  She was probably showing more
enthusiasm for the enterprise than was wise, but she couldn't help
herself.  She was not only succumbing to Jack's allure, but to the
adventure.  Her inheritance was at stake, true, but the appeal went far
deeper than that.  Her whole life had been staid, predictable, proper,
controlled.  Now her situation was the antithesis of all that, and she
found herself not just drawn to it, but wanting to embrace it.

Jack had made a convincing case that, if she wanted her inheritance and
the estate she and Jean Claud had built, she had to join forces with
him.  Other than giving up, and leaving the field to Inter-America, she
had no real alternative.  Even if she tried to get the money through
legal channels, by the time the bank was compelled to pay her--assuming
that was even possible--the money could be gone.

Trust was the sticking point.  She'd been inching toward throwing in
her lot with Jack, though she continued to hedge her bets.  She was in
a vulnerable position, and he knew it.  And though he didn't quite have
her wrapped around his finger, she could not deny that she'd never
before felt the kind of connection with a man that she felt with
Jack.

Of course, there was probably a certain amount of self-delusion going
on.  She badly needed a champion.  And she wanted it to be Jack.  He
made her laugh.  He excited her.  He even scared her, in a thrilling
way.  Most of all, he made her feel vital, alive.  That was a lot from
a man who had bad news written all over him.  It also meant she was in
danger of being made the fool.  That, more than anything, held her
back.

There was a knock at her door.  "You about ready, sweetheart?"  It was
Jack.  "Nigel called fifteen minutes ago.  They should be pulling into
the cove any minute."

Stephanie took a last look at herself.  "I'm ready.  Just a second."
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and went to the door.

"My, my," he said giving her the once-over.  She was in a turquoise
silk shift, the last thing she could find that both fit and was decent.
"My last partner in crime didn't have your figure, or your brains."

"Thank you," she said, stepping into the hall, greeted by the light
scent of his cologne.  "But need I remind you we haven't made a deal?
I'm not your partner yet."

"Hey," he said, taking her chin.  "You aren't going to bust my balls
over this, are you?"

"I might."

"God," he said, rolling his eyes, "I hate women."

She snickered.  "Since when?"

"Well, maybe hate's a little strong," he said.  "I lose patience. Let's
put it that way."

"You mean you can't stand it when a woman says no and you're programmed
to hear yes?"

"For example."

"Jack, you're nothing if not predictable."

He drew her along the hallway, folding her arm over his.  "You can say
that already?"

"I'm a fast learner."

"That's right--Stanford.  Learned everything there is to know, except
about life."

She gave him a coy smile.  "You never give up, do you?"

"Give up what?"

"Seducing."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"That's exactly what I think it is," she said.

"Well, we're under some time pressure, Stephanie.  We've..  excuse me..
you've only got a week to ten days, which means I've only got that much
time to win your confidence.  Once that five-day window closes, the
thirty million is gone."

"I know that, Jack.  Better than you.  Don't forget, it's my money
that'll be lost."

"If you lose, sweetheart, I lose."

"Nice you can be so forthright about it."

"Be honest.  Would you believe me if I said I'm doing it out of
friendship or for the cause of justice?"

"You've got a point."

As they passed by, they could hear Tess in the kitchen.  They went
through the entry hall.

"I wanted to say a few things about Nigel before he gets here," Jack
said.  "He can be very direct, so don't take anything he says too
seriously.  He's basically a teddy bear and he has an awfully good
heart."

"Don't worry," she said, "I'm not made of china.  I've survived knowing
you, haven't I?"

"So far."

They went onto the veranda where they found Malva waiting in the dusk,
an extra glint in her eye.  Stephanie looked out and saw a gleaming
white motor yacht, all lit up, pulling into the cove.  Jack had told
her Nigel's boat, Rubber Soul, was a fifty-five footer, a real gem.  It
certainly was beautiful.

Stephanie glanced again at Malva and, seeing her expression, wondered
if perhaps she wasn't discovering what kept the woman on the island.
This repressed emotion was not an employee's anticipation at the
arrival of the boss.  There was something more between Malva and her
employer than the job, Stephanie was almost certain.  The only thing
she couldn't be sure of was whether the relationship was reciprocal.

When the yacht glided to a stop in the middle of the cove, not far from
the Lucky Lady Joseph, down at the shore, climbed into a launch and
putted out to greet the arrivees.  The three of them stood on the
veranda watching the disembarking process.  Half a dozen suitcases were
handed down to Joseph by a crewman.  Then a man in white yachting togs
climbed down the ladder into the launch, followed by a slender woman,
also wearing white.

"That is Francoise Gaudier," Jack said under his breath.  "Nigel's
goddess of the hour."

Stephanie checked, but Malva had moved on down the veranda and hadn't
heard.  She was glad.  "You speak of her with such reverence, Jack,"
she said.  "Do you know her well?"

"Not the way you mean.  But I did meet her once a few years ago.
Francoise was married to one of Nigel's clients at the time."

"Small world."

"Incestuous one, anyway."

The launch putted over the still water of the cove.  It was a calm
night, not so much as a breeze.

"Shall we walk down and meet them?"  Jack said.

They went down the steps and the sweeping lawn, leaving Malva on the
veranda.  They were halfway to the water when the launch reached shore.
Joseph clambered out and pulled the boat up onto the beach as he had
when Stephanie and Jack arrived.

Nigel stood, his chest puffed, a big, affable grin on his ruddy face.
His yachting cap was perched jauntily on his head.  He was a roundish
man, but not heavy.  "Kidwell, you old brigand," he chortled as they
approached.  "Jolly good luck to find you here!"

"Took haven from the storm," Jack returned.  "We're in your debt."

Lovejoy stepped out of the boat and turned to help a darkly elegant
woman who was about Stephanie's height and similar in build.  Stephanie
guessed she was around fifty.  Francoise wore white pants and a white
gauzy cotton blouse that left no mystery as to what was underneath. The
diamond on her right hand was enormous.

Jack stepped forward and he and Nigel clasped one another in a manly
embrace.  "It's been much too long, old bean," the Englishman said,
sounding genuinely thrilled.  "You know Francoise, of course."

To Stephanie's surprise, Jack kissed the woman's hand, making her laugh
giddily.

"Silly boy, Jack," she said, pronouncing it "Jacques."  "When did you
become such a gentleman, eh?"

"It's a recent conversion," he said, glancing back at Stephanie.

Stephanie wondered if this was more compulsive candor.  She moved
closer and Jack introduced her.  Nigel held the hand she'd extended in
both of his.

"A pleasure indeed."

"Welcome home, Mr.  Lovejoy," she said.

He chuckled.  "Lovely.  How delightful."  He glanced at Jack. "Smashing
young lady, mate.  You are coming up in the world."

"Good Lord," Jack said.  "You two've been here what, a minute?  And
already all my hours of image-building are shot."

"Rubbish," Nigel said.  "If Miss Reymond is half as intelligent as she
looks, she bloody well saw through you from the start."  He gave her a
wink.  "Stephanie, let me introduce my dear friend, Francoise Gaudier,
light of my life, lamp of my soul."

"Nigel," Francoise said with Gallic disdain, "you and Jacques are both
full of sheet."  As she shook Stephanie's hand, she arched her eyebrow
conspiratorially and said, "Monsieur and I sleep together, he buys me
things and that is all that binds us for this moment.  No lights and no
lamps."

Nigel laughed with sheer delight.  "What wit, what charm, what a
woman."  Francoise put her arm around his waist.

"So," he said, looking back and forth between Stephanie and Jack, "I
trust you two have been comfortable."

"It's been wonderful," Stephanie said.  "I've been clothed as well as
housed and fed."

"An, but of course," Nigel said.  "I thought that frock looked
familiar.  Forgive me for saying so, but I believe the last time I saw
it I was taking it off somebody."

"You see, cherie," Francoise said.  "The man may have boats and islands
and offices all over Europe, but he's still a beast."

"Tut, tut, Francoise," Nigel replied, taking her hand and starting for
the house.  "Having a man to clothe and unclothe you is what you ladies
live for.  It's no good denying it."

"Men are a necessary evil, I admit that much," Francoise replied.

Stephanie and Jack smiled at one another, then followed along behind as
the other two led the way, nattering with good humor.

"Nigel's quite a colorful character, isn't he?"  Jack said, slowing to
allow the others to move off.

"I can see why the two of you are friends."

He gave her a sideward glance.  "It was the clothe and unclothe remark.
I can see we may be in for a long evening.  Blimey."

Stephanie laughed, taking his arm again.  "Some things are just
unavoidable, Captain Kidwell."

During the course of dinner Stephanie made the decision to trust Nigel
and Francoise enough to take them into her confidence.  They were only
vaguely aware of her situation so, over after dinner drinks in the
drawing room, she told them about the last week of her life,
withholding only those details she hadn't yet told Jack.  They
listened.  From time to time Francoise would mutter, "Mon Dieu!"  or
Nigel would say, "How extraordinary!"  or "Good gracious me!"  or
"Bloody hell!"  Jack added details, particularly in areas where he had
special knowledge, but mostly it was Stephanie who recounted her
ordeal.

Her story took long enough that Nigel refilled their glasses with
Courvoisier, except for Jack who clung stubbornly to soda water.  "To
what do we attribute this unseemly display of temperance, old bean?"
Nigel had asked when Jack first declined a drink.

"I don't want drinking to get in the way of my responsibilities," he
replied.

That brought Nigel up short.  He squinted at Jack from his vantage
point in the big overstuffed chair that was clearly his favorite, his
ruddy complexion yet more florid from the brandy.  Nigel was balding
and unconsciously took a hank of his white hair, pushing it over his
pate with his palm.  "Good God, man," he said.  "You haven't found
religion or a woman, have you?  They're the only two things I know
that'll keep a bloke from a good time."

Francoise pulled her sandal off her foot and hurled it at Nigel.
"Scoundrel!"

Nigel, who'd caught the shoe, grinned at her.  "An, that tempestuous
spirit of yours, my love.  My, how it turns me on.  This may be a night
for ropes.  Otherwise I may not be able to cope."

"Petit coquin!"  She flipped her chin at him in typical French
fashion.

Nigel roared, sharing his glee with Stephanie and Jack.  He caught his
breath.  "But we digress," he said.  "Francoise and

I shall sort this out later.  Back to your predicament, Stephanie.

I confess I'm completely enamored with the tale."

"Someday I may laugh about it," she said, "but right now I have knots
in my stomach."

"If you wouldn't mind an observation," Nigel said, "I quite agree with
Jack, those disks must be recovered at all costs.  I dare say, thirty
million American is worth a bit of risk.  There's no chance this
alligator case you speak of could be recovered discreetly?"

"It would be tricky," she replied.

"Perhaps if you sent someone.  Jack.  Myself.  Francoise, for God's
sake."

"Why should she trust us?"  Francoise asked.  "Thirty millions of
dollars is still thirty millions, whether you have a boat and an island
or only an apartment in the fourteenth arrondissement."

"True, my love, but even those with gold must learn to trust. Otherwise
life is nothing but misery, paranoia and fear.  It was one of my
earliest lessons in life..  that trust in one's fellow human beings is
essential."

"Something a man would say," Francoise scoffed.

"What would you recommend Stephanie do, then, my darling?"  '

"If she wants help, she'll ask for it."

"I know I'm in no position to get those disks by myself," Stephanie
said, "but I hate to ask anyone to take a risk for my sake, especially
knowing there's no guarantee they've got the information I need to get
to the money."

"Well, I'd help you for the sheer hell of it," Nigel said.  "It would
be a lark."

"Stephanie hasn't asked for your help, cher," Francoise reminded him.

They all looked at Stephanie, who knew she'd reached a moment of truth.
She'd been putting Jack off out of fear, but she either had to walk
away from her inheritance or get help; that much had become clear.
Fortunately, even without her inheritance, she'd be able to live
comfortably.  She still had the house and any assets Jean Claud hadn't
squirreled away.  And yet it was becoming obvious that money wasn't the
only issue.  Something tugged at her to go for this.  It was the same
insistent urge that had been drawing her to Jack.

"I think Nigel's right," she told them.  "At some point I have to
trust.  If you're willing to take a chance for me, I'd be a fool not to
accept your help."  As she said it, she turned to Jack, who actually
looked relieved.

"Splendid!"  Nigel said.  "We must set about making a plan without
delay."

"It would help if we knew just what we're up against," Jack observed.

"Quite right, mate."

Again they all looked at Stephanie.

"Where is the bloody case, love?"  Nigel asked.

She took a careful breath.  "In a locker at the airport at Charlotte
Amalie."

There was silence as everyone pondered that.  Stephanie glanced at
Jack, wishing she knew what he was thinking.

"I shouldn't think fetching a case from an airport locker is an
insurmountable challenge," Nigel opined.

"You can be sure the airport is being watched," Jack said.  "And a
locker is such an obvious place.  I'm surprised they didn't think of
it."

"They had me under surveillance constantly," Stephanie said, "so I
asked a young woman from the plane to stow the case for me.  I gave it
to her on the plane and she gave me the key to the locker when we were
in the ladies' room, so they weren't aware what we did."

"Then Barbadillo and his friends were only half-right when they assumed
you'd given the case to another passenger," Jack said.  "The problem
is, if they track this girl down and she tells them what happened,
they'll be able to retrieve the case."

"Without a key?"  Francoise said.

"Sure.  The maintenance people would have a master key," Jack said.
"Unless Barbadillo is unable to find that girl, it's only a matter of
time before they have the disks.  It could even be happening as we
speak."

"It appears time is of the essence," Nigel said.  "We've got a bloody
ticking bomb on our hands."

"We have several ticking bombs," Jack said.

Nigel threw his head back, draining the Courvoisier from his glass.
Then he rubbed his hands together.  "I've been seized by the spirit of
adventure, mates.  My juices are beginning to flow, as they say."

"God help us," Francoise said.

Nigel wagged his finger at her.  "We need a plan, my love, not
prayer."

They engaged in a spirited discussion of how best to retrieve the
alligator case.  Nigel suggested that the four of them go en masse,
there being security in numbers.  Francoise couldn't see why they
didn't simply hire someone to go--they didn't have to tell them what
was inside.  "Half of St.  Thomas is on the alert for Stephanie and the
case," Jack said.  "I wouldn't hand the key over to just anyone.  It's
got to be one of us."

Stephanie pointed out they were looking for him, too, so they
tentatively decided that Nigel and Francoise should make the trip.
Unfortunately, that didn't solve the problem of the ticking bomb.  It
would take time to sail to the international airport at Beef Island.
Jack said the solution was to fly directly from Isola Lovejoy.

"You're suggesting a seaplane," Nigel said.

"Yes."

"Your friend, Bobby Brown?"

"Yes, that's what I was thinking.  Bobby's always been willing to skirt
the rules if a buck's to be made."

"Precisely the sort of chap we need."

"Not only would a seaplane get you to St.  Thomas more quickly," Jack
said, "but on the way out, there would be many more potential
destinations."

"Anywhere there's water," Nigel said.

"Exactly."

"I like it," Nigel said.

"And," Jack went on, "assuming the disks have the information Stephanie
needs, we'll want to get to the Cayman Islands posthaste."

"You can fly."

"That would be dangerous," Jack said.  "Especially if they're expecting
us.  It's a thousand miles, but we'll have the better part of ten days.
The Lucky Lady may be our best bet.  Stephanie and I could get a head
start, leaving here first thing in the morning.  Then, after you and
Francoise get the disks, we can rendezvous at sea, thereby saving a
couple of days."

"Bloody clever, that," Nigel said admiringly.  "Splendid." 
Splendid."

"Now that you men have planned your war," Francoise said, "we must hear
what Stephanie thinks.  After all, the decision is hers, nest-ce pas?
Everybody but me forgets that."  The Frenchwoman turned to her.  "What
do you think, cherie,"* How do you feel about the way these men have
organized your life?"

Stephanie appreciated Francoise's sisterly compassion.  Having her
there brought a little balance to her thinking.  When she was alone
with Jack, she lost all objectivity..

"I like your plan, Jack," she said, turning to him, "but it' asking an
awful lot of Nigel and Francoise.  Maybe I should go to St.  Thomas.
It's for my benefit so I should take responsibility."

Jack insisted it was too dangerous.  She'd almost certainly be
recognized.

"There's another way, Jacques," Francoise said.  She sipped her
Courvoisier, all eyes on her.  "Stephanie could go as me.  We are about
the same size and, though my passport would make her older than she is,
under sunglasses and a big hat, who would notice?"

Stephanie perked up at the suggestion.

"You were married to a Frenchman, cherie," Francoise said, "surely your
French is not so bad."

"It's not as good as it could be, but I'm fairly fluent."  "But you
would have no trouble speaking to the officials in English with a
French accent."

"No."

"There you are," Francoise said, again sipping her brandy.

"It would still be risky," Jack said.  "As a woman traveling alone,
you'd attract attention.  And if the customs people made you take off
your sunglasses and hat, it'd be all over."

"You have a point, old bean," Nigel said, smoothing the thin hair lying
on his pate.  "But she'd attract far less attention traveling with me.
Bobby Brown certainly wouldn't think anything of it.  As a matter of
fact, flying out here, Francoise and I talked about a shopping trip to
Charlotte Amalie.  We can still make that trip, only Stephanie would go
in Francoise's place."

"You see how quickly he becomes enthusiastic when firm flesh is
involved," Francoise quipped.  She winked at Stephanie.

With Jack demurring, it was agreed that Nigel taking Stephanie posing
as Francoise was the best plan.  But they still had the problem of
where they would go after they'd retrieved the disks.  A rendezvous at
sea with the Lucky Lady was risky, especially if Bobby Brown couldn't
be trusted.  They all pondered the dilemma.  Stephanie had an idea.

"What if the seaplane rendezvoused with Nigel's yacht, which in turn
rendezvoused with the Lucky Lady?"  she said.  "Your friend would never
see you or your boat that way, Jack, and nobody would be the wiser."

"Brilliant!"  Nigel exclaimed.  "Capital idea!"

Jack regarded her.  "Then you're going to St.  Thomas?"  he asked.

"Do I have to decide right now?"

"No," he replied, obviously concerned.  "I don't have to set sail until
morning.  You'll either board or you won't.  Either you'll be flying to
St.  Thomas with Nigel, or Francoise will."

"In any case, I should ring Bobby now," Nigel said.  "We're assuming
he's available to make the trip.  I'll tell him I've a lovely lady I
want to take shopping in Charlotte Amalie.  It's Stephanie's decision
who it'll be."

"Would it be all right with everyone if I slept on it, then?" Stephanie
asked.

"But of course," Francoise said.  "So long as it is understood that if
Nigel buys the black pearl earrings I've been talking about, I get
them, cherie, not you!"

"Deal," Stephanie said.

Nigel got to his feet.  "I shall ring Bobby straight away and get
matters settled.  And you, my lovely," he said, pointing to Francoise,
"have had a very long day.  Why not have a nice relaxing bath and make
yourself comfortable?  I shall join you forthwith."  He went over to
Stephanie and took her hand, leaning over to kiss it.  "Fear not, my
dear, we shall conquer this little problem.  Between Jack's sterling
brilliance, my indomitable courage and Francoise's good judgment, not
to mention great legs, the odds are in your favor."

"Thank you, Nigel.  You've been so incredibly kind, so hospitable." She
glanced at Francoise.  "Both of you."

Francoise came over.  The women embraced.

"You've had some terrible tragedies, cherie," Francoise said' "but
you've had good luck, too.  Jacques is a wonderful boy, a valiant
knight."  Then she arched an eyebrow.  "But don't trust him too far.
Some men are too attractive by a turn."

"Francoise," Jack said, "you were doing great right up to that last
remark."

"Oh, posh, Jacques.  You know what I say is true.  And so does she."
She kissed Stephanie on each cheek, then said, "Bonsoir

With that, she and Nigel left the room.  Stephanie turned to Jack.  He
didn't seem too upset.

"And you thought I was a lot to contend with," he said.

She sighed.  "I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get off of this
roller coaster."

He stepped over and took her by the shoulders.  Stephanie sagged
against him, suddenly feeling exhausted.  He held her, stroking her
head.

"Do you really think I should let Francoise go with Nigel?"  she
asked.

"I think you'd be safer on the Lucky Lady with me."

Her first thought was that there were all kinds of safe.  And though
she'd thrown her lot in with Jack, a part of her still felt a niggling
doubt about his motives.  Somehow it seemed that with Nigel she'd have
more control over her destiny.  When she was with Jack, she was
definitely lost--not altogether in a bad way-but lost nonetheless.

Jack paced back and forth in his room.  Through the open window he
could hear Francoise's muffled cries of pleasure.  No surprise there.
His friend was a typical satyr and Francoise the female equivalent. But
they were not his concern at the moment.  It was Stephanie who was on
his mind.

Jack had been thinking all along that he and Stephanie would retrieve
the disks, or that she might even send him to get them alone.  He
hadn't anticipated Nigel would throw himself into the venture, though
it wasn't out of character.  Actually, sending Nigel and Francoise made
a lot of sense.  What didn't make sense was Stephanie's going.

At first, he was certain that meant she didn't trust them.  But she'd
been forthright about the disks being in a locker.  That showed trust,
considering it gave him the information he needed to sell her down the
river.  Of course, if she'd lied about the location of the disks, it
meant he was the one being double-crossed.

Jack didn't want to think she could be that devious.  In fact, he knew
she couldn't.  But she could be that paranoid.  After all, she'd been a
prisoner of sorts ever since they'd set sail.  His prisoner.  Now she
had a chance to do as she wished.

As he heard Francoise Gaudier's final cry of pleasure drifting through
the night, Jack turned off the light and slipped from his room.  He
made his way through the dark to Nigel's study.  He was about to enter
when he heard voices from the veranda.  Stealing to the door, he saw
Stephanie sitting at the far end with Malva.  They were both wearing
nightgowns.  He moved a little closer to hear better.

"I think you're the only person who's ever noticed"' Malva said.  "I
don't know if that says much about him or about me."

"Men never pick up on those things," Stephanie replied.  "Even when you
do come right out and say something, half the time it scares them to
death.  I can't tell you how many times I tried talking to my husband
about our marriage, only to have him run from it.  He just didn't want
to hear how I felt."

"Don't I know."

"I think you owe it to yourself to have a talk with him," Stephanie
said.  "I really do.  You aren't doing yourself any good letting things
go on this way."

"I've wanted to for the longest time, believe me.  Just never had the
chance."

Jack wondered what in the hell they were talking about.

"Do you think he has any inkling?"  Stephanie asked.

"I think he knows that to me this is more than just a job.  But I'm not
sure he's wanted to figure out more than that."

"Sounds like a man."

"He cares about me as a person," Malva said, "but he's careful to keep
it at that.  I've always felt there could be more, but in my heart I
don't believe he wants that."

Were they talking about Nigel?  Jack wondered.

"There's a reason he's always got somebody," Malva said mournfully.
"Havin' a woman to play with keeps him from worryin' about havin' a
life with somebody.  I run his house.  I'm always here for him.  Don't
you know that makes me a whole lot like a wife.  Honey, I got the worst
of both worlds, and I know it, but I just can't let go of the man."

They were talking about Nigel!  Jack was astonished.  He knew Malva was
fond of Nigel, of course, but this really took him by surprise. Peeking
out, he saw Stephanie had put her arm around Malva's shoulders. Her
compassion impressed him.

"Only you know how long you're willing to wait," Stephanie said.  "But
at some point you've got to ask what's best for you."

"I know," Malva lamented.  "I'm lettin' my life pass me by.  I should
tell him I'm leavin'.  It won't make any difference.  He'll be sad
because he'll have to replace me, but that'll be it."

"Sometimes it's best to face the facts."

They sat in silence, Stephanie rubbing Malva's back.

"Ain't this crazy though," Malva said, wiping her eyes.

"You comfortin' me.  You're the one who's in duck soup, contendin' with
Jackie and all."

Jack could hear Stephanie sigh.  "Why is it women totally lose their
objectivity when it comes to men?"  she asked.

"Because we want them to be stronger and better than they are," Malva
replied.

"You know," Stephanie said, "I think you're right."

He felt a surge of guilt, and though her distrust cut deeply, he
couldn't claim to be wounded.  There was too much truth in her words
for that.

There was a silence, then Malva said, "You fallin' in love with
Jackie?"

Stephanie didn't immediately respond.  "I'm charmed by him," she
finally said.

"There's a difference, honey."

"Yes, there's a difference."

"Well," Malva said after a moment, "I've kept you up listening to my
woes, when you've got a big day tomorrow."

"Yes, I've got an important decision to make.  I have to decide if I'm
going to take charge of my life or leave it to somebody else.  And
that's a big issue for me because for years I deferred to a man.  I
don't want to do that again.  It's probably another reason I'm
resisting Jack."

He heard them getting up and walking across the veranda.  Hurrying back
to Nigel's study, he ducked inside, just making it to safety as they
entered the house.  Malva closed the front door and the women walked
toward the rear of the house.

"I don't know how you feel about Jackie or how he feels about you," he
heard Malva say, "but there's one thing I noticed in him I ain't seen
in a long, long time."  "What's that?"

"He hasn't seemed so alive to me in years.  Not since he was with
Alicia."

"The question," Stephanie said, her voice dropping to a whisper as they
passed by the door to the study, "is whether it's me or the thirty
million dollars."

"Thirty million?"  Malva said as they left the entry hall.

Jack couldn't hear what Stephanie said next, but he could have guessed.
Carefully closing the door, he retreated to the chair behind the desk,
where he satin the dark, pondering the situation.  He felt both pangs
of conscience and an aching tug at his heart.  His plan was still good,
he told himself.  But he did need insurance.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number at Sonia's former
mother-in-law's place.  It took a long time before the old woman
answered.  Jack apologized for the late hour and asked for Sonia.  When
she came on the line he said, "I know it's a bad time to call, and I'm
really sorry, but tomorrow's D day."

"Then it's about over."

"Yes."

"It couldn't come too soon for me."  Her Scandinavian accent was
stronger, perhaps because she was tired.

"It's been rough, I know," he said, "but I'll make it up to you, I
promise.  But there's one more thing I need."

"What's that?"

"I need for you to call them one more time, babe," he said.  "Just once
more."

Tuesday, October 1st

Isola Lovejoy

"Morning, everyone," Jack said, entering the sitting room.  Malva had
called him in from his boat where he'd been working since dawn.  To
Stephanie, he seemed more solemn than the day before, perhaps because
he knew what she'd say.  He only gave her a fleeting glance as he
plopped down on the sofa next to Francoise.  He patted the French
woman's knee.

"Sleep well, sweetheart?"

"As well as one can expect sleeping with Don Juan."

"Complaining, my love?"  Nigel asked.

"After last night, cheri, how could I?  The entire household could not
have missed my pleasure.  You were magnifique.  There now.  It's been
said.  No need for red faces.  Allons!  I believe we have business to
discuss."

Nigel beamed.  "Don't you love a woman who can bloody well tell it like
it is'?"  He gave Stephanie a wink.  "All right, then," he said, his
tone taking the timbre of an executive calling a meeting to order. "The
time is upon us, my friends.  Bobby Brown should be arriving in two
hours' time to take..  whoever... to Charlotte Amalie.  Stephanie,
what's your pleasure, love?"

Stephanie had made her decision, but when she engaged Jack's steady
gaze and felt his magic at work on her, doubt welled.  She wanted to be
with him, but she wanted it out of weakness, and that was the worst
possible reason.

"I've decided," she said, clearing her throat, "to go to St.  Thomas,
posing as Francoise."  She took a breath.  "Then, after I've gotten the
disks, I'll rendezvous with Jack as we've discussed.  If we have what
we need, we can sail to the Cayman Islands, assuming you still want to,
Jack."

He did not look happy, but she wasn't surprised.  "I'll do as you
wish," he said.

She glanced at Nigel and Francoise before giving Jack her full
attention.  "If we're going to be partners, we should have a firm
agreement, Jack.  Here's my offer.  I'll pay you twenty percent of
everything I recover from the bank, unless it's through legal
processes, in which case I'll pay you five percent.  If we're unable to
get any money, I'll pay you ten thousand for your time.  But I won't
take money that rightfully belongs to innocent investors.  Once I've
examined Jean Claud's books and tracked the money, I'll know how much I
can keep.  You'll get your cut out of that.  Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation.

She turned to Nigel.  "You're spending a great deal of money on this,"
she said.  "I'd like to pay your out-of-pocket expenses, regardless of
the outcome."

"I won't have it," Nigel said.  "Not on your life."

"But, Nigel, I--"

"Good God, woman, this is the most fascinating distraction I've
happened across since..  well, since I rung up Francoise last month and
she agreed to have dinner with me.  Lest you've mistaken my financial
situation, I'm quite solvent.  I'm doing this for the sheer hell of it.
Adventure.  Isn't that right, Francoise?"

"Mais oui!"  she said.  "We should thank you, Stephanie.  Excitement is
so important in life.  Last night was especially good for Nigel and me.
It's no mystery why."

Stephanie chuckled.  "Well, had I known ..."

"I dare say your contribution has been quite sufficient, Stephanie,"
Nigel said with a laugh.  "There'll be no more talk of money.
Disgusting American habit, that."  And he laughed again.

"On that happy note, I'd better make preparations to set sail," Jack
said, getting to his feet.  "I've got some distance to cover and I
don't want to be in the cove when Bobby arrives."

The others rose.

"I've already talked to my men on the Rubber Soul," Nigel said.  "The
captain has his charts ready and is prepared to discuss coordinates and
so forth.  Francoise will Sail with them rather 'than stay here."

"I will say au revoir now, Jacques."  She took him by the shoulders,
pulled him down and kissed each cheek.  "Bon voyage, eh cheri?

"Have a good trip, Francoise," he said.

She patted his cheek.  "Ciao."  She was gone.

Jack turned to Nigel.  "With Joseph's help, I've helped myself to some
fuel and supplies from your stock.  And I've borrowed some batteries
and emergency equipment from your crew.

"If there's anything more you require, Jack, don't hesitate to ask."

Jack turned to her.  "Stephanie, I do need to talk about the
arrangements I've made for you in St.  Thomas."

"Why don't I wait for you outside then, mate?"  Nigel said.  "We can
walk together down to the launch."

"Fine."

Stephanie knew Nigel was giving them a chance to be alone.

She was glad for the privacy, but also tense, not knowing what Jack was
going to say.  Once Nigel had gone, Jack moved over to where she stood.
The grin on his face was vintage Jack

Kidwell, but she saw disappointment in his eyes.

"Nobody will ever accuse you of being overly cautious," he said.
"You've got balls, sweetheart."

"I hope you don't take my decision personally," she said.

"I do, but that's okay."

Jack took both her hands and Stephanie stared down at his fingers,
feeling the way she had when she'd said goodbye for the last time to
her high-school boyfriend.  Derek had been headed to Princeton and she
to Stanford.  They'd been in love the way children are.  After he'd
kissed her, she'd been certain they'd marry someday.  But by Christmas
they were no longer corresponding, let alone thinking of marriage.
Derek spent the holidays skiing in Vermont while she'd gone to Hawaii
with her mother and Jane.  She'd met a guy from Cal, Berkeley, on the
beach in Maui and he had dispelled any notion of a correlation between
physical attraction and a boy's suitability for marriage or any other
serious relationship.

Now here she was with Jack Kidwell, in many ways still the naive girl
she'd once been.  The difference was, she was looking back on a
misspent life, not a lost love or two.  At eighteen she'd been looking
ahead to a lifetime of happiness.  What she saw now was a rare, perhaps
final, chance at romance slipping through her fingers.  She could grab
it, sure, but there would almost certainly be a price to pay.

"Are you mad at me, Jack?"  she asked.

"Of course not.  Why should I be?"

"Your lips are saying one thing, your eyes another," she said.

"Stephanie, if you knew what I was thinking, you'd have slapped me
already."

She tilted her head defiantly.  "You're trying to make this hard for
me, aren't you?"

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, caressing her cheek, "this isn't goodbye
forever.  It's just for a couple of days."  He paused for a heartbeat.
"Isn't it?"

"That's what I was thinking.  Weren't you?"

"Well, once you get the disks, there's nothing to keep you from heading
right for the Caymans."

"I wouldn't do that," she said.

He contemplated her for several moments.  "No, I guess you wouldn't."

"What if our situations were reversed, Jack?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by saying I'd do the same.  The truth
of the matter is, I don't know what I'd do."

She peered into his eyes, feeling a deep stirring.  "Thank you for
having the integrity to admit it."

"I guess having integrity is something," he said, smiling sadly.

"You know why I decided to go get the disks myself, Jack?  Because I
feel the need to take charge of my own life.  That's suddenly become
very important to me."

He considered that before he finally nodded, his eyes a bit moist.
'oddly enough, I think I understand."  Then he reached under his shirt
and pulled a small handgun from under his belt.  "I keep this on the
boat, but seeing as I won't be transporting precious cargo until we
rendezvous, I want you to have it.  It won't hurt to be prepared."

"What about customs?"

"If they're suspicious enough to search your purse, you're already in
trouble.  If you're determined to do this, then you should have the
gun, Stephanie."

He weighed it in his palm.  She gazed down at the shiny metal and
shivered.  Jack put it in her hand and said, "I've talked to Sonia.
She'll be waiting for you outside customs."

Stephanie nodded.  "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

"Well, time's a-wasting," he said.  "I've got a long way to go."

A deeper feeling of desperation went through her.  Jack must have seen
it in her eyes because he took her hand.

"You know, I'm basically a gentleman," he said, "hard as that may be to
believe.  But I'm going to risk my reputation and kiss you goodbye."

With that, he took her into his arms and kissed her, lightly on the
lips at first, then more deeply.  She kissed him back, glad he'd read
what was in her heart.  And after brushing her cheek affectionately
with his fingers, he gave her chin a squeeze.  "Good luck, sweetheart,"
he whispered.  "I'll be thinking about you."  Then he left.

Malva had found a suitcase for her as well as more clothes.  Francoise
had brought a few things, too.  Stephanie picked out what she wanted
and Malva helped her pack.

As Stephanie folded the jacket, skirt and blouse she'd worn on the
plane from San Francisco, she marveled at how much they seemed like
artifacts, relics from a bygone era.  It was incredible to think that
had only been four days ago.  Four morning papers, four breakfasts.  At
home it wasn't even time for a change of sheets.  And yet she felt not
only that her life had changed, but that she was a different person--or
at least one in transition.

"I've decided to quit my job," Malva told her.  "I'm not tellin' Nigel
until he gets back, but I wanted you to know.  I've been livin' on my
dreams too long."

"I know the feeling."

"What was your dream?"  Malva asked.

"I guess all my dreams were for my daughter.  I was just existing.
Looking back on it, I'm embarrassed that I was so passive for so
long."

"Weren't you getting' a divorce when your husband was killed?"

"Even that was more Jean Claud's doing than mine.  He forced my hand
and I didn't even know it."

Malva held up two nightgowns.  "Want to pack both or choose one?"

"Neither.  I kind of like sleeping in a T-shirt.  I've been doing it
since the boat."

"A lot of folks in the Caribbean don't wear a thing to bed."  Stephanie
wondered if she could do the same, if she could spend her life in the
tropical air, living slowly, sensuously, like Malva and, for that
matter, Jack.  What would she be giving up if she didn't go home?  A
few friends, her house.  She'd always liked San Francisco.  Northern
California was a wonderful place, but had it outlived its usefulness?
With Zanny and Jean Claud both dead, there was no compelling reason to
return.  But did she belong anywhere else?

Stephanie glanced over at the picture of Zanny, which she'd put on the
dresser.  Though she'd looked at it a couple of times since her
arrival, she hadn't really dwelled on it.  Her daughter had not been
central to her thoughts to the same degree she had been the past
year.

She went over and picked up the photograph.  That knot she always got
in her chest soon followed.  She sank onto the bed, caressing the frame
with her thumbs.

"You miss your baby, don't you?"  Malva said, sitting next to her.

Stephanie couldn't speak.  She gave a little nod.

"I never had a child," Malva said.  "Which probably explains why I'm
the way I am."

"It's no consolation, I know," Stephanie croaked, "but the one thing
worse than not having a child, is having one and losing her."  She
stared at Zanny's beautiful face.  "But you know, Malva, this ordeal
has awakened me to one thing I didn't fully appreciate before--it isn't
right to live on the memory of my daughter, any more than it was right
to live my life through her when she was alive."

"You're a lot stronger than you think, honey.  We all are," Malva said,
putting her arm around Stephanie's shoulders.

"I don't feel it now.  In fact, I feel like crying."

"How long has it been since you've had a good mama-like hug?"

"Far too long."

"Well, you come and get yourself one now."

The two of them embraced and within moments Stephanie was weeping, the
pent-up anxiety of days pouring out of her.  She hadn't had anyone hold
her when she cried since her mother died years before.  When she
finally stopped, Malva got her a few tissues from the dresser. 
Stephanie blew her nose and dabbed her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Tears are never a reason to be sorry."

"I didn't realize how badly I needed to do that."

"I did," Malva said.  "I could see it comin'."

"You've been very kind.  A godsend."

"And you've been like a fresh breeze for us, honey," Malva said,
sounding a bit wistful.  "I can see why Jackie likes you so much."

Stephanie carefully wiped the corners of her eyes.  "You really think
he does, Malva?"

"Oh, he does, all right.  And if I had to guess, I think he might
regret that money that's standin' between you as much as you do."

"I'm not sure I believe that."

"Time will tell, now, won't it, honey?"  The woman laughed.  "Believe
me, it's a whole bunch easier to solve other people's problems than
your own."  Malva gestured for her to get up and get to work.  "Come
on, now, let's finish packin'.  Bobby Brown should be circlin' overhead
any minute now.  You best be ready."

"You know about Bobby?"  Stephanie asked, putting the last of the
folded clothes into the case.

Malva gave her a level look.  "Stephanie, there ain't nothin' that goes
on in this house that I don't know about.  Not a thing."

Stephanie and Francoise stood on the veranda waiting for the seaplane.
Stephanie wore a big floppy hat and huge sunglasses.  In her purse she
had Francoise's passport, the locker key and the gun.  While they
waited, Francoise had been talking about shopping in Charlotte Amalie.
Stephanie managed to say enough to keep the conversation going, but she
was thinking about Jack and second-guessing herself.  A big part of her
wished she were on the Lucky Lady right now.

"I'm sure I don't have to say this," Francoise said, "but don't worry
about Nigel.  He might be randy, but he's a gentleman."

"Oh, I know.  I'm not worried about him."

"Jacques, then?"

Stephanie nodded.  "In my shoes, would you trust him?"

"Trusting any man is a gamble.  Tiens.  It always comes down to what's
in it for them.  But if I had to put myself into some man's hands,
Jacques would not be a bad choice."

Everybody seemed to like Jack and had good things to say about him. But
they weren't the ones dangling millions of dollars before his nose.
Stephanie decided the one absolutely honest thing he'd said was when he
told her that he wasn't sure what he'd do if their situations were
reversed.

"It could be that I'll never find out how trustworthy he is," Stephanie
said.  "Nigel and I may fail to get the disks.  We might even get
arrested."

"But you're brave, cherie, that will help you carry the day."

Stephanie could only hope that was true.  Yet brave was not a word she
normally associated with herself.  Nor would Francoise, had she known
her just a week ago.  But if Stephanie truly had grit, surely it had
been there all along.  What had made the difference?  Circumstance?

They gazed Out at the cove.  The Lucky Lady was gone but Nigel's boat
remained anchored.  Francoise wouldn't set sail until after the
seaplane left.  Then-with Nigel's assistance, Stephanie realized it
would all be in her hands.

"Le voila'!"  Francoise said, pointing to a plane emerging from a big
fluffy cloud to the west.  "Finally."

As the plane descended, Stephanie was able to see the floats hanging
below the craft.  Chartering a seaplane had been a clever idea.  It was
fortunate Jack had a friend that owned one.  She could only hope not
too fortunate.

The plane circled a hundred feet above the treetops, its engine loud.
Nigel, who was with Joseph at the water's edge, waved at her to join
him.  All morning, he'd been like a boy waiting for a pony ride.

"AZlez," Francoise said.  "Monsieur le general vous fait venir."

The women embraced.  Malva and Tess had come to the door to witness the
departure.  Stephanie gave them each a final hug goodbye.  Before
they'd left her room, Stephanie had given Malva five hundred dollars to
help her get started in her new life, which the housekeeper had refused
to take until Stephanie insisted.

Her purse in hand, Stephanie walked down the lawn.  Joseph had their
bags in the launch, ready and waiting.  He and Nigel helped her aboard,
then Nigel climbed into the boat.  Joseph, with scarcely any strain,
lifted the bow and shoved the launch back into the lapping waves.  Once
they were floating, he lifted his large legs over the gunwales, his
pant legs dripping wet at the bottom.  After moving to the stern with
the agility of a big cat, he started the outboard motor.  As they
putted out into the cove, Stephanie turned and waved to the three women
on the veranda.  They all waved back.

Passing Nigel's yacht, they glanced up at the two crewmen who'd been
observing the proceedings with equanimity, breaking their stance only
to give Nigel a casual salute, which he returned.  He was seated in the
bow and looked back at Stephanie, grinning from one ear to the other.

"Grand, isn't it?"  he said enthusiastically.  "Splendid morning!"

Stephanie nodded in response, amused and afraid, aware once more how
terribly far she was from Mill Valley.

"Another proof that the dragons in life are every bit as important as
the roses!"  Nigel said over the loud putting of the outboard.  "Every
man needs a good battle from time to time."

"And a good nurse, nest-ce pas?"  she could almost hear Francoise
say.

They slowed as they approached the seaplane, which bobbed in the gentle
waves at the mouth of the cove.  The door had been opened and Bobby
Brown, a tall, slender man wearing a khaki shirt and pants and aviator
glasses, was standing on the float, waiting for them.  This, Stephanie
reminded herself, was the father of the girl Jack had been making love
with on the Lucky Lady.  There was no particular significance to that,
apart from the fact that Jack had entrusted them to Bobby's care, and
yet she felt a sense of shame, if only on Jack's behalf.

Joseph slowed the launch.  Bobby, obviously a veteran with tourists,
had a chamber-of-commerce smile on his lips as he waited for the bow of
the boat to nose up to the plane.

"Bobby, old chap!"  Nigel said heartily.  "Jolly good to see you."

"Hi, Mr.  Lovejoy, good to see you, too," he said, taking hold of the
gunwale.  His voice was a bit higher than his looks would suggest.

After tying the bowline to one of the struts on the plane, he pulled on
the side of the boat until the port side of the launch was flush
against the float.  A broad smile still on his handsome face, Bobby
nodded at Stephanie.

"I'd like to present my dear friend and travel companion, Bobby Brown,"
Nigel said.  "This is Francoise Gaudier from Paris, France."

"Enchantee, monsieur," Stephanie said, offering her hand.

"Howdy, ma'am," Bobby said.  "Nice morning for flying."  He inclined
his head in a conspiratorial signal to Nigel as if to say he approved.
"Let me help you aboard and we'll get under way."

It only took a few minutes to get their luggage in the hold and for
them to clamber aboard.  Stephanie took the rear seat.  Nigel sat in
front with Bobby.

As the pilot prepared for takeoff, Stephanie watched for signs of
treachery.  So far there'd been nothing.  Bobby Brown seemed like a man
eager to make a buck, doing his thing with the tourists.

The engine roaring, Bobby turned the plane into the wind and eased the
throttle forward.  They were soon skipping across the water, the waves
thumping at the floats like speed bumps.  Then, as they became lighter
in the water, the vibration was reduced to a rapid tap, a sort of
tattoo that suddenly stopped as they lifted steeply into the sky.

Stephanie glanced back over her shoulder as the Isola Lovejoy dropped
away.  It had the appearance of a giant lily pad fringed with sparkling
sand.  Before they banked, she caught a glimpse of the beach where Jack
had taken her to swim.  A stab of sadness went through her as she
recollected that evening.  A part of her deeply regretted they hadn't
made love.

In front, Nigel and Bobby chatted, but Stephanie couldn't understand
what they were saying because of the noise of the engine.  She felt
oddly calm, though underneath there was residual tension.

After they'd been airborne for fifteen or twenty minutes, she pressed
her head against the window and stared down at the sea.  They weren't
flying at a very high altitude, perhaps only a couple of thousand feet.
In the aqua blue water she caught sight of a yacht, its white sail
gleaming in the morning sun.  She wondered if it was the Lucky Lady. It
seemed about the right size and, as best she could tell, they had
traveled about the distance Jack would have covered in the time he'd
been at sea.  Before the boat slipped from view, she had a glimpse of a
solitary figure in the cockpit.  She wanted to think it was Jack, that
he was doggedly making his way to their rendezvous point.

If she'd gone with him, they'd be looking up at the seaplane now,
knowing Nigel and Francoise were on their way to St.  Thomas.  But for
better or worse, she'd chosen a different course.

Long Beach, California

Ruth Moskowitz, Julius Behring's secretary of eleven years, arrived at
the office at seven and was dismayed to see her boss already at his
desk.  "Mr.  Behring, Mr.  Behring," she lamented, "why didn't you tell
me you were coming early today?  I would have been here to make your
coffee.  You think I don't care about these things?"

"It's not necessary, Ruth.  I don't need coffee the minute I arrive."

"Not necessary to you maybe, Mr.  Behring, but for me, it's necessary.
It doesn't feel right."

"All right, Ruth.  So get me coffee now, like a good girl.  You're
keeping me waiting."

She ran off, leaving Julius amused, shaking his head.  Ruth was the one
constant at Inter-America Ventures, his "faithful woman" in the office,
nearly as devoted to him as his dear Anita had been at home.

"Here's your coffee, Mr.  Behring," she said, returning.  Ruth never
called him Julius, except on those rare occasions when they discussed
personal matters.  In a business context it was always "Mr. Behring."

"Fine, thank you, Ruth," he said, continuing to look over the financial
reports from the folder she kept upto-date on the credenza behind his
desk.

The ritual was still observed though with less ardor now that he was
only marginally involved in the day-to-day operations.  Inter-America's
chief financial officer worried about the little numbers these
days-Julius concerned himself only with the bottom line.  And now that
he was down to visiting the office only two or three times a week, he
was perfectly aware he couldn't affect the little things, anyway.
Still, it was wise never to admit it.  People knew an old dog lost his
teeth, but they had to be kept uncertain if and when he might bite.
That was true of everyone--including his own son.

"Anything else you need, Mr.  Behring.?"  Ruth asked.  "I'm expecting a
call from Rico," he said.  "Be sure it comes right through."

"Yes, of course."

Julius gave a little flip of his fingers and Ruth withdrew, closing the
door to his office behind her.  He stared after her, her presence
staying with him longer than usual.  He wasn't sure why he was feeling
nostalgic of late, but he was.  That trip to Disneyland with Rhonda and
the baby over the weekend had affected him.  He'd strolled around the
teaming park, realizing that he'd never once done that with his own
wife and child.  It had been an eye-opener.  Julius knew that, as a
family man, his son was a jerk, but in his own way, he had been just as
bad.

The intercom line buzzed and Julius picked up the phone.

"Mr.  Behring," Ruth said, "Mr.  Green is here to see you."  Julius had
asked Abe to report to him about Rhonda's rug salesman, and they'd
agreed it would be in person rather than on the phone, though Julius
wasn't thrilled at the thought of Abe visiting their offices.  But
dirty work required the services of dirty people.  "Send him in," he
told the secretary.

Abe Green opened the door, stepping inside and closing it carefully
behind him.  ""Morning, Julius."

"Hi, Abe.  Thanks for coming.  Sit down."

His old friend looked around.  "Nice setup you got here, Julius.  I
assume it's a safe place to talk."

"This is the age of technology, my friend.  Daily sweeps of the office
for bugs is a way of life."

Abe unbuttoned his coat and dropped into a chair.  "Yeah, well, I guess
I'm old-fashioned."

"So," Julius said, "you got a report for me on the rug schmuck."

"Yeah."

"Did Mr.  Hachigian get our message?"

"He shipped the wife and kids off to Michigan and he's trying to sell
the store."

"Sounds like he did get the message."

"I think so, Julius."

"According to Wayne Driscoll, he hasn't tried to get a hold of Rhonda.
She's been staying home with the kid, going to the grocery store, the
usual stuff."

"Looks like maybe your kid's marriage is saved," Abe said, folding his
hands over his stomach.

"Thanks to your persuasive powers," Julius said.

"Hey, anything for a friend."

The intercom buzzed again.  Julius picked up the phone.  "Mr. Behring,"
Ruth said, "it's your son on line two."

"Thanks."  He put down the receiver a moment.  "So, what's your
assessment, Abe?  We seen the last of Hachigian?"

"I'd say yes, but he's a putz.  Sometimes they fool you."

"Stay on him, if you would, until you're sure he's out of town."

"Right.  By the way, Julius, how's it going with my one point five
mil?"

"Don't have anything definite yet, but I'm expecting a counteroffer on
that frozen-fish company I mentioned.  It's a nice little business,
Abe."

"Clean?"

"Very clean."

"No heads to knock around?"  Abe said.

"None.  Clean business is good for the heart, my friend.  The older I
get, the more I appreciate that fact.  Now if my son would just grow
up... "I hear ya," Abe said, getting to his feet.  "I know you gotta
talk to him."

"As soon as I have something on the fish place, I'll call you."

"I'll do the same with the rug guy," Abe said before slipping out of
the office, quiet as a thief.

Julius picked up the phone and pushed the button for line two.

"Rico," he said.

"Pops, we did it."

"You got our friend?"

"This afternoon we'll have her.  The sea captain's woman called.  He's
taking our deal.  Two o'clock give or take, he'll hand our girl over
here at the ferry port at the other end of the island from town.  In an
hour I'll have her sweet ass.

"What about the half million, Rico?"

"He wants it.  We won't get the disks until the money's in his Swiss
account."

"He gave you the number?"

"I'll get it at the dock when he hands her over."

"Wait a minute.  He's handing her over and then we're getting the
account number?"

"Sure, Pop.  We can't get the disks without payin' so he knows we're
going to deliver the bread."

"But if we've got her, won't we be able to get the disks as easily as
he can?"

Rico didn't say anything for a moment.  "Maybe he's already got the
disks, Pop."

"When?"

"Shit, I don't know.  None of that was in the message."

"That's my point," Julius said.  "If you don't know the answers, you
should be asking yourself if any of this makes sense."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Let me say it straight, son.  The sea captain is fucking with you.  If
he's had the disks all along, where did he get them?"

"From her."

"But she didn't have them when she left the island... unless she picked
them up on the way to the boat.  And that doesn't fit with the way
people have been behaving."

"Shit, Pop, maybe he came back himself and got them since."

"That's possible, I suppose, but I still think the sonovabitch is
fucking with you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Some things you feel in your gut, Rico It's like when you know your
wife's playing around.  It just comes to you.  Understand?"

Rico was silent.  "I was wondering if maybe it wasn't a little too
easy."

"That's always a good indicator.  Seldom is anything that matters easy.
What did Oscar say about Kidwell's offer?"

"He didn't say nothing, Pop."

"Nothing?"

Rico hesitated.  "All right, so he said maybe it sounded a little too
easy."

"But you didn't listen to him."

"We had an argument, Pop, what can I say?"

"So what's Oscar doing?"

"We got this call from the cops that they got a passenger from the
flight who said she took a bag from some other passenger and hid it.
Some girl on her honeymoon.  Oscar went to check that out."

Julius thought for a moment.  "You know, Rico, I don't like it that the
captain's got you going to the far end of the island.  You probably
intend to have your entire army there, don't you?"

"I've got most everybody down here, yeah.  I'm here myself."

Julius groaned, trying to decide how to deal with his son's stupidity.
"If you want my guess, son, at two o'clock the captain or the broad
will be coming into the airport or someplace else that is a long, long
way from the ferry port."

"You think?"

"Let's put it this way, I wouldn't assume he's showing up where he
says.  When, however, is a pretty good bet."

"Fuck."

"My sentiments precisely.  Look, Rico.  Post some of your people at the
ferry port, but you might want to scatter the others around, keeping
their eyes open.  Could be you'll spot Kidwell and the woman someplace
else.  And if I'm wrong, then I'm wrong."

"Right, Pop, whatever you say.  Anything else?"

"That's it for now," Julius said.  "Keep me informed, will:

you?"

"Sure."

Rico sounded a little dispirited, but Julius wasn't going to hit him
while he was down.  "Talk to you soon."

"Bye, Pop."

Julius hung up.  He thought for a minute, then buzzed Ruth on the
intercom.

"Yes, Mr.  Behring?"

"Ruth, get me on the next flight you can for the Virgin Islands, will
you?"

"Yes, sir."

Julius slipped the receiver back into the cradle and sighed.  After
living a charmed life, he realized that bastard, failure, may have
finally slipped up on him and had slapped him in the face.

St.  Thomas

They had flown down the Sir Francis Drake Channel, past the northern
shore of St.  John, and could see the rugged profile of St.  Thomas
looming ahead.  Below them, the St.  John ferry was doggedly moving
toward Red Hook Dock on the western :' tip of the island.  Stephanie
gazed down at it' recalling how she and Jack had made that same passage
in the dead of night, unaware of how severe a whack they'd get from the
tail of a hurricane.  Thinking back on it, she was amazed that they'd
made it.  And still more amazed that she was returning to St.  Thomas
of her own free will.

Bobby Brown got on the radio to check the weather.  As he did, Nigel
turned to her, a grin on his round, sunglasses masked face.  "Well,
makune, only minutes to duty-free shopping."

"I can hardly wait, cheri," Stephanie said, trying to affect the sort
of enthusiasm Francoise would have showed.

Nigel reached over the seat and patted Stephanie's knee.  If he guessed
she was nervous, he was right.  They'd land soon.  The first challenge
was to get safely through customs, then hope none of Oscar Barbadillo's
boys would be waiting on the other side of the gate.

Another five minutes and Charlotte Amalie appeared through a break in
the puffy cumulus clouds.  Bobby began his descent, having gotten
clearance to put down at the seaplane facility in the harbor.  As they
approached Fisherman's Reef Point, Bobby pointed out one of the larger,
twin-engine seaplanes taking off from the harbor on its way to St.
Croix.

Tracing the rim of the bay, they dropped below a thousand feet, then
banked sharply over the town.  Bobby aligned the craft with the lane as
they passed over a parasailer moving parallel to the shore.  Then they
dropped sharply toward the water, leveling off just before the floats
began clicking the tips of the waves.  Once the engine had been cut,
they slowed quickly, settling into the water.  Bobby taxied to the edge
of the course and waited for a launch to pick them up and take them to
the customs house.  Stephanie had to will her muscles to relax.

"I fancy you'll adore Charlotte Amalie, Francoise," Nigel said.

Stephanie peered out the window through her dark glasses.  "Oui, C 'est
beau."

"Your first trip to St.  Thomas, ma' am?"  Bobby asked.

"No, monsieur," she replied in her phony French accent.  "The last time
I was just passing through and I didn't get to see much."

"This time we'll pick up a few things, won't we, darling?"  Nigel
said.

"You can't beat the shopping," Bobby said.  "That's for sure."

The launch from the seaplane airline arrived and they disembarked under
Bobby's supervision.  Stephanie took a seat while Nigel stood where he
could talk to Bobby, who'd climbed down on the float.  The wind tossed
Nigel's thin hair and he patted it down with his palm.

"We're agreed on arrangements, are we, then?"

"You've got my beeper number, Mr.  Lovejoy," Bobby said.  "I'll be
standing by the next forty-eight, like I said."

"Capital."

"You figure most likely tomorrow, right?"

"My guess is it'll be tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be ready."

Nigel nodded and took a seat next to Stephanie.  He took her hand, as
he would Francoise's, but Stephanie thought nothing of it.  if she had
to return to St.  Thomas, she could imagine no better way than in the
company of a flamboyant Englishman.  Nigel was better than the best
disguise.

The launch, operated by two men, headed for shore and the customs
house.  The American flag flying over it seemed somehow false.
Stephanie had become so distrusting of the world that nothing familiar
seemed safe anymore.  The only certainty in her life was uncertainty.

When the launch pulled up to the dock, Stephanie was overcome with
dread.  Her legs felt weak.  With help, she climbed onto land as two
uniformed officers watched.  One of the men from the boat pointed
toward them and an officer beckoned them over as a porter with a hand
truck took their bags.  Nigel grasped her arm and they began walking
toward the building.  With Jack's gun in it, her purse felt as if it
weighed a ton.

"Steady, love," Nigel said from the corner of his mouth.

Stephanie had to remind herself to breathe.

"I'll be stocking up on spirits, you can count on that," Nigel said
with full-throated cheer.  "Marvelous prices.  Even our own scotch
whiskey is incredibly cheap."

The officers, both in sunglasses, watched them approach.

"Is this true of champagne, aussi?"

"Oh, yes, my love.  Better prices than in Paris."  He nodded to the
officers.  "Gentlemen."

They entered.  The building was virtually empty except for three
customs officers, one of whom was speaking with a woman voicing a
complaint rather loudly.

Nigel bellied up to the counter a few steps from the woman. "Afternoon,
gentlemen," he said cheerily as he presented their passports.

"Afternoon, sir," a young, lanky fellow said.  "Welcome to the U.S.
Virgin Islands."

"Thank you indeed."

He glanced at Stephanie.  "Ma'am."

"Bonjour, monsieur."

"You're coming from..."

"British Virgins most immediately," Nigel replied.  "Popped over for a
bit of shopping."

The officer looked at the covers of the passports, then opened them. He
gave Stephanie a long, appraising look and she smiled back at him, her
heart tripping wildly under the calm demeanor she affected.

"Vous ees francaise?"  he said.

"Oui, monsieur, C 'est juste.  J'habite a' Paris.

"Gay Paree, huh?"

Stephanie smiled.  "Eet ees not always so gay, monsieur, but eet ees
always Fame."

"No place like home."

"Mais oui, monsieur."

The officer turned his attention to Nigel and asked if they had
anything to declare.  Nigel said no.  "And when we returned to Virgin
Gorda we planned to say the same thing to the British customs chaps.  I
trust you don't have any mates over there."

The man laughed as he stamped their passports.  "Man, you can smuggle
on that side of the border all you want."  He handed back the
passports. "Have a nice visit."

It was all Stephanie could do to keep from sighing with relief.  Nigel
signaled to the porter to follow and they went out the front door to
freedom.

"God," Stephanie said out of the corner of her mouth, "I thought I'd
die."

"Francoise would be proud of you."

Ahead was the gate.  A single police officer stood outside, chatting
with a boy with a small tub of iced soft drinks at his feet.  At the
curb beyond them was a blue Toyota, the driver, an attractive blonde in
a tank top, her hair swept up.  Judging by her conspicuous sensuality,
Stephanie figured it had to be Sonia Velasco.

As they drove, Oscar Barbadillo peered out the window of the patrol car
at the sea.  The young couple in back were whispering between
themselves, the cop humming softly what sounded like a reggae tune, all
of them oblivious to the fact that thirty million dollars was hanging
in the balance.

Rico had been so sure that Kidwell was going to deliver the woman and
the disks, that half a million dollars had done the trick.  But when
Oscar had heard that this was all to take place at the other end of the
island, he knew something was wrong.  "Fine," he told his cousin, "go
down there and deal with Kidwell, I'll talk to the honeymooners."

Oscar had been disgusted by his cousin's stupidity.  Rico had been so
sure that Stephanie Reymond was within his grasp that even that hooker,
Maria Riveros, in her usual state of undress that morning, hadn't been
able to distract him.  In a surprising show of maturity, Rico had sent
her off to the pool so that he and Oscar could talk business.  Their
discussion had soon turned into an angry shouting match.  Finally
they'd settled their differences by agreeing that each would do his own
thing.

The main problem now was that Rico had all their resources at the ferry
terminal and only one man was left at the airport.  The important
question was whether the bag and the disks were still in the locker as
the honeymooners said, or if Kidwell and the woman had already managed
to get to them.

The kid in back leaned forward and tapped Oscar on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, but are we going to be able to go after Tiffany shows you
where she put the bag?"

"Yeah, that's all we need."

"We aren't going to have to stay in St.  Thomas and be witnesses in a
trial or anything, are we?"

"No," Oscar said.  "It's nothing like that.  All we need is that
bag."

Tiffany spoke up.  "I didn't know there was stolen money in it," she
said.  "The lady made it sound like you were some kind of criminal or
something.  If we'd known you were working with the police, we'd have
given you the bag right then, honest.  I really thought she was in
danger."

"In danger of being caught," Oscar said.  "But don't worry.  Once I've
got the bag, you can go back to your hotel and finish your
honeymoon."

"We've only got two more days," Brian lamented.

"But you're earning yourself five hundred bucks for a few hours of your
time.  That's a new dishwasher or whatever, right?"

The cop driving glanced over at him and smiled faintly.

Oscar checked his watch.

"How long before we reach the airport?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes, Mr.  Barbadillo."

It was nearly two-thirty, which meant that if Kidwell and Stephanie had
arrived when they said, they'd either be in Rico's hands or on their
way to the airport.  The question was who would arrive first.

Stephanie leaned forward between the front seats, sighing with relief
at the blast of tepid air whooshing over her from the air-conditioning
vent.  They were on the highway leading to the airport now, Nigel in
front, next to Sonia.

Sonia had taken them to a quiet little bar on the waterfront where they
spent a few minutes laying plans.  Jack had wanted them to go to the
airport immediately, but they needed to be clear on who would do what,
and where they'd go afterward

Sonia had been friendly, but businesslike.  Stephanie had watched her
with near-pathological fascination.  She checked out her skin and her
figure, which was voluptuous, if augmented a little by the odd extra
pound or two.  This was a woman with ripe, earthy beauty, and she was
most definitely Jack's lover.  Stephanie had absolutely no doubt about
that.

Stephanie was fairly confident now that Sonia was as trustworthy as
Jack had said.  The woman was most definitely taking a chance in
helping them, which, in Stephanie's mind, confirmed her devotion and
allegiance to Jack.  The realization left Stephanie feeling as jealous
as she was relieved.  Sonia glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

"Jack tells me you're a recent widow."

"Yes."  Stephanie stopped to calculate.  "Very recent.  It hasn't even
been a week."  God, she thought, how was that possible?  She felt as
though she was midway through a second lifetime.

"Then you're still numb."

"That hardly begins to describe it."  Sonia glanced at Nigel.  "You
ever been married?"

"Regularly," he replied, giving her a wink.  "You're an addict, in
other words."

"I'm addicted to women, not wives, love, but I confess to occasional
bouts of weakness."

He chuckled, pleased with himself.  Sonia glanced back at Stephanie
with a knowing look.

As Sonia and Nigel chatted, Stephanie opened her purse, dug out the
locker key and weighed it in her hand, feeling a curious sort of
reverence.  To Jack and Inter-America Ventures, it was likely the key
to thirty million dollars.  But to Stephanie, money wasn't the only
issue.  There was principle involved.  This was her inheritance Jean
Claud had taken, after all, money that had come to her from her father.
Likewise, the portfolio they had accumulated over twenty years of
marriage belonged to her.  She was simply trying to reclaim what was
rightfully hers.

It seemed odd that the three of them were on this joint escapade, each
for very different reasons.  Sonia was doing this for Jack.  Nigel was
doing it more for his own pleasure than any other reason.  Stephanie
couldn't help wondering if they'd have the same enthusiasm for the
venture if they knew Oscar Barbadillo the way she did.

Sonia came to the turn for the airport.  Stephanie started giving
herself a pep talk, still disbelieving that she'd put herself into this
position.  Perspiration ran off of her, despite the blast of cool air
from the front.  In some ways, it was like her wedding day--a curious
mixture of hope and dread.  That probably wasn't a good omen, when she
stopped to think about it.

The terminal building came into view.  Taxis were leaving and arriving.
Jack was probably right--it was best to attempt this amid the hubbub.
Sonia pulled up to the curb.

"I'll wait here as long as I can," she said.  "If they make me move,
I'll pull up to the far end."

"Lovely," Nigel said, the expression, tossed off lightly, sounding
particularly absurd.

Stephanie reached for the door handle, but her hand was so wet with
perspiration that it slipped and she broke a nail.  "Damn," she
muttered.  Another bad omen.

She and Nigel were on the sidewalk now.  A couple of children came
running by.  One bumped into Nigel and went on without a word.  A
porter approached.  Nigel waved him off.  Stephanie wiped her upper lip
and adjusted her glasses, suddenly losing confidence in her disguise.
The locker key was in her fist.  She'd been holding it so tight that
her palm hurt.

"You look lovely, my darling," Nigel said.  "Never more beautiful."

It was an odd thing to say and completely irrelevant, but somehow it
made her feel better, which may have been his intent.  Stephanie girded
herself and took his arm.

They started for the entrance when she noticed a police car pull up.
Her insides clenched.  When the door opened and she saw Oscar
Barbadillo emerge, she stopped dead.  His sinisterly handsome face, so
frightening that day, made her quail.

"Darling?"  Nigel said.

Stephanie managed to catch her breath only when she realized Barbadillo
hadn't seen her; he wasn't even looking her way.  Instead, he opened
the rear door of the car.  A young woman emerged, followed by a young
man.  When she realized it was Brian and Tiffany Harvey, the newlyweds
from the plane, she gasped.

"Who are they?"  Nigel asked quietly.

Stephanie ducked her head and pulled Nigel in the other direction.  "My
God," she said under her breath.  "It's the man who kidnapped me and
they have the girl with them who put the case in the locker.  They must
be coming for it."

Nigel's mouth was agape.  "What rotten bloody luck."

Stephanie took a peek.  Barbadillo, Brian and Tiffany headed into the
building.  She was unsure whether to leave or stay to see what would
happen next.  Since the trio seemed unaware of her presence, it seemed
safe enough to watch them from afar.  The one good thing was she at
least knew they weren't lying in wait for her.

Still holding Nigel's arm, she went with him inside the cavernous
building.  A tour group flowed around them like sheep passing a rock. A
baby cried, drowned out by the incoherent bellow of the public address
system.  Barbadillo and the Harveys met up with Carlos, the man at the
apartment where Oscar had taken her.  The entourage headed for the bank
of lockers.  Stephanie and Nigel drifted along behind.

"Rotten bloody luck," Nigel mumbled again.

Stephanie saw that, barring a miracle, the game was over.  But
something drew her along.  She worried about the Harveys.  Presumably
the kids weren't in danger, probably having been duped by Barbadillo.
Still, given the kind of person Oscar was, she couldn't be certain. And
the fact that she was responsible for the pair even being there made
her sick.

The group had reached the bank of lockers where a couple of passengers
were busy depositing or retrieving luggage.  Tiffany went to the
lockers and walked back and forth, as though trying to remember which
one contained the alligator case.  Judging by the way she shook her
head, she wasn't sure.  Stephanie and Nigel ventured a bit closer, but
knew they had to keep a safe distance.

"One thing certain," Nigel whispered, "they won't be opening the locker
without assistance."

"Yeah, but what good will that do?"  she replied, squeezing the key in
her fist.

The group at the lockers conferred for a minute or two, then Carlos,
Brian and Tiffany were off, leaving Oscar Barbadillo behind.

"They're dividing their forces," Nigel said.  "Probably going to look
for somebody with a master key.  This jolly well may be the opportunity
we need."

"But Oscar's still there," Stephanie said.  Then, the gun in her purse
coming to mind, she added, "What can we do, shoot him?"

"If we could only divert his attention somehow."

It was apparent that would be necessary as Barbadillo kept an eye on
the people opening lockers, standing right behind them until he was
satisfied an alligator case wasn't being removed.

"Do you suppose if we set off the bloody fire alarm he'd leave?"  Nigel
asked.

"I doubt it.  Not until the flames overwhelmed him."

"There must be something..."

Stephanie got an idea.  "Oscar's a ladies' man," she said.  "A woman
might turn his eye long enough for us to grab the case."

Nigel looked around them.  "But who could we bribe or convince on short
notice?"

She stared at Barbadillo.  "Maybe he likes Frenchwomen."

"You, Stephanie?"

"I think it's our only chance."

"Don't you think he'd recognize you?"

"Maybe.  But the accent might throw him."  She pressed the key into
Nigel's hand.  "When I get his back turned, you get the case.  It'll be
one of those lockers where Tiffany was looking.  The number's on the
key."

He examined it.

"Once you've got it, go to the car," she said.  "When you're out of
sight, I'll follow."

"For God's sake, are you certain you want to do this?"

"Wasn't it James Bond who said, "You only live once'?"

"I never paid much attention to him in those films, to be perfectly
candid."

Stephanie gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  "Wish me luck, Nigel."

He could only mutter, "Good God..."

She headed for the lockers, weaving her way through clusters of
passengers, exaggerating the swing of her hips.  Oscar Barbadillo,
wearing a red polo shirt, spotted her when she was about twenty feet
away from him, his eyes immediately sliding up and down her frame.

"Pardon, monsieur," she said.  "But ees eet possible you have a
cigarette?"

Oscar smiled and for a terrifying moment Stephanie wasn't certain
whether it was because he recognized her or because he was flattered by
her attention to him.

"I've got a cigar, mademoiselle.  Would that do?"

"Mon Dieu!  Do I look like a cowboy?"

Barbadillo chuckled, flexing his large biceps.  "Sorry, I can't help
you with a smoke.  But maybe there's something else I could..."

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, throwing her head.  "It's
useless.  Americans don't smoke anymore.  Merde."

"You could always buy a pack," he said, checking out her body.

In the corner of her eye, Stephanie saw Nigel moving around behind the
Cuban to the bank of lockers.  "I have only French francs," she said,
"and the money exchange is... how do you say..  temporarily closed."

"I could loan you a buck," Oscar said.  "And later maybe you could buy
me a cup of coffee.  You arriving or leaving?"

"Arriving, monsieur."  She gave him a coquettish smile.  "How about
you?"

"Oh, I'm here for a while.  You alone?"

In her peripheral vision Stephanie could see Nigel struggling with the
key.  She had a terrible feeling the lock had been changed.  "Very
alone," she said.

Barbadillo, growing wary, started to turn.  Stephanie moved forward,
putting her hand on his chest.

"But I would love company, monsieur.  Perhaps I could buy you a drink.
Where do you stay?"

Behind Barbadillo, Nigel had gotten the locker open and was pulling the
case out when Oscar suddenly spun around, perhaps sensing something was
going on.  Seeing Nigel, he walked swiftly over as the case dropped
into Nigel's hand.  Stephanie froze with horror.

"Hey, what are you doing?"  the Cuban demanded, taking Nigel's arm.
"Who are you?"

"I beg your pardon, sir!"  Nigel blustered.

"This case doesn't belong to you."

"It most certainly does!  Take your hand off me!  I insist!"  Stephanie
knew she had to act and act quickly.  Opening her purse, she reached in
and grabbed the gun, but didn't remove it.  Then she poked the Cuban in
the back with the purse.  "Let go of him, Oscar!"  she commanded.

He glanced back over his shoulder and down into the open purse near his
kidneys.

"It's loaded and I'd like nothing better than to shoot you!"  she
hissed, trying to sound as vile as she could.

Oscar Barbadillo looked positively incredulous.  "Carumba!"

"Let go of him, damn it!"  she said through her teeth.

He complied, but somehow managed to smile.  "So, it's you, Stephanie. I
thought you seemed familiar."  Then he shook his head.  "You're never
going to get out of here in one piece."

"Yeah, well, if we don't, you're dead."

She glanced at Nigel, who was white as a sheet, his lower lip
trembling.

"Let's go, Nigel," she said.  "You lead the way.  Mr.  Barbadillo and I
will follow."

They started across the terminal building, Stephanie keeping her purse
clutched in her arms with the gun pointed toward the Cuban's back.  She
had no idea what she'd do if Oscar turned and hit her or started to
run, but she knew her best hope was if he was as uncertain as she.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," she muttered, recalling the
line she'd heard in a hundred movies.

Though she felt weak in the knees, there was also a sense of triumph
welling inside her.  The tables had been turned.

They stopped outside the building.  Sonia's car was no longer where
they'd left it, though the police car was still at the curb.  The sight
of it broke her confidence.  Then, remembering Sonia saying she'd be at
the end of the loading area, Stephanie peered along the row of taxis
and vans, finally spotting Sonia on the sidewalk, waving.  Nigel saw
her at the same time.

"There she is!"  he said, sounding relieved.

"Yes, but we have to walk past the cop."

"I'll divert him with a question," Nigel said.  "When I've gotten his
attention, you go on."

"Okay," Stephanie said, glancing toward the entrance, afraid Carlos
would appear.  "But hurry."

Nigel, the alligator case in hand, went off to speak to the cop.

"You actually think this will work, Stephanie?"  Barbadillo said under
his breath.  "We've got this island sealed up, tight as a drum.  You
might have gotten in, but you'll never get out."

"I'll worry about that."

"It's not too late to deal," he said.  "You take your inheritance,
we'll take our money and everybody goes home happy."

"Oscar, in case you haven't noticed, you're bargaining from a position
of weakness."

"You'll be sorry, querida."

Stephanie saw that Nigel was talking to the officer.  It was time to
go.  She gave Oscar a nudge in the back.  "Start walking," she
commanded.  "And no false moves."

They made it past the police car, Barbadillo strolling casually.  He
almost seemed too cooperative.  She knew he was planning something, but
what?  It also occurred to her she didn't know what she would do with
him.  He'd probably figured that one out, too.

They reached Sonia, who stared at them quizzically.

"Who's he?"

"The guard dog," Stephanie replied.  "We couldn't get the case without
taking him prisoner."

"Prisoner?  What do you plan to do with him?"

Just then, Nigel came hurrying up, red-faced and perspiring.  "Now
what?"

Stephanie agonized.  "I guess we have to take Oscar with us.  Maybe if
we put him in the trunk."

"Here?"  Sonia said.

"Pull the car up ahead, past those Dumpsters," Stephanie said.  "Oscar
and I will walk."

Sonia and Nigel got in the car and drove on.  Stephanie and Barbadillo
began walking.

"You're making a terrible mistake," he said.  "These people, that
European woman, works for Kidwell.  They're going to take advantage of
you, querida, believe me."

"Unlike you, right, Oscar?"

"You have the disks," he replied, "but I have the island.  You're
better off with me than with them."

"At least they haven't knocked me around, Oscar.  I recall how you
treated me."

"That was a mistake."

"You certainly have that right."

"They're going to take everything," he insisted.  "I can guarantee you
your share."

"Regretfully, I can't guarantee you your share, Oscar.  I'm going to
have to take it all."

Walking around the large industrial Dumpsters, they came to Sonia's
Toyota.  She and Nigel were standing beside it.  The trunk was open.
Oscar stopped and, turning to look at her, for the first time appeared
a little bewildered.

"Okay," Stephanie said, finally removing the revolver from her purse
and pointing it at his midsection.  "Get in the trunk."

"Shouldn't we make sure he doesn't have a gun or something?"  Nigel
asked.

"Good point.  Do you have a gun, Oscar?  No," she said, catching
herself.  "Stupid question.  Lean up against the side of the car, your
hands on the roof."

Barbadillo complied.

"Search him, Nigel," she said.

Nigel felt around Barbadillo's waist even though there were no obvious
bulges.  Then he tentatively felt the Cuban's legs down to his trouser
cuffs.  Nothing.  Nigel told Oscar to get in the trunk.  Muttering, he
complied.  Sonia slammed it shut

"That's that," Sonia said, "but now what?"

"I couldn't shoot him and I couldn't leave him there Stephanie looked
over her shoulder toward the entrance to the terminal.  "We'd better
get out of here."

They piled in the car and Sonia took off.  Stephanie, in back, only now
began to realize what she'd done.  Her heart was racing and her hands
shaking.  Nigel, who'd had Jane's case at his feet, handed it over the
seat to her.

"Here you go, love.  I believe this is what you came for."  She stared
at it as she cradled it on her lap, amazed.  Then it occurred to her it
would be a good idea to check it out.  How ironic if somebody had
already removed the disks.  She opened the zippered top and peered
inside.  Jane's laptop was there, the money and the disks, as well.
Stephanie took a deep breath and sighed.  "Lord, I can't believe it."

"We still have a problem," Sonia said.  "That man in my trunk.  We must
dispose of him some way."

"We can't kill him," Stephanie said.

"I'm not advocating that, but we can't take him with us, either."

"Can we dump him in some remote spot?"  Stephanie asked.

"It's not a large island.  It wouldn't take long for him to walk to
safety."

"Perhaps if we tie him up," Nigel volunteered.

"I don't have any rope in the car," Sonia said.  "We'd have to buy
some.  Within minutes the police will be searching for us.  We've got
to hide quickly."

"I think I have the solution," Stephanie said.  "Is there a remote spot
on the way, someplace that's off the beaten track?"

Sonia thought for a moment.  "Yes."

"Let's go there."

Back on the Harwood Highway, they headed west, instead of east toward
town.  After five or six miles, Sonia exited the highway, driving on a
gravel road into the mountains.  They were soon in dense vegetation.
Sonia turned into a side track that was scarcely more than two ruts in
the road.  They passed a deserted shack and up a ravine, finally coming
to a clearing, where they stopped.

"My former husband, Enrique, liked to do nude paintings of me in
nature," Sonia said.  "This is where we came."

She said it in a way that struck Stephanie as poignant.  "I'd hate to
desecrate it," she said.

Sonia dismissed the comment.  "It's for a good cause.  Besides, I don't
own the place.  Just the memories."

They got out and Sonia opened the trunk.  Barbadillo squinted at them
in the light.

"What now?"  he groaned.

Stephanie pointed Jack's gun at him.  "Get out."

He climbed Out, his expression defiant, disgusted, but not quite so
confident as before.  "So?"

"Take off your shoes and socks and throw them in the trunk."

The Cuban did as she said.

"Now take off your clothes."

"What?"

"Do as I say," she commanded, pointing the gun insistently, "before I
lose my patience."

"I dare say, I can jolly well miss this part"' Nigel said, returning to
the car.

"Doesn't bother me," Sonia said.

Oscar took off his shirt and pants, throwing them in the trunk.  He
stood in his shorts, unashamedly, though he was clearly angry.

"What do you think, Sonia?"  Stephanie said.  "Would it be completely
unladylike to humiliate him?"

"With a gun in your hand," she said in her soft Scandinavian accent,
"it's impossible to be ladylike."

"I agree.  It's too late for virtue.  Okay, Oscar, take off your
shorts."

His eyes narrowed.  "I promise you, you will hate the day you did this.
I will make you sorry.  You will pay, Stephanie.  You will pay
dearly."

"Take off the shorts and put them in the trunk."

He complied, peeling down his shorts and flinging them in the trunk,
clearly too proud to be ashamed.  His pride wouldn't let him turn his
back.  Stephanie and Sonia both stared at him.

"I've seen better," Sonia said after a moment.  She slammed the trunk
closed, then returned to the car.

Stephanie couldn't say the same.  He was considerably larger than Jean
Claud, but that was hardly enough in itself to make her want to linger.
"Back away, Oscar."

He did as she told him, stepping gingerly on tender feet.  Once he was
thirty feet away, Stephanie went to the car.

"Pray you never see me again," he called to her, "because you'll hate
it.  I promise you that."

"Maybe we should both pray we never see each other again," she said and
got in the back seat.

Sonia turned the car around as the Cuban watched.  Then, as they
started down the track, Barbadillo picked up a chunk of wood and hurled
it at the car.  It thumped on the trunk.

"Puta!"  he screamed.

Sonia stuck her arm Out the window, giving Oscar the Italian salute.

"Good gracious me," Nigel said.  "I've just witnessed a side of the
female psyche I've never ever seen before."

"Kind of scary, isn't it?"  Sonia said with a grin.

The sun had set but the suite was still aglow with color from the
western sky.  Julius Behring sighed uncomfortably.  His lower back was
killing him.  It had been a difficult trip and his body no longer
tolerated long hours of sitting as it once did.

The virtually naked young woman seated across the room had not spoken
for ten minutes now, and neither had Julius.  But, judging by the way
she was bouncing her leg, she was getting impatient again.

After cracking her gum a couple of times, she recrossed her legs and
said, "So, tell me, Mr.  Behring, why, just because you're Rico's old
man, do I have to do what you say?  Rico's the one paying me."

"Well, I've got news for you, Miss Riveros.  Rico can pay because of
me.  If he can't buy a cup of coffee, it's because I say he can't. What
I'm trying to tell you is that you're really working for me."

"Hey, don't go getting any ideas, mister.  I decide who fucks me and
who doesn't.  This is still a free country."

"I said nothing about sex."

"What are you saying, then?"

"I already explained.  I want us to wait together for Rico to return,
as we found each other."

"No offense, Mr.  Behring, but that's kind of kinky.  Why should I sit
around in a wet swimming suit?  If you was a gentleman, you'd let me
get dressed."

"I need you as you are so Rico will learn a very important lesson. Now,
please, I don't want to discuss this anymore.

"Geez," Maria said, snapping her gum before falling silent, though her
leg continued to bounce.  Julius was beginning to think he'd done
Rhonda no favor by saving her marriage.  Not that Rico seeing a hooker
was a big deal in the ordinary course of things.  It was Rico's timing
that was all wrong.

Dusk had fallen and Julius decided the room needed light.  He got up to
turn on a lamp and had just dropped back down in his chair when the
door opened and Rico came flying into the suite, Carlos right behind
him.

"if Oscar double-crossed us," Rico was saying, "I'll rip his balls off
with my bare..."  His voice faded as he saw his father seated under the
pictures of the Calypso dancers, the lamplight shining on his pale
face.  "Jesus ... Pop."

"Good evening, Rico."

His son glanced over to the other side of the room where he saw Maria
in her bikini, a severe frown on her face.  "Oh,

Christ," he said.

"Miss Riveros and I have had a nice chat while we waited for you, son.
I'm glad you've had an enjoyable time in the Caribbean."

"Pop, it's not what you think."

"Oh?"

Rico flushed.  He turned to Carlos, who'd stopped in the doorway. "Wait
outside," he told him.

"Come in, Rico," Julius said.  "And close the door."

He did as he was told.

"Look, Pop, I don't know what this cunt said, but she's just here, same
as a maid or a chauffeur or something'.  She doesn't mean anything.
I've been working my ass off.  A guy's got to eat and stuff."

"At thirty-five hundred a day, she's a very expensive meal."

"And nobody better think of screwing me out of my money neither," Maria
said.  "I blew off a regular to stay and party with Mr.  Big Shot, and
now I find out he's only junior."

"Shut the fuck up!"  Rico roared at her.

"Rico," Julius said, "sit down."

"Pop, listen to me.  We got a problem we gotta talk about."

"Rico, right now you're my problem.  We're going to deal with one thing
at a time."

"But listen, Oscar was at the airport with the people who hid the disks
for the Reymond broad.  And when Carlos went with the couple to get a
master key, Oscar disappeared.  He'd stayed behind to watch the locker,
and when they came back he was gone."

"That makes no sense, Rico."

"The cop outside said Oscar never came out of the terminal, which means
he sneaked out another way.  The bastard double- crossed us, Pop."

Julius held up his hand, silencing him.  Then he turned his attention
to the girl.  "Can you dress and get out of here in fifteen minutes?"

"If I get paid."

"How much do we owe you?"

"Well, it's more than five thousand now, but I'll settle for that.  I
didn't have to screw the prick this afternoon."

"You shut the fuck up!"  Rico roared again, pointing his finger at
her.

"Up yours, Rico.  I'm dealing with your old man now.  He's; at least
polite."

Rico started to get up, but Julius ordered him back in his seat, "Pay
her five thousand, Rico," Julius calmly said.  "And make it fast."

"I've got to go in the bedroom to get my roll."

Rico left the room.  Julius and the girl stared at each other.

"Your son can use his cock," Maria said, "but he don't have clue one
when it comes to using his brain."

"I appreciate your opinion," Julius said, seeing she had more insight
than Rico could ever hope to have.  "I'm sure I don't have to tell you
that ten minutes from now you'll never recall having been here."

"Piece of cake."

"I'm serious, Miss Riveros.  I have friends in Miami with big ears.
I'll know exactly what you say and do.  Am I making myself clear?"

She stared at him, her jaw dangling.  "Yes, Mr.  Behring."

Rico returned.  He went to where Maria sat, holding a stack of
one-hundred-dollar bills over her head.  He let them rain down on her.
She gathered them up in silence, then scampered off to the bedroom.
Rico again took his seat.

Julius looked at him sternly.  "Back to Oscar.  Are you saying he took
the disks?"

"Yeah, Pop.  That's exactly what I'm saying."  "How could he without a
key to the locker?"  Rico said nothing.

After a moment, Julius continued.  "The only possibility I can see is
that Kidwell and/or the Reymond woman showed up while Oscar was alone,"
Julius said.

"If so, they talked him into joining up with them."  Julius didn't want
to believe that could happen.  He searched for another explanation.

"Oscar might be blood relations," Rico went on, "but we're talking
thirty million bucks, Pop.  We find the sonovabitch and we find the
disks and the woman.  I'll bet you anything."

Julius continued to reflect.  "Whatever did happen, this may be an
opportunity for us, Rico."

"How do you mean?"

"If Oscar disappeared, and we knew Kidwell and the woman were coming to
the island, there's a good chance Oscar was kidnapped by them."

"What?"

"At least that's the story we give the police.  And that should justify
a massive manhunt.  Instead of relying on bribes, we get the police
officially involved.  As far as I'm concerned, my nephew has been
kidnapped.  I want you to get on the phone and inform the police."

"Now?"

"Now.  Tell them we believe he was kidnapped by Kidwell, Mrs.  Reymond
and Kidwell's European lady friend.  The more of them that are
arrested, the better our chances are of getting the information we
need."

Rico went off to make the call and Julius pondered the situation.  He
had no idea what had actually happened, but there was one thing
certain--the disks were at stake and they most certainly contained the
key to the money.  Why else would Reymond's widow be taking such risks
to recover them?

Julius hadn't wanted to admit it to Rico, but he was concerned about
Oscar.  It seemed unlikely his nephew had thrown in his lot with
Kidwell, but Rico was right-they were fucking many millions of dollars.
And Oscar was clever enough to be dealing on the side with Kidwell
without Rico knowing.  Still, Oscar would have to find a way to get the
money out of the bank, and he had to know Julius could have a battalion
of marines waiting for him in the Cayman Islands, if necessary.

So the question was whether Oscar's greed exceeded his intelligence, or
whether Kidwell and Stephanie Reymond had outsmarted them all.  Time
would tell, but there was one thing

Julius was certain of--he should have handled this himself from the
beginning.  If he had, they wouldn't be in this mess now.

Rico returned.  "Okay, the cops are on it, Pop."

"Good.  Now, why don't you see if Miss Riveros is ready to leave.  And
if not, perhaps you can gently hurry her along."

Rico seemed to like that and marched toward the bedroom door.

"Gently!"  Julius reiterated.

Moments later Rico reappeared, dragging Maria after him by the arm. She
was in a tight little leather skirt and halter top that was only barely
fastened.  Her purse was in her hand, her hair flying.  Rico carried
her half-open bag.

"Don't be so rough, asshole!"  she screeched.

Rico opened the door, shoved her into the hall, tossed her bag after
her, kicking a bra that had fallen on the floor across the threshold.
"By the way," he barked, "did I mention I got syphilis?"  Then he
slammed the door.

Julius closed his eyes, only to see Rico's grin fade when he opened
them.

"You got to admit she was a bitch, Pop."

Behring could see his son would never learn.  "I was hoping that
knowing Rhonda loved you might have changed things," he said sadly,
"but apparently it hasn't."

"Look, Pop, this shit doesn't mean anything.  Maria was a hooker, for
chrissakes.  She has a nice ass, that's all.  You know that I love
Rhonda.  Christ, I bought her this huge fucking ring.  The nicest thing
in town.  I'm going to take her and Andrea to Hawaii or someplace when
I get home.  This is nothing, really."

Julius wished his son was man enough to admit what he really was. "That
would be nice, Rico," he said.  "You do that."

They sat in a weighty silence.  Rico fidgeted.  Finally he spoke.

"Pop, how come you didn't tell me you were coming down here?"

"Because I wanted to tell you something in person.  A decision I've
made."

"What decision?"

"That I'm taking over, Rico."

His son looked shocked.  "But that's not fair."

Although Julius didn't want to break his son's spirit, he decided Rico
needed a dose of humility more than anything.  The boy wasn't entirely
to blame.  Julius had given him too much power, and too much
responsibility, too quickly.

"Rico, remember when I told you to stop gambling?"  he said.  "Remember
why?"

"You said the dice was in control and not me."

"That's right.  And do you remember why I said it was good you had that
problem?"

"Because I could learn from it," Rico said sullenly.

"Right.  Well, I want you to know I screwed this up as much as you did.
I gave you a job you weren't ready for.  So I learned an important
lesson.  Now I'm correcting my mistake."

"Pop, you're wrong.  I can do this!  You don't understand.  It was bad
luck."

"Maybe," Julius said.  "But you know what?  When you're the top man,
bad luck is no excuse.  It comes down to you win or you lose.  And if
you lose big enough, you're dead.  When Inter-America and everything
else I have is yours to lose, you'll understand what I'm saying.  But
that day hasn't come."

Fortuna Bay, St.  Thomas

Stephanie could not sleep.  It wasn't just the crickets or the
frogs--whichever was making that racket--nor the sticky heat, nor the
pungent smell of the pigpen behind the house, nor Nigel's sonorous
snoring in the front room.  More than anything it was the adrenaline
rush.  There was something transforming about what had happened with
Oscar Barbadillo.  She'd discovered a strength she didn't know she had.
Most important, perhaps, she'd found a way to survive.

They'd made it to the house of Sonia's former mother-inlaw, a shriveled
up old woman with shining eyes who made up in spirit what she lacked in
strength.  Senora Velasco lived in a modest dwelling in jungle-like
woods a quarter of a mile from Fortuna Bay.  She occupied it with her
grandson, Angel, Enrique's child by a previous marriage.  Shortly after
dinner, Sonia sent her stepson, a handsome young man of nineteen, off
on his motorbike to find out what their adversaries were up to.  Angel
was tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a well-shaped head.  His
handsome face reflected his diverse racial background, a melange of
Spanish, American and Anglo.  By the time they'd gone to bed, Angel
still hadn't returned and Sonia was clearly worried.  That was another
reason Stephanie hadn't been able to sleep.

Knowing she was accomplishing nothing tossing in bed, she got up and
stole from the tiny room, nominally Angel's, but which had been Sonia's
in recent days.  The plan had been for Sonia to sleep on a roll-away
bed in Senora Velasco's room, and Angel on a cot in the screened-in
porch. Stephanie suspected Sonia wouldn't bother going to bed until the
young man was safely home.

Creeping past the sleeping Englishman flaked out on the lumpy old sofa,
Stephanie, in her T-shirt, went to the front doorway and looked Out
onto the porch.  The first thing she noticed was the aromatic scent of
cigar smoke.  Because of the density of the surrounding vegetation, not
much moonlight made it through the screen and she could not see well,
but she did manage to make out a figure seated in a high-back wicker
chair at the far end of the enclosed area.

"Sonia?"  she whispered.  She heard the sound of exhaling, though she
couldn't see the smoke.

"Yes?"

Stephanie made her way closer, able to make out Sonia's features only
when she got close.  "Still no word from your stepson?"

"Mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not.  Sit down."

Stephanie sat in the nearby straight-back wooden chair, the seat of
which was covered with a thin cushion.  Sonia, she could see, hadn't
yet dressed for bed.  She still wore her tank top, though she had
changed into a pair of shorts.  Her feet were bare and she'd gathered
her blond hair into a ponytail at the side of her head, probably to get
it off her neck.

"You couldn't sleep?"  Sonia asked.

"No," Stephanie replied softly.  "Too keyed up, I guess."

"Me, too.  And I'm a little worried about Angel."

Stephanie watched her draw on the cigar, making the button of fire glow
brighter.  This time when Sonia exhaled she could see the cloud rise
before disbursing into the darkness.

"I feel badly about all the trouble this has caused," Stephanie said.
"And you've done it for somebody you don't even know."

"Well, Jack's a friend," Sonia said.  "And his friends are my friends,
etcetera, etcetera."

The wistfulness Stephanie heard made her want to downplay her
relationship with Jack.  "He and I are business associates more than
friends."

Sonia turned the cigar in her fingers.  "With Jack things are rarely
that straightforward, especially when a woman is involved."

"You're..."  Stephanie had second thoughts but, after brief reflection,
plunged ahead anyway.  "Speaking from experience, I guess."

Sonia laughed softly.  "As you might imagine."  She leaned her head
against the back of the chair and contemplated the night.  Her chest
rose with a deep breath, the cigar resting between her fingers on the
arm of the chair.

"Are you and Jack lovers?"  she asked.

"No," Sonia said.  "Not like you're thinking.  Technically, I guess we
once were, though."

"What do you mean?"

Sonia rolled her head toward her.  "Love wasn't involved.  It was sex
and friendship.  You see, I was married when Jack's and my relationship
was most intense.  But I wasn't just having an affair, and he wasn't
just screwing a married woman.  We were taking care of each other, if
that makes any sense.  Jack knew I was using him to feel good about
myself.  My husband was a philanderer and Jack made me feel desirable..
and appreciated.  What I did for him was a little more vague.  I guess
you could say I made him feel needed."

"I see."

"I don't know if you do," Sonia said.  "I don't know if anybody could.
I'm not sure I completely understand myself It started with great sex
and beyond that there was affection compassion, but it ended at that. I
loved my husband and Jack knew it.  More than that, he was glad I did,
because he didn't want all of me.  Mostly, he wanted my body, but he
also needed someone who understood him and cared about him

"That sounds an awful lot like love to me, Sonia.  Regard less of what
he said."

"I know why you say that, but it wasn't love, on either side.  You know
what the proof was?  The way it ended When Enrique died so did Jack's
and my passion for one another.  Not our friendship, but our passion.

"Sounds like Jack got scared."

She could see Sonia smile in the darkness.  "You know him better than
you're willing to admit."

In the course of the ensuing silence, Stephanie anguished over her
feelings for Jack, knowing fear played a major role.  Sonia probably
saw it, too.  A man like Jack Kidwell had a recognizable effect on
women, touching them in similar and; predictable ways.

"I won't deny I find him attractive," Stephanie finally admitted.
"That's not the part about Jack that concerns me, though.  I'm always
off balance because I don't know if I can trust him."

"You can't," Sonia said.  "Unless and until he realizes he wants to
make a commitment."

"I don't mean trust him emotionally.  I mean as a business partner.  I
haven't slept with him, and I have no intention of doing so."  She
realized she sounded almost too adamant.  "What I mean is, that's not
where I am.  Jack knows it's business.  He looks at me, he sees dollar
signs and he puts on the charm.  That much I'm certain of.  I just want
to know if I can rely on what he says."

Sonia tapped her cigar into the ashtray on the table next to her.  "I'd
like to tell you not to worry, Stephanie.  In my experience Jack's
always been honorable, but I haven't been in your shoes."

Stephanie sighed.  Sonia's comments were all too reminiscent of the
things Malva had said.  She knew why--there was more than principle
involved.  Thirty million dollars was at stake, enough to make anyone
unpredictable.

They satin a companionable silence.  Inside, Nigel snorted so loudly
that he coughed, perhaps waking himself.  But within moments he was
snoring softly again.  Stephanie's thoughts turned to what dangers lay
ahead.

As soon as they'd arrived at Senora Velasko's house, Nigel tried
phoning Bobby Brown, but was unable to reach him, either at his
business number or on his beeper.  Their first thought was that Bobby
had either sold them out or had been arrested--a possibility that had
them all worrying.  When darkness fell, it became clear they'd have to
spend the night.  Nigel tried calling Bobby again after dinner and
reached his wife.  She indicated that he'd gone with some charter
passengers on a brief trip, thinking he'd be back in a few hours, but
had gotten hung up on St.  John and wouldn't be back until morning.
Nigel asked if Bobby could pick them up at Fortuna Bay instead of the
port.  Bobby's wife said that would work, and they set their rendezvous
for eleven o'clock.  Angel said he would arrange for a boat to meet
them at the shore and take them out to the plane.  Now all they had to
do was survive night.

Amid the clatter of the insects and frogs, Stephanie heard the put of
an engine.  Moments later she saw a light flashing through the dense
vegetation.  It was coming down the road.

"That will be Angel," Sonia said, sitting up.

The sound grew louder and the headlight brighter.  It was Angel's
motorbike.  He stopped just behind Sonia's car, motor and light dying.
He hurried to the porch.  Sonia met him at the door.

"You must go!"  Angel said, his eyes round in the darkness..  "The
police are looking for you.  They are searching every house!  They came
to the bar and asked about you, Sonia!  Someone betrayed us, but who
knows for how long?"

Stephanie's stomach dropped.

"They spoke of a kidnapping, and your friends," Angel went on
excitedly.  "The man who was kidnapped was found and told the police
you were headed to this end of the island, There are dozens of them,
going house to house.  And there are boats patrolling the sea.  It will
be hard to escape."

Sonia turned to Stephanie.

"We'd better leave," Stephanie said.  "I don't want there to be trouble
for your mother-in-law and stepson."

"Yes, but where?"  Sonia turned back to Angel.  "We must meet that
plane on the bay in the morning.  Where can they hide until then and
still be able to get to a boat?"

Angel was silent for a moment, then said, "There is an old: restaurant
on the beech that is to be torn down soon for the new resort.  The
windows are boarded up, but we may be able to break in.  In the morning
I can bring a para sailing boat from work right to the beech."

"That would be good, Angel," Sonia said.  "We'll get ready to go.
Meanwhile, you can hide the car in the woods.  I'll get you the key and
a flashlight."

"And I'll wake up Nigel," Stephanie said.

"Yes, hurry and dress."

Stephanie went into the front room where Nigel Lovejoy continued to
purr on the sofa.  She gently shook his shoulder.  "Nigel, old bean,"
she whispered.  "We've got to leave.  The police are coming."

"Huh?  What's that?"  He lifted his head, looking around.

"We're the object of a manhunt, I'm afraid.  We're going to a new place
to hide."

"Good God," he muttered.  "What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

He rubbed his face.  "And I was having such a lovely dream."

"The price of an adventurous life, Nigel."

He sat up.  "Right you are, love."

Stephanie patted his shoulder and hurried off to dress.  Five minutes
later she assembled with the others in the front room.  She had the
small bag Malva had given her and Jane's alligator case.  Sonia had lit
a candle, not wanting bright lights in the house to attract anyone's
attention.

"As soon as Angel gets back, he'll take you to the beach," she said.

"What about you?"  Stephanie asked.  "The police will be looking for
you, too.  Eventually you'll be arrested."

"I'll be okay.  You'd be surprised how many friends I have.  My father
was in the underground during the war.  I learned many tricks from the
stories he told."

"I don't know what Jack's promised you, Sonia," Stephanie said, "but
I'll see that you get it."

Sonia squeezed her hand.  "First you must get safely off the island,
then go and claim your money.  It's no time to worry about me."

A few minutes later Angel returned.  He was perspiring and out of
breath.  "I parked in the undergrowth behind the Woodruffs' house, the
retired Americans from Ohio.  It's half a mile up the road.  They won't
be arriving for another two months."

He gave Sonia the keys.  Stephanie opened her purse.

"Here, Angel," she said.  "I want you and your grandmother to have
this."  Stephanie handed him ten one-hundred- dollar bills from the
stash that had been in the airport locker.

Angel's eyes rounded.

"But to enjoy it, you'll have to get us to safety, lad," Nigel said.

"Can you get them to the beach without the police spotting you?"  Sonia
asked.

"if we're careful."

"Perhaps you should go, then.  I'll pack my things and, when you get
back, you can help me find a place to hide for the night."

"There is a tree house in the woods where I played as a boy," Angel
said.  "You will be safe there, Sonia."

"Good.  Hurry then."

Stephanie and Sonia hugged goodbye.  Nigel also gave Sonia a kiss and a
hug.

"When this is all over," he said, "we're having a big party on my
island.  You're all invited.  It will be glorious.  I promise."

They said their goodbyes and Angel led the way out of the house.  They
trooped in single file along the drive.  The air, Stephanie noticed,
had cooled and the moonlight was brighter outside the screened porch.

When they reached the road, they turned toward the beach.  Nigel
muttered something about nighttime hikes in Wales as a boy and
Stephanie recalled her girlhood experiences at summer camp.  She felt
the same thrill of adventure, but the stakes in this adult version were
so much higher.  Jane's case in her hand was a constant reminder of
that.

They'd only gone a hundred yards when they heard the sounds of a
vehicle behind them.  "Quick," Angel said, pointing to the undergrowth.
"Into the bushes."

They were no sooner secreted before two vehicles passed by.

"Police cars," Angel said.  "I bet they're going to check the beach."

They discussed the situation briefly, deciding to press on.  As they
marched in silence, Stephanie worried that the escapade might be at its
end.  With so many police looking for them, could they possibly
escape?

Soon Angel took them to a track leading through the trees.  Stephanie
assumed it was the direction of the beach.  The vegetation was not so
dense, and enough moonlight came through the foliage that Angel didn't
have to use the flashlight.  It was a good thing because, as they came
to the edge of the beach, they saw a police car parked next to a low
building silhouetting the night sky.  Officers with flashlights came
around the building from opposite sides.  Stephanie and the others
froze.

Angel signaled for them to back into the protective over-hang of the
trees, where they could watch in safety.  "They're checking
everyplace," Angel whispered.  "It's a good thing we didn't come
sooner."

"Unless they search the same places more than once, we should be safe
here," Nigel said.  "This may turn out a bloody good stroke of luck."

The police had completed their inspection, and the two officers piled
back into their car.  They turned around and headed out toward the
road.  Once they were gone, Stephanie sighed with relief, her heart
slowing from its rapid beat.  She'd had plenty of excitement, but her
instincts told her the ordeal was far from over.

The three of them made their way down to the ramshackle building.  Most
of the windows faced the sea and were boarded over.  There was a
padlock on the door, but the hasp had been pried off and was hanging
loose.  Angel eased the door open and, using his flashlight, peered
inside.

The place had been gutted.  There were broken chairs and pieces of
tables.  Part of the bar had been torn out.  It did not look
hospitable, but it was a place to hide.

"I should get back to the house now," Angel said.

"You've been a godsend, lad," Nigel said, grasping the boy's
shoulder.

Stephanie hugged him.  "What time should we start watching for you?"
she asked.

"I'll try for ten-thirty," he said.  "Earlier if I can."

"Good luck," she said.  "Be careful."

Angel nodded and dashed off, heading for the woods.

"Fine lad," Nigel said, looking after him.

"We should probably try to get some rest," Stephanie said.

"Right you are, love."

They went inside.  They didn't have anything they could use as ground
cloths, but Nigel swept a spot on the floor under' one of the
boarded-up windows.  Then they sat, using the bags as cushions.  The
air outside remained pleasantly warm, but it would cool during the
night.  Fortunately the structure would afford enough shelter that they
would be comfortable.  Their biggest concern was the police.

"Sorry now that you came, Nigel?"  Stephanie asked him after they were
settled.

"Wouldn't have missed this for the world," he replied, not altogether
convincingly.

"For your sake I wish you were on your yacht with Francoise instead of
this."

"Lovely thought, my stateroom and Francoise, but I'll be with her soon
enough.  How about you, love?  Where should I wish you to be at this
moment?"  he asked, stretching out.

Curiously, Stephanie's first thought was of Jack and the Lucky Lady,
not her bed at home, not some elegant hotel or cozy nook from
childhood.

"That silence must mean it's none of my bloody business," he said.

"If I could, I'd like to be with Jack on his boat," she confessed.

Nigel chuckled softly.  "The way you said that, it almost sounded like
a dying woman's last request.  You must be more optimistic, love!"

"I'll try," she said.

A silence ensued.  Incredibly, Nigel was snoring within minutes, though
the sound was dulled by the pounding of the surf.

Stephanie's mind went back to the evening she'd spent on the beach with
Jack.  Though her very survival was now in doubt, she knew that a
transformation had occurred sometime between then and now.  Emotionally
she'd committed herself to Jack Kidwell.  And if she lived to see him
again, the first order of business would be to tell him that she
cared.

Wednesday,

October 2nd

St.  Thomas

Ten-thirty had come and gone and there was no sign of Angel.  Stephanie
and Nigel had been taking turns peering through the cracks in the
boarded-up windows for the past two hours, keeping watch, but no ski
boat came into view.  At ten-forty Nigel stepped onto the veranda to
look up and down the beach, thinking perhaps Angel had landed nearby
and was waiting for them.  He came back inside, a worried, discouraged
expression on his face.

"I don't see him anywhere."

"Perhaps the police arrested him last night," she said.

"If so, he didn't tell them where we are.  Regardless, should he fail
to show up soon, our goose is cooked.  Bobby will be here in fifteen
minutes.  God only knows how long he'll wait out there before he gives
up."

"And there's a chance he'll have heard the police are looking for an
Englishman and a woman.  if so, we definitely won't be going anywhere,"
Stephanie said.

"Unless he intends to claim the reward."

She had an awful, sinking feeling.  "It's all my fault, Nigel.  This
was much too risky."

"It's too early to despair, love," Nigel said.  "Angel and Bobby may
yet come through."

Stephanie was losing hope.  What would happen to them, she didn't know,
but she was almost certain Oscar Barbadillo would have a hand in it.
She'd have been better off going home when she could and facing the
music, even if it meant losing everything she had.

No sooner had that thought entered her mind than she gave herself a
mental kick in the rear.  if any good had come of this ordeal, it was
that she had finally taken control of her life.  At least she'd go down
fighting.  Nigel would admire her for it, and so, too, would Jack.  Her
pride was worth something.

But for the moment all she could do was wait.  Nigel kept consulting
his watch.  Stephanie paced.  It was seven minutes before eleven and
still no sign of Angel.  In a way, she almost hoped Bobby wouldn't
show, either.  That would be the greatest torture of all, seeing the
plane sitting out on the bay, ready to take them to freedom, and having
no way to get to it.

Stephanie went to peer out through a crack between the boards.  A
quarter of a mile out, a police patrol boat was approaching a small
sailboat.  "Oh no," she said.  "There are police boats out in the
bay."

Nigel looked, too.  "I know, I saw one earlier.  I didn't want to say
anything.  It looks like the bloody bastards are challenging every
craft that enters the bay."

Stephanie felt sick.  She wondered, if she turned herself in, Nigel
might be spared.  But when she suggested the idea, he immediately
dismissed it.  "I must reject the notion categorically," he said.  "We
sink or swim together."

Suddenly they heard what sounded like an airplane.  They both looked
out.

"Looks like a seaplane!"  Nigel said enthusiastically.

Sure enough, it was a Cessna 205, same as Bobby's.  It made a big
looping circle of the bay, much as it had Isola Lovejoy, then made a
landing from west to east, well out in the bay, at least half a mile
offshore.

"Splendid," Nigel said, beginning to pace.  "Now all we have to do is
find a way to get to it.  Maybe I should take a walk up the beach and
see if I can find a boat."

"Hold on," Stephanie said.  "Isn't that a ski boat with a parasailer
coming around the point?"

Nigel returned to the window and peered through the cracks.  "Could it
possibly be Angel?"  he asked.

"Maybe."

"Clever ruse that, if it's him."

They both watched as the boat made its way in their general direction,
bouncing over the waves as it sped along, holding the parasailer aloft.
Stephanie glanced anxiously at the seaplane, wondering how long Bobby
would wait.  It was five after eleven.  The ski boat was nearing their
location and seemed headed straight for them.

"I think it is Angel!"  Nigel exclaimed.  "Get ready to dash out."

Stephanie looked for the police patrol boat, spotting not one but two.
The first seemed to be making its way toward the' seaplane.  The other
was making a circuit of the shoreline, headed in their direction. Could
they possibly know?  she wondered with despair.

Meanwhile, the ski boat had nearly reached them.  It slowed, then
stopped right in front of the restaurant, gently depositing the
parasailer at the edge of the water.

"That's Angel," Nigel said.  "Let's go."

"Wait!"  Stephanie cried before he pushed the door open.  "There's a
patrol boat coming.  If they see us run out there, they'll know."

"Bloody hell," Nigel said, their bad luck finally getting to him.

Angel had backed the ski boat right onto the beach and stared up at the
building.  The parasailer, obviously one of Angel's friends, arranged
the sail and harness on the sand The patrol boat had just about reached
them and was angling toward shore.

"The moment of truth," Nigel muttered as he and Stephanie watched,
agonizing.

Over the next couple of minutes an unheard dialogue transpired between
Angel and the cops.  Finally, the patrol boat moved on.  Stephanie and
Nigel both sighed with relief.  Farther out in the bay, the other
patrol boat had pulled alongside the seaplane.  Stephanie knew that if
Bobby told them what he was doing here, the game was lost.

"Is Bobby going to betray us?"  Stephanie wondered aloud.  "I told him
this was a discreet trip," Nigel said.  "Nor has he been paid yet.
Perhaps he'll be mindful enough to give them a story."

The patrol boat near shore had moved on and Angel waved at them to come
out.

"Let's go down one at a time," Stephanie said.  "I'll go first."

She pushed her hat firmly on her head, put on her sunglasses and
strolled casually down to the boat, clutching both her purse and Jane's
precious alligator case.  Angel, in a swimsuit and tattered tank top,
greeted her at the water's edge.

"No need to get wet," he said, lifting her into his arms and carrying
her to the ski boat.

The parasailer put his harness back on, preparing to take off again as
Nigel came down the beach with their bags.  Stephanie glanced in the
direction the patrol boat had taken, hoping they wouldn't notice, and
she was relieved that they hadn't altered their course.  The other
patrol boat was still alongside the seaplane.  It was apparent they'd
have to stall, but not on the beach.

They decided to cruise around for a while.  if they couldn't make the
connection with Bobby, then they'd head back to Charlotte Amalie and
look for other transportation.

Angel checked with his friend, who'd moved to the edge of the water and
was billowing his chute as much as the breeze would allow.  Angel
revved the motor and slowly moved sea ward until the towline was taut.
Then, when the parasailer gave him the sign, Angel took off at high
speed, lifting his friend into the air as though the chute was a
kite.

They didn't head directly toward the seaplane even though the patrol
boat had begun moving off.  They made a loop around the bay, then
circled back in the direction of the sea plane, giving the appearance
of passing by it.  But as they neared, Angel cut the power and the
parasailer slowly dropped to the sea right next to the aircraft.  They
circled back as if to pick him up, pulling right up next to the plane
in the process.

Bobby looked out, actually appearing surprised to see them.  The para
sailing guise was clever, Stephanie had to admit.  Bobby opened the
door, consternation on his face.

"Good to see you, old chap," Nigel chirped.  "Francoise and I are ready
to head for home."

Bobby helped them aboard but said nothing.  Angel bid them goodbye and
putted over to pick up his friend.  As the ski boat went off, Nigel
turned to Bobby.

"Shouldn't we be getting under way, mate?"

"Sorry, Mr.  Lovejoy, but we ain't goin' nowhere.  The cops were here
and wanted to know what I was doing.  I said I was out here to pick up
passengers and they told me I was not to leave until they checked you
out."  He pointed toward the patrol boat speeding toward them.  "So
we'll have to wait.  Sorry."

"Shit!"  Stephanie said.

"Surely there's something that can be done, old bean, "Nigel said,
trying to sound calm.  "I'm in a bloody rush to get home and
misunderstandings with the police can take hours to correct.  Let's say
I double your fee."

"You know I would if I could," Bobby said, almost pleading, "but if I
take off without their permission I could lose my license and then my
plane.  Besides, I got a family to think of."

"Ten thousand, American," Nigel said, his voice demanding now.

"God' I wish I could," Bobby said.

The patrol boat was only a hundred yards away.  Stephanie could see it
was life or death.  She reached in her purse and took out the gun,
pressing it against Bobby's neck.

"Will you take off to save your life?"  she asked.

Bobby looked back at her, his eyes round.  "Jesus.  You're joking,
right?"

"Let's say I'm not, so you can tell the police you were high jacked  In
fact, you're both innocent because I'm taking over the plane.  Come on,
Bobby, let's get this plane in the air.

Bobby sighed mournfully.  "Can't argue with a gun."  He flipped the
master switch, then primed the engine.  The police patrol boat was
almost there, lights flashing.  Bobby turned the ignition switches on,
then pushed the starter switch.  The engine fired.  Seeing they were
trying to take off, the patrol boat swung in front of them.  Bobby
threw the rudder sharply to one side and eased the throttle forward.
The plane slowly pivoted, its win grip passing over the boat, then
Bobby thrust the throttle fully open and the plane roared off toward
the open sea.  Stephanie had no idea if shots were fired, but when the
floats lifted from the water and the plane rose sharply into the sky,
she realized that, at least for the moment, they were saved.

The Caribbean Sea, St.  Croix

When they reached the site where they were supposed to rendezvous with
the Rubber Soul, some forty miles southwest of St.  Croix, they found
the sleek craft waiting for them in the crystal waters.  They made
their descent, stopping within fifty yards of the yacht.  Bobby turned
off the engine of the seaplane.

"I'll have a bank check in the amount of ten thousand, American, to you
within the week," Nigel told Bobby.

"But that's only for your inconvenience," Stephanie added.  "Nigel had
nothing to do with this high jacking It was my idea and he's an
innocent victim, just like you."

"Where do I tell them I brought you?"  the pilot asked.

"Here, I guess," Stephanie said.  "We rendezvoused at sea with a cabin
cruiser I hired.  You weren't able to get any identifying numbers.  I
took Nigel with me as a hostage."

A small craft piloted by a crewman appeared from behind the yacht and
slowly made its way toward them.  Stephanie told Nigel to get out and
wait on the float.  After he'd climbed out, she handed the bags to him.
Then she said to Bobby, "How much would a new radio cost?"

"A radio?  What for?"

"If you needed one."

"Five, six hundred bucks.  Why?"

Stephanie opened her purse and took out a stack of hundred-dollar
bills.  "Here," she said, handing them to him.  "I'm buying you one."
Then she aimed the gun at the control panel and fired, shattering the
radio.

"Jesus Christ," Bobby screamed, covering his head.  "Why'd you do
that?"

"You need an excuse not to have radioed for help," she said.  "And
you're going to have to sit here for three or four hours, long enough
for us to have gotten away.  Later I'll have the captain of the cruiser
put out a distress call on your behalf.  You can keep the ignition key
in case you have a problem, but put it in your pocket and say I threw
it overboard."

The launch from the yacht pulled alongside and Stephanie climbed out
onto the float with Nigel.  They tossed their luggage aboard, then
climbed in themselves.

"Sorry to put you through all this, Bobby," Stephanie called to him,
"but trust me, it's for a good cause."

They headed back to the yacht.

"Bloody clever, you are!"  Nigel chortled, a huge grin on his face.

"I swear to you, I don't know where it came from, Nigel.  I've never
done anything like that in my life."

"You picked a good time to become an action hero, love," he said as
they bumped along, the bottom of the craft slapping the waves.  "Jolly
good."

They went around to the far side of the Rubber Soul where a boarding
ladder had been dropped over the side.  Francoise was waiting for them
on deck.  She and Stephanie embraced, then she kissed Nigel when he
clambered aboard.

"Were you successful?"  Francoise asked.

"We got the disks," Stephanie said.

"Felicitations, ma petite!"  Francoise said.  "Congratulations!"

"Thanks to Annie Oakley here, we averted catastrophe," Nigel said. "The
woman has been watching too many action films, I promise you that,
Francoise.  You wouldn't believe the transformation."

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Stephanie said, embarrassed.

Nigel put an arm around each of them.  "Perhaps we should put some
distance between ourselves and the authorities," he said.

"Do you think we should sail off in a different direction than where
we'll be meeting Jack?"  Stephanie asked.  "I should think that wise,"
Nigel said.  "Once we're over the horizon, we can circle around in the
direction of the rendezvous site.  I'll just have a word with the
captain.  Why don't you ladies go below and make yourselves
comfortable.  I'll join you momentarily.  I dare say we've earned
ourselves a drink."  He went off.

Stephanie looked down and saw the alligator case lined up with the
other bags.  She picked it up.  "Think I'll hang on to this since we
risked our lives for it."

The two women went off, Francoise with her arm around Stephanie's
waist.  "You must be relieved," the Frenchwoman said.

"I'm waiting for a little privacy so I can completely fall apart, if
you want to know the truth."

"You've been transformed, cherie, I can see it in your eyes."

Stephanie sighed as they went down the stairs.  "From board of
directors of the Stanford Alumni Association to the FBI's most wanted
list.  I'd say I've transformed all right."

"FBI?"

"Francoise, I'm wanted now for kidnapping and air piracy and, for all I
know, attempted murder.  If they catch me I could spend the next fifty
years in jail."

"An, but you're so much more interesting for it, Stephanie.  Jack will
be thrilled.  I'm sure of it."  Turning, Francoise slinked toward the
bar.  "Now, madame, may I offer you a drink?"

Stephanie collapsed into a chair.  "Whatever you've got, make it a
double!"

Charlotte Amalie, St.  Thomas

Julius Behring sat in the lounge chair on the balcony, sipping his
martini, staring at the sunset.  There was a light wrap on the glass
slider behind him.  He looked back over his shoulder.  It was his
nephew.

"Oscar, come."

Oscar Barbadillo stepped out Onto the balcony.  He went to the railing
and stood gazing at the sea.  "They found the plane and the pilot,
Uncle Julius.  He was sitting out in the middle of the ocean.  Told
them he was high jacked by the woman.  She wasn't with Kidwell.  It was
some Englishman.  She shot up the plane and left the pilot to the
sharks.  They got away on a cabin cruiser."

Julius considered that.  "She's making fools of us all."

"If I ever get my hands on her, I swear I'll kill her," Oscar said
through his teeth.

"You're sounding like Rico," Julius said.  "We already have enough of
that."

"Twice she's humiliated me, Uncle Julius.  A stupid housewife.  A man
cannot endure that."

Julius understood his nephew's feelings.  As if being kidnapped and
stripped naked wasn't enough, Oscar had to slink back to the hotel in a
pair of shorts stolen from a clothesline.  Rico had derided his cousin
unmercifully, but Julius was grateful that Oscar hadn't betrayed them.
That would have been the most painful cut of all.

He nodded at Oscar, knowing that if fate had been kinder, this would
have been his own son.  "A man must do what he must do.  Our work, the
company, has to come first.  Rico is depressed and not much use.  I
need clear heads.  You must put aside your anger, Oscar."

"Don't worry.  I want her more badly than ever.  Yes, we'll get our
money, but I will also have her."

"To do what?"

"To regain my dignity."

Julius drank more of his martini.  That was one thing about the Latin
culture that he did not respect.  Pride, machismo, got in the way of
clear thought.  He'd seen it time and time again--men refusing to use
their brains when that was the one thing that could save them.

"Your dignity is your business, Oscar, but the company is mine.  I must
have your promise that you will keep your eye on the ball."

"First things first, Uncle Julius.  You can count on me.  I have made
mistakes, but not because my priorities were screwed up."

"No, the woman is either very clever or very lucky.  In either case, we
have underestimated her.  We will not make the same mistake again."

"For sure."

"The question is what we do now.  Can we trace the boat she escaped
on?"

"The pilot claims he was unable to identify it."

"Strange."

"Says the English guy was an innocent victim right along with him, but
I don't buy it.  The Brit and the Swedish broad were both at the
airport.  They're all in on it together The

Swede wasn't on the plane, which means she's still here on St.  Thomas.
We find her, maybe we'll know where to find the others."

"Where was the pilot found?"

"Two, three hundred miles south of here."

"South?"

"Yeah, but when they left, they went east, back toward the British
Virgins where the English guy's got some island or something.  Cops are
asking' the Brits to check it out."

Julius stared at his half-empty glass.  "Maybe we can learn something
from the Englishman and the Swede, but there's no mystery about where
Stephanie Reymond is headed.  One way or another, she's on her way to
the bank.  There's only one thing to do now-alert our people in the
Caymans she's headed their way."

"What about us, Uncle Julius?"

"We pack up and first thing tomorrow morning we head there ourselves.
We'll want boats and planes and good relations with the police. There's
a lot of work to be done, and," he added with a groan, "more money to
spend.  Will you take care of that for me, Oscar?"

"Sure.  Anything else we need to discuss?"

"There's one thing that has me perplexed.  What happened to the sea
captain, Kidwell?  He seems to have disappeared"

"Maybe the broad sunk his boat.  One less cut to dole out"

"Somehow I doubt it."

The phone at Julius's elbow rang.  He picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Mr.  Behring, it's Wayne Driscoll.  I've got news concerning your
daughter-in-law.  This a good time to discuss it?"

Julius felt the acid in his stomach splash.  He glanced up at Oscar,
covering the mouthpiece of the phone.  "I think we're through."

His nephew went back inside the suite.  Julius returned to his call.
"Yeah, what do you got, Wayne?"

"This morning Rhonda left the house with the little girl and some
suitcases.  They drove up to Van Nuys where she dropped off the kid."

"At her mother's place, I gather."

"Yeah.  After that she turns around and drives back to

"And?"

"She gets on a plane for Paris."

"Christ."

"I don't know if Hachigian was on the plane, too, Mr.  Behring.  We're
trying to track him down.  Could be she just decided she needed a
vacation, but I thought you'd better know."

"Thanks, Wayne.  Keep me posted, will you?"  Julius hung up the
phone.

Rico was an adult and deserved to know what was going on with his wife.
But Julius knew his son was a lot more fragile than people realized. He
decided to hold off telling him until emotions subsided.

Shaking his head, Julius drained the last of his martini.  Life, he
realized, was never without complications.

The Caribbean Sea

Jack Kidwell was exhausted.  Except for a catnap now and then he hadn't
slept in nearly two days.  Sitting in the cockpit of the Lucky Lady,
staring wistfully at the night sky, his brain fuzzy, he coaxed his
thoughts along, though they seemed only to come in half-digested
chunks.  He'd been struggling with the weather--or more accurately, a
lack of weather--for a couple of days and he was way behind schedule.
He'd actually welcome rough seas, if that's what it took to get some
wind in his sails.

The past dozen hours or so, the Lucky Lady had drifted as much as she'd
sailed.  During a particularly extreme calm spell, he'd cranked up the
auxiliary and traveled a dozen nautical miles or so under motor power,
but he could hardly make a habit of that.  Getting to the rendezvous
point was critical.  Once he had Stephanie safely under his wing, the
urgency would be over.

That was assuming Stephanie and Nigel made it, of course.  Jack had his
doubts that they would.  The escapade hadn't felt right from the
beginning.  Far too risky.  But if she did get the disks, it would be a
brilliant stroke.  The trouble was, he wouldn't know if they had pulled
it off until he rendezvoused with the Rubber Soul.  Meanwhile, the
course of his life hinged on whether Stephanie had the guts and the
wile to succeed.

Jack had never cared much for situations where things were completely
beyond his control--he preferred creating his own problems, finding his
own solutions.  When he stopped to think about it, the real miracle was
that he cared at all.  Only days ago all that had stood between him and
rock bottom was the nagging of Bill Toussaint.  Now he was worrying
about the future.  That in itself was a dramatic turnaround.

Malva attributed It to Stephanie.  But was it Stephanie or the thirty
million?  He didn't know.  If he took a good, hard look at the
situation, and asked himself if, without the money, she meant anything
to him, what would his heart tell him?  Sure, she was a nice person, a
lovely person.  She was attractive, intelligent, different, even
intriguing.  Hell, he liked her.  He was more than happy to go to bed
with her.  But she was still just a woman and there were countless
appealing women.  What set Stephanie apart was her millions and what
they could do for him.  Why pretend otherwise?

So why did he feel shitty?  Guilt?  After years of fucking for his own
pleasure, why would charming this particular woman bother him?  Hell,
they hadn't even been to bed.  He'd taken nothing from her.  Nor had he
lied, exactly.  Sure, he'd put the best light on things-he'd been
coy--but he'd been honest about wanting a piece of the action.  Christ,
when you came right down to it, she was using him as much as he was
using her.  So, what was the big deal?  Was he getting a conscience in
his old age, or was it that he did not really want what he thought he
wanted?

That was a scary notion.  Allowing himself to get emotionally involved
was the very last thing he needed to do.  Money, on the other hand, was
safe.  It was quantifiable and it didn't make demands, it didn't have
needs, it didn't get hurt and it didn't die.  You couldn't say that
about people.  People possessed you as much as you possessed them.

Securing the wheel, Jack got up and walked along the deck.  The boat
was moving so slowly that he could barely hear the hiss of the water on
the hull, and the sails were as lifeless as the wings of a dying bird.
At the bow Jack stood staring ahead at the darkness.  It was as ominous
and obscure as the future.  He was moving inexorably toward a destiny
that might prove as painful and empty as his dream.

The doubt, the self-doubt, was the source of the pain.  And pain had
never been his friend.  The pain of his childhood, the pain of his
marriage, the pain of Alicia, the pain of not caring enough to care.

So why was he sticking his finger in the fire now?  It would be so much
easier to surrender.  Hell, the odds weren't even good.

Gripping the spare jib halyard as he stared into the darkness, Jack
thought, as he had so often the past couple of days, about that bottle
of scotch stowed in his cabin.  The desire to retrieve it was as strong
now as it had ever been.  It would be so easy to have a drink, so
understandable.  Who did he owe his self restraint to, anyway?
Stephanie Reymond?

No, he owed her nothing.  She was as much a problem as an opportunity.
She made him question himself, and that was never good.  Never.  He
could choose to have a drink because the choice was his.

Jack felt that terrible tug-of-war beginning inside him.  Half his body
wanted to go for that bottle now.  The other half was more afraid of
weakness than fear.  He either stayed and faced his demons, or he went
below.  He either drank or he didn't.

He held the halyard so tightly that his arm began to ache.  His legs
felt wobbly and he thought longingly of the comfort of drink.  Would it
hurt to hold the bottle in his hand?  Didn't a man know the fire best
by creeping close?

Jack let go of the halyard and turned to face the stern.  The sails
were completely slack now, the Lucky Lady was scarcely moving in the
water. Putting one foot in front of the other, he moved in the
direction of the companionway.  There was no sound, not even the
lapping of waves. He was as alone as a man could be-the devil his only
companion.

Reaching the companionway, Jack stared into the dark abyss.  Almost
without thought he felt his foot descend to the first step.  Then he
took the next.  Moments later he was stumbling through the dark salon,
drunk without having taken a drop.  Once in his cabin, he didn't bother
turning on a light.  The bottle was in the back of the locker, buried
under a bunch of crap, but he was able to put his hand right on it.
Pulling it out by the neck, he stood.  Clutching it to his chest, his
eyes closed, he gripped the cap with his fingers.

Then he felt the boat gently sway.  Glancing over at the open port, he
listened.  Though he couldn't hear anything, he did feel a gentle rush
of sea air waft through the cabin.  It entered like a specter, cooling
the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, promising to take him to his
rendezvous with Stephanie and Nigel.

For a second or two Jack was torn--did he open the bottle of scotch or
not?  He considered stepping to the port and shoving it out.  He even
took a step in that direction.  But he stopped himself.  He wasn't
prepared to go that far.  No, at this point in his life he needed
temptation as much as he needed hope.  He needed to know the choice
remained in his hands.

Stephanie stood at the railing, staring out at the dark sea.  Below,
Nigel and Francoise were continuing to party, the music going and the
champagne undoubtedly flowing.  They'd invited her to join them, but
she wasn't in a party mood.  She was thinking of Jack and had been all
afternoon.  They'd reached the rendezvous site as the sun was going
down, finding no sign of the Lucky Lady.  Stephanie's anticipation had
turned to worry.

The captain, seeing her concern, told her that sailing alone, Jack had
set quite a challenge for himself.  It was a considerable distance to
cover and the winds had not been favorable.  When he'd told her he
didn't expect to see Jack until morning, Stephanie had been overwhelmed
with frustration and had gone below, where she lay on her berth,
brooding.  It wasn't just her concern for Jack, though; she'd also been
agonizing over what she'd found on the disks.

Within ten minutes of their arrival on the Rubber Soul, she had gotten
out Jane's computer, slipped the disks in the drive, and started
perusing the directories in search of information on the account Jean
Claud had set up in the Grand Cayman Bank Ltd.  At first, she hadn't
found a thing.  Then she spotted a small file, only a few thousand bits
in size, labeled JT, probably for her sister, Jane Turner.  In it was a
heading, Grand Cayman Bank, Ltd."  and an address.  Then, Account
Number 011566473.  She'd been thrilled until she saw the accompanying
code.  Typed below the account number was: Access Code: chalk == 4,
book == 5, nut == 4, runway == 7, wound == 2, cow == 1.

What did that mean?  Surely she couldn't walk into the bank, present
the account number, then start spouting out words and numbers.  The
banker, Harris Ivory, had implied the code consisted of a series of
numbers, which meant the access code

Jean Claud had recorded as words and numbers had to be reduced to
simple numbers.  Her husband had obviously encrypted the code.  And to
decipher it, she'd need the key.

After showering and having lunch with Nigel and Francoise, Stephanie
had again returned to her cabin where she'd spent the next few hours
searching every file on Jean Claud's disks, searching for a key to the
code.  She'd found nothing and began dreading having to tell Jack that
everything they'd been through might have been for naught.  But then
they'd reached the rendezvous spot and the Lucky Lady wasn't there.
Problems on top of problems.

There was a lull in the music and after a minute Francoise came up on
deck.  She wore a silk sleeveless aqua-colored blouse and matching
pants, looking chic, outrageous, a coquette with mature intentions.

"Mon dieu," she said' fanning herself, "I think that man could party
his whole life and never grow tired.  I had to say to him, "Enough,
Nigel, I'm going up on deck for air."  You know what he says to me,
Stephanie?  "I'll find us another bottle of champagne, so don't be
long."  Can you believe it?"

"Nigel seems to be good for the French wine industry."

"Nigel is ... how do you say it ... a party animal?"

"That's a pretty good description."

Francoise turned to look at her in the moonlight, caressing Stephanie's
cheek in a sisterly way.  "So tell me, cherie, why are you sad?  Is it
the letdown?"

Stephanie peered out at the sea.  "A little, I suppose.  That, and
knowing the challenge I'm facing is awesome."

"You'll have Jacques to help you."

"Assuming he shows up."

"Oh, he will.  Jacques would swim here, if necessary."

"Thirty million is a lot to swim for."

Again Francoise caressed Stephanie's cheek.  "I see you are holding
back in case of disappointment and perhaps that is good, but I think it
is better what I do.  A long time ago I stopped worrying about men and
their motives.  I decided the best thing is to worry about my own
desires.  I try not to hurt anyone, but that is my only rule."

"I think I could learn a lot from you, Francoise."

Nigel came up the stairs just then, a bottle of champagne in his hand.
He was ruddy-faced, his shirt unbuttoned' and looked to be in no pain.
"Well, my lovelies, conspiring, are we?"

"We are solving the men problem," Francoise said.

"Going to let me in on it, love?"  he asked, grinning.

"You're part of the problem, cheri, not part of the solution."  She
gave him a kiss on the cheek.  "Now, be a good boy, go downstairs and
I'll join you shortly."

"Join?"  he said with a drunken grin.  "As in conjoin?"

"Allez!"

"Okay, but first a word of advice for Stephanie.  Treat Jack just like
Francoise treats me and he'll make you a happy woman."

"That's not where Jack and I are," she replied.

"Oh, but you could be, love!  Trust me, you need to let go.  It would
be good for your soul.  We've survived a bloody ordeal, for
chrissakes."

"Okay," Francoise interjected.  "Now you've had your say.  Go pour me
some champagne."

He handed her the bottle.  "Who needs a glass?"

Francoise rolled her eyes.  "Why are the English so barbaric?"

"Blame it on the Norman conquest," Nigel said' turning and staggering
back down the stairs.

Francoise shook her head' looking after him.  "They do it because they
can't have a good cry like we can."

"I feel sorry for them," Stephanie said.

"For a while they leaned on the railing, side by side as they looked
out at the night.  The soft balmy air was fabulous.  The moon, fuller
than the previous night, had come up, illuminating the sea.  Stephanie
scanned the horizon, but saw no sign of the Lucky Lady.  Only now was
she beginning to realize how eager she was to see Jack.  Her adventure
in St.  Thomas had been a turning point.  She was a criminal on the
run, true, but she knew it wasn't as bad as it seemed--armed with the
full facts, the authorities would probably be understanding.

And yet, she had never been in a situation like this, living on the
edge.  What surprised her most was how it seemed to have transformed
her.  "How about you, Stephanie?"  Francoise said.  "Will you be all
right?"

"What do you mean?"

"if you don't get your money."

"Oh' yeah, I'll be fine.  Not so rich as before, but I'll survive.

"It's not so bad for women now as it used to be," Francoise said.  "It
is easier to be alone."

Stephanie heard a little wobble in her voice and turned to look at her.
"Would you say you're happy?"

"I'm content to let come what will.  And I smile.  Tiens, life is not
so bad, especially not here in paradise."

"I never realized what a staid, uptight person I was until I came to
the Caribbean," Stephanie told her.

"This place will do that to you."

"I don't know if I'd ever be able to be free like you and Nigel and
Sonia and Jack.  I don't know if it's in me."  "A certain amount of
daring is necessary to life, ma cherie.  You've already proved you
understand that.  But trust is important, too.  Trust in yourself, in
fate, or whatever."

Stephanie didn't know if Francoise was referring to her attitudes
toward Jack, but there was no disputing he was at the heart of her
fears.

"I am probably the last one you should listen to," Francoise went on,
"but if I were you, I'd give Jacques a try."

"Why?"

"He would be fun.  I can tell simply by looking at him.  Surely you can
as well."

"Yes, he'd be fun."

"Alors, that's all you need to know."

"Francoise!"  Nigel called from below.

"There, it sounds like it is time for me to have some fun of my own."
Then, kissing Stephanie on each cheek, she said.  "Bonsoir, cherie."

Stephanie watched her go belowdecks, then she turned her attention to
the tranquil sea.  Incredibly, it was this same body of water that had
nearly claimed hers and Jack's lives.  Ferocious one day, meek as a
lamb the next.  Melancholy, she continued gazing at the far-off moonlit
horizon, when she saw what looked like a sail.  She looked up toward
the flying bridge of the Rubber Soul but didn't see the captain.
Walking around the boat for a view from a different angle, she saw that
he was seated, talking to his crewman.  Both men were smoking.

"Captain," she called.  "I see a sailboat.  Could it be the Lucky
Lady?"

The man, a Brit with a closely trimmed white beard' got to his feet and
stared off in the direction she was pointing.  He picked up his
binoculars and peered at the craft.

"Aye, ma' am," he said.  "She may well be the Lucky Lady.  She's the
right size and she's rigged the same.  We'll know soon enough."

Stephanie returned to her vantage point and watched the craft slowly
make its way toward them in the light breeze.  The closer it got, the
more excited she became.  Soon she was certain it was Jack.  The
captain confirmed it when the sailboat was within a couple hundred
yards.

"That's the Lucky Lady, all right, ma'am."

Jack began luffing his sails to slow the boat.  She finally drifted to
a halt thirty or forty yards off the port bow of the motor yacht.

"Ahoy," Jack called.  "That you, Stephanie?"

She waved at him.  "Yes, it's me!"

"Nice to see you alive and well.  How was your trip?"

"More exciting than I expected, but fairly successful."

"Are we going to the Caymans?"

"I guess we can give it a try."

He gave her the high sign.  "Give me a minute and I'll be over."

As she watched, Jack backed the jib and eased the main while bringing
the bow closer to the wind.  He lowered his rubberized launch into the
water.  Then he came putting over to the yacht through the gently
lapping waves.  When he was alongside the Rubber Soul, he tossed the
crewman a line, then clambered up the boarding ladder.

Stephanie waited for him and he surprised her by taking her into his
arms as the crewman withdrew.

"I know business partners aren't supposed to show this kind of emotion,
sweetheart, but I sure am glad to see you."  He gave her a warm,
affectionate kiss.

She hadn't expected him to be so direct, but was secretly pleased.
"Tell the truth, Jack, you're happy because you were sure I'd duck out
and leave you hanging, right?"

"No, I figured you were too honorable for that.  But I wasn't sure
you'd make it in one piece.  That's why I'm so relieved to see your
shining face."  He stepped back, taking a look at her.  "Damn, if you
don't look lovely."

"Thank you."

"No trouble from the bad guys?"

"Oh, there was trouble, but we survived."

"With your virginity intact?"

"Morally speaking, yes, but legally I'm a fallen woman, Jack."

"Legally?"

"In all probability I'm now wanted for kidnapping and air piracy, plus
an assortment of lesser charges."

He laughed, cuffing her chin playfully.  "I knew you had it in you,
sweetheart."

"The sad part is, it may all be for nothing.  I've had a look at the
disks.  The code's there, all right, but I don't see how we're going to
be able to decipher it."

"You mean the code's in code?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his grizzled chin.  "Well, I'm sure there's a way to figure
it out.  We're not dealing with the CIA and the KGB."  He took her in
his arms again, holding her as they rocked back and forth, luxuriating
in the feel of each other.

It felt so natural, so good, she resisted questioning it, resisted the
impulse to doubt and pull back.  Pressing her head against his chest,
she tried to sort out her feelings and' more important, his.  "Jack?"

"Ma' am?"

"Hypothetical question.  The code's unbreakable and we fail.  Or the
computer falls overboard tomorrow and everything's lost.  Then what?"

He thought for a moment.  "Are you probing my intentions or my
values?"

"Both."

"In your hypothetical question, Stephanie, is all that money in the
alligator case lost, too?"

"No, I still have a few thousand to my name."

"Well," Jack said, "I guess what I'd do is clean you out as best I
could, then take off for greener pastures."

Stephanie pulled her head back and gave him a whack on the shoulder. "I
wish you wouldn't do that."

He laughed.  "Sweetheart, how can it matter what I say to an
unanswerable question?"

"You might be surprised," she said.

"Okay, have it your way.  I'm your man, Stephanie, through thick and
thin.  Scout's honor, till death do us part."

"You're making it worse."

"Then stop asking dumb questions."

She stared into his eyes.  "Okay, from now on it's blind trust."  She
turned to the Lucky Lady bobbing peacefully, hove to in the moonlit
water.  "So, when do we leave?"

"I don't expect Nigel and Francoise are dying for our company at the
moment.  In fact, I expect the old goat has already lured her to
bed."

"I think you can safely say that," she agreed.

"Then I say we ride what wind we've got and head for the Caymans."

"Right now?"

"There's no time like the present," Jack said.

"I guess I'd better get my things then."

"You'd better unless you want to wear whatever frilly little numbers
I'm able to dig up."

"Resupplied, have you?"  Stephanie said.

Jack slapped her behind.  "Come on, lady fair.  We've got a week to
make snide remarks.  No point wasting our time doing it now.  Our
destiny awaits."

Stephanie took a few steps in the direction of the companionway, then
stopped, turning to face him.  "I've become dangerous since you last
saw me, Jack.  I even terrified Oscar Barbadillo.  It's only fair I
warn you of that."

He laughed.  "Dangerous women turn me on, sweetheart.  Only fair to
warn you!"

That was enough.  Turning, she hurried down the steps, headed for her
cabin, her cheeks burning.

Thursday,

October 3rd

The Caribbean Sea

The sun coming in the port awoke her.  Checking her watch, Stephanie
saw that it was after nine.  Poor Jack.  If conditions permitted, the
plan had been for her to take the wheel at first light so he could get
some sleep.  She jumped out of bed, slipped on shorts and a tank top.
Then she grabbed her toothbrush and comb and went to the head.

Back in her cabin she put on sun-block, her hat and dark glasses, then
went up on the deck.  She found Jack in the cockpit.  He was sprawled
out on the seat, a towel covering his face.

"Jack," she said, shaking him.

He sat up with a start, squinting in the bright sun.  "Oh."

"Sorry, I overslept," she said.

"Christ, I must have dozed off."  He stood and surveyed the sea ahead,
then checked the compass heading.  "That's really bad.  If I'm going to
screw up, though, this is the place to do it--but in the middle of
nowhere."  He looked up at the nearly slack sails.  "There's so little
wind, we're not doing much more than drifting.  It's been like this off
and on since I left Isola Lovejoy."

"Have you slept since then?"

"Not really."

"Jack, that's terrible."

"Falling asleep at the wheel is terrible."

"Show me what to do, then go down and get some real sleep," she
insisted.

Jack tacked, explaining the steps as he went through them.  She'd
watched him enough on their voyage to the island that she already had a
fairly clear understanding of the procedure.  Afterward he gave her a
brief primer on sailing in general what to look out for and what to
avoid.  He explained how to gauge sail trim by easing the sheet until
the leading edge began to shake, or luff, then cranking it back in
until it stopped.  "When in doubt, ease it out," he told her, then
asked if she had any questions.

"If I keep headed this way long enough, will I eventually run into
China?"

Jack pinched her cheek.  "Yeah, Christopher.  Piece of cake."

"Okay, now go get some rest," she said.  "I insist."

"Can I bring you some breakfast first?"

"No, I can wait.  You worry about yourself."

Jack gave her a contemplative look of uncertain meaning, as though
there was something he was trying to decide.  "You've got to take care
of yourself, too, you know."

The kindness of his tone struck her.  It was as though she really
mattered to him.  "Maybe a piece of bread or something then."

Patting her knee, he went off.  She watched him go.  Jack was in his
faded cotton shorts, a tattered, sleeveless shirt and topsiders without
socks.  His shaggy hair seemed more sun-bleached than before, his
muscular arms and legs more tanned.  He was as appealing as ever, and
not so frightening as before.  She was getting comfortable with him.
That had to mean something, but she was almost afraid to consider
what.

Stephanie locked the wheel the way he showed her and lay back, glancing
around at the sun-drenched sea and nearly cloudless sky.  This was the
most relaxed she'd felt since her ordeal had begun.  There had been
moments of peace on Nigel's island, but there had also been
uncertainty.  There was still uncertainty, of course, but now, like
Francoise, she felt more accepting of what was to come--whatever it
turned out to be.

The mainsail and jib began fluttering and Stephanie knew she needed
either to make a slight course adjustment or trim the sails.  Checking
the compass, she decided to tack.  She was in mid-procedure when Jack
appeared' carrying a tray.  He stood aside as she completed the
maneuver.

"Hey, not bad for a plebe," he said' dropping on the seat beside her.
"You into this sailing stuff, Mrs.  Reymond?"

"I'm enjoying it."  She checked out the tray.  Jack had made coffee.
There was also a small can of orange juice, bread, jam and a couple of
thin slices of cheese.  "That looks great, but you shouldn't have gone
to the trouble."

"I found that good service makes for repeat customers.  You know--keep
'em coming back for more."  He grinned.

"Jack, you're bad."

"Bad and dangerous go together, sweetheart."

"So do fatigue and mistakes," she said, sipping her coffee.

Jack winked at her.

Stephanie tore off a piece of cheese and ate it with a corner of bread.
Then she drank more coffee.  It was strong.  She liked the bite.

Next to her, Jack stretched out his long body, his legs open and
relaxed, his head back.  He was obviously wrung-out, maybe too tired to
go to bed.  Or maybe he just wanted to talk a while first.

"Sonia told me all about your relationship," she said, figuring she
might as well come at him out of the blue.

He opened one eye and regarded her.  "Did she tell you that now we're
only friends?"

"I think she loves you, Jack, if you want my honest opinion.  And if
you were honest, you'd admit that you love her."

"Oh, really?"

"Well, that's my opinion."

"Maybe I'm not that honest, Stephanie," he said, closing his eyes.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You admit that you do love her."

"Of course.  But not the way you're thinking."

She picked up a piece of bread and began slathering jam on it with
excessive zeal.

"Why do you ask, anyway?"  he said.  "Concern for my sake or hers?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, don't worry your pretty little head.  Sonia and I understand
each other just fine."  Jack picked up the can of orange juice, pulled
open the tab for her and put it back on the tray.  "Don't forget to
drink this," he said.  "You need vitamin C to protect against
scurvy."

She gave him a little nudge with her elbow, then picked up the can and
dutifully took a sip.  Whether it was true or not, she had the feeling
Jack cared about her.  It was a nice feeling, an increasingly warm
feeling.

Jack yawned.  She liked his company, but she knew he needed rest.

"Go take your nap," she ordered.  "I've got everything under control
here."

"Aye, captain," he replied, giving her a little salute Again he patted
her knee.  "Damn happy to have you aboard again sweetheart.  Didn't
realize how much I missed you until you were gone."  Then he got to his
feet, looking down at her meaningfully for a moment or two before
retreating along the deck.

As he disappeared from sight, she played his last comment over in her
mind.  He could have said it for effect.  And it was possible--even
probable--that he had ulterior motives.  Yet he sounded entirely
sincere, so she chose to believe he was.

The warm glow she felt came somewhat as a surprise.  Her heart was
beating a bit rapidly.  Early on she'd elected to ignore Jack's
seductive games.  Now she wasn't sure she wanted to.  She could never
be like some of his other women, wiggling her tits, exchanging a few
suggestive remarks, then leading him off to bed.  But neither was it
out of the question for her to be with someone for whom she felt warmth
and concern, not to mention a very strong attraction..

It was odd how feeble the human spirit could be when it came to love,
she decided.  Or, maybe it wasn't odd at all.

Maybe it was simply normal, and she was only now discovering what it
meant to be normal.  Normal and alive.

Four hours passed and presumably Jack was still sound asleep.  Half an
hour earlier she'd locked the wheel and gone below to use the head.
Peeking into his cabin, she saw him--flat out in his berth in his
undershorts, dead to the world.

She'd decided to let him sleep as long as he wished.  The poor man had
earned it.

She had been content, though the sun was hot and her skin felt tender
despite the sun-block.  Fortunately a shadow from the sail fell across
her when she was on the more southerly tack.

With time to herself, she'd been able to think.  The one thing that
kept eating at her was Jean Claud's secret code.  In light of
everything else, she hadn't dwelled much on her resentment.  By getting
killed, Jean Claud and Jane had insulated themselves from her wrath,
but when she stopped to think about it, she realized what a snake her
husband had been.  The bastard had put all her money, plus the money
from their joint portfolio, into an offshore account, and then he'd
given her sister access to it!  It was a flagrant case of adding insult
to injury.

When she'd looked at the disks in her cabin on the Rubber Soul, she'd
been concentrating on the Cayman bank account and hadn't closely
examined the source of the funds that had been invested in Halcyon,
There was a lot of research to do.  When Jack came up on deck, she'd go
down and spend time on the computer.

It occurred to her then that she was really doing little more than
keeping watch for traffic and tacking every once in a while.  There
still wasn't much wind and they couldn't be covering more than two or
three miles in an hour.  So why not work on the computer now?

She secured the wheel and went below to retrieve Jane's computer and
the disks.  On her way back up, she tripped on the top step and the
computer nearly went flying over the lifeline and into the water.  The
horrible vision passed through her mind of thirty million dollars
sinking to the bottom of the sea.  She was so shaken she stood there
for a moment, her hand to her chest, trying to recover.  It brought
home just how fragile the whole enterprise was.

Settling down in the cockpit, Stephanie scanned the horizon.  Seeing
nothing in sight, she turned on the computer and took another look at
Jean Claud's files.  First, she examined the Halcyon portfolio.  It was
then she noticed that Jean Claud's initial capital investment was only
nine million dollars--five million of it her inheritance, two million
their joint portfolio, a million and a half of his family's money and
half a million was attributed to somebody named Dave Martin.  She
wondered who he was, then remembered the man Jean Claud had talked to
on the phone that day was named Dave.

Stephanie contemplated the implications.  Based on what she saw, there
was no Inter-America Ventures money invested in Halcyon, no funds from
other outside investors except for this Dave.  Essentially Jean Claud
had taken eight and a half million dollars from various family
portfolios, plus the half million from his friend, and parlayed it into
thirty million dollars, based on the estimated appreciated value of the
stock.  With Jean Claud dead, seven-ninths, or roughly eighty percent,
of the thirty million was rightfully hers, the rest belonging to her
husband's French relatives and Dave Martin.

"Have you broken the code, Sherlock?"  She looked up to see Jack,
sleepy-eyed, making his way toward her.

Stephanie perked up at the sight of him.  "No, I was just looking to
see how my husband manipulated my money."  She smiled warmly, her
annoyance with Jean Claud already slipping from her mind.  "How do you
feel?  When I looked in on you earlier, you were zonked."

Jack dropped down on the seat.  "Better, but I'm not quite ready for a
marathon."

"You have a big sleep deficit to overcome."

He surprised her by taking her hand.  "So, how's it feel to be
captain?"  He leaned over and checked the compass.  "Course looks
good."

"No problem, except that it's been slow going."

Jack perused the sky.  "Yeah, the wind gods aren't looking on us very
favorably at the moment.  Many days like this and it'll take us a month
to get to the Caymans."

"Where are we, anyway?  Do you have a map?"

Jack pulled a small scale chart from the locker.  He pointed to a spot
about a hundred nautical miles south of Puerto Rico, between sixty-six
and sixty-seven degrees west longitude.  "I'd say we're right about
here."  Then he dragged his finger across the chart toward Mexico,
stopping at a couple of specks below the eastern end of Cuba.  "And we
have a week or so to get all the way over here.  A thousand miles or
thereabouts."

"Can we make it?"

"if the wind picks up.  This sort of calm is very unusual."

"We're being tested, Jack," she said, aware of his knee bumping lightly
against hers.

"Ain't that the truth?"  he said, rolling up the chart.  He glanced at
the computer resting on her lap.  "So, how about the code?  Been
working on it?  Or is that privileged information?"

It was a pivotal question, her answer depending on the degree of her
trust' and they both knew it.  "I don't see why it should be
privileged.  We're partners, after all."  Looking into his eyes, she
saw a smile in them.  "And God knows I can certainly use the help.  Let
me call up the file."

Stephanie pulled up the document then pointed to the series.

of word-and-number pairs.  "I think each of these represents a digit in
the code.  The banker implied there'd be a numerical access code. There
are six word-number combinations.  A six-digit code seems logical."

"The words are connected to the numbers by an equal

sign," Jack observed.  "That's the part that baffles me.  Why an equal
sign?"

"The words must represent a number of some sort themselves."

"Undoubtedly.  That part I think I understand," she said.  "Jean Claud
made this code for my sister, and Jane, like our mother, was into
numerology.  In fact, Mom was so fanatical she'd change her phone
number or the license plate on her car to get the right numerological
indications.  She was obsessed and it rubbed off on Jane."

"But not you?"

"I was into numbers, all right, but in my case it was the sort you find
on a profit-and-loss statement."  She laughed.  "Good old Stephanie,
the oddball in the family."

"Numerology is sort of like astrology, isn't it?"

"Yes, sort of.  I think it started with the belief that the numbers in
a person's birth date determine the influences in their life.  But it
was extended to words, as well, by giving each letter in the alphabet a
numerical value.  A equals one, B equals two, C equals three and so
forth."

"All the way to twenty-six?"

"Not really.  In numerology there are only nine pure numbers, one
through nine.  Every multiple-digit number is reduced to its base by
adding the digits.  For example, the number ten is equal to one because
one plus zero equals one.  And eleven is equal to two because one plus
one is equal to two.  Similarly, twelve equals three because one plus
two equals three."

"So two hundred and forty-three equals... nine," he said, doing a quick
calculation, "because two plus four plus three equals nine."

"Exactly," Stephanie said.  "It sounds complicated, but it's really
pretty simple.  Keep adding digits until you get to a base number.  My
mother could look at a person's name, do a quick calculation and tell
you whether they were sociable, technically inclined or destined to be
rich and successful, all because each base number has intrinsic
qualities.  For example, the number one is pioneering, six represents
sociability, eight money and success and so forth."

"That must have come in handy at family seances," Jack quipped.

Stephanie gave him a look.  "The point is, each of these words in the
code would have a numerical value in terms of numerology.  "Chalk," for
example, is three plus eight, plus one, plus three, plus two, which...
let me see... adds up to... seventeen, if I'm not mistaken, which
reduces to eight because one plus seven equals eight.  Understand?"

"If you say so, sweetheart."

"My point is that the first digit of the code, chalk = = 4 in
numerological terms is eight = = 4, but I have no idea what that means.
Why the equal sign?"

"Maybe this code has nothing to do with numerology," Jack suggested.
"Maybe it's just the number of letters in the word."

"But that still doesn't explain what the equal sign means."

He considered that, rubbing his chin.  "True..."

"At first I thought the number after the equal sign indicates the
position of the digit in the code.  In other words, chalk = = 4 means
that the numerological value of chalk, or the number eight, is the
fourth digit in the code."

"That makes sense," Jack said, his interest rising.

"Yeah, but look," she said, pointing, "the numbers he lists here after
the words are, in numerical order, one, two, four, four, five and
seven.  That would mean two fourth digits and a seventh digit, but no
third and no sixth, so that eliminates that possibility."

Jack studied the screen.  Stephanie slipped the computer onto his lap
and stood to take another look at the sea.  Off to the north she
spotted a small steamer, but it was several miles away and on a
different course.  She sat down again.

"What if the equal sign represents something else?"  he said.  "For
example, what if equal really means plus."

She watched as he put his hand on her knee, caressing it unconsciously.
"Sure, Jack, that's possible, but it could also be a minus sign or a
multiplication sign.  There's no way to know."

Now he rubbed his chin again.  "You're saying we're screwed?"

"Maybe.  But I'd like to think there's a nice, clear, logical
explanation.  My sister wasn't dumb, but she was a plodding thinker. My
intuition tells me this code is straightforward and mechanical, not
deceptive.  The equal sign really means equal in some way.  There's
obviously a key, but I can't figure it out.  The only thing I feel
fairly certain of is that numerology figures into it.  Even Jean Claud
was into our family's obsession with numerology, though usually with
tongue in cheek."

Jack leaned back, folding his arms over his chest.  "I'd like to be
encouraging, Stephanie, but I have a hunch this is something that's
going to come to you intuitively, if it comes at all."

She regarded him.  "Discouraging, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and
bringing his hip right up against hers.  "Maybe the numerological gods
are on our side."

Stephanie leaned toward him and he kissed her temple.

"Hey," he said.  "I just realized.  You worked right through lunch,
didn't you?  Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Can I get you a drink or anything?"

"No, but I've been thinking I'd like to wash up and maybe rest a
little.  I'm not used to this much sun."

"How thoughtless of me," Jack said.  "You go on below.  Take a nap, if
you like.  Maybe we can have an early dinner."

"That sounds good."

Stephanie lifted Jane's computer off his lap, turned it off and closed
the cover.  "Maybe I'll work on this again first thing in the morning,
when I'm fresh."

"Sounds like a good plan."

She got up, holding the computer carefully this time, and headed for
the companionway.  As she got to the top of the steps she glanced back
and saw Jack looking at her legs.  She smiled.  He smiled.  The more
things changed, she decided, the more they were the same.

Stephanie came back up on deck at about sunset and found Jack staring
absently at the sails.  The air was strangely warm and still.  He
glanced at her, shaking his head.

"What's happened?"  she asked.

He pointed up at the sails, sagging like old skin.  "We're in a dead
calm.  If we move at all, it'll be because of a current."

"You mean we're stuck?"

"Until the wind comes up."

"How long will that be?"

"It could be a few hours, or a day.  Now that I've got a working radio,
I've learned there's a huge high pressure area covering most of the
gulf.  Until it starts moving off, we'll sit here bobbing like a rubber
ducky."  He stood.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd go below and fix you a special meal.  We might as well
have a pleasant evening instead of one of us being stuck on watch. And,
since we're not going anywhere, anyway, I figured I'd get a good
night's sleep.  Once the wind comes up, we can sail around the
clock."

"You're the captain."

Jack reached out and caressed her cheek.  "I always liked hearing that,
especially from a beautiful woman."

"Why?  Because it sounds like 'lord and master'?"  He chuckled.  "You
see right through me, don't you?"  "God, I hope not."

Jack looked her over.  She'd put on a little sleeveless cotton dress
and slicked her hair back.  "My, but don't you look gorgeous.

"Amazing what a shower will do for you," she said.

"I thought I'd shave and have one myself."  Reaching out, he took her
hand and gently pulled her to him.  "Meanwhile, you don't mind if I
smell you, do you?"  he said, gathering her in his arms.

They stood on the deck, holding each other in the dead calm air.  The
sea was so still the boat hardly moved.  She was aware of his masculine
scent, his strong arms and the feel of the stubble on his chin against
her temple.

Jack lightly stroked her neck, making her shiver.  She pulled her head
back so she could see him.  The sun had dropped below the horizon and
the light had that peculiar, luminescent quality that comes only at
dusk.  He seemed aware of the question in her eyes.  "What?"

"How long has it been since you've had a drink, Jack?"

He reflected.  "How long have I known you?"

"A week."

"Then it's been a week."

"But that's coincidental."

"No, since you came aboard I've been gainfully employed," he said. "But
that's not the whole story."  She wasn't sure she wanted clarification.
 Jack rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"Aren't you going to ask me to explain?"  he asked.  She gave a half
shrug.

"A lot of it's because of the way I feel about you.... No, not a lot,"
he said, correcting himself "It is because of the way I feel about
you."

Stephanie lowered her eyes, but he lifted her chin, making her look at
him.

"That's the sincerest compliment I can give," he said, a quaver of
emotion in his voice.

"Has it been hard?"  she asked.  "Not drinking, I mean."

"It's been a bitch."

"You must feel good about it, though."

"When I'm not thinking about having a drink."  Taking her face in his
hands, he leaned down and kissed her mouth.  It was a tender,
affectionate kiss that said a lot about his feelings.  For the first
time he was suggesting that she was important to him.

"Hey," she said, breaking the mood, "you know what?  I haven't paid you
yet."

"Paid me?"

"The seven thousand I owe."

"It's six, but don't worry about it.  No rush."

"No, it's important that we're businesslike, Jack.  I want to do this
right."

He kissed her forehead, then the corner of her eye.  "Why is that
important?"

She forced a couple of quick breaths as he held her by the waist.  The
message in his eyes was unequivocal.  Things, she sensed, were shifting
to another gear.

"Maybe it's the accountant in me," she said, "always wanting to keep
things tidy."

"Tidy, huh?  Don't tell me your house was tidy, everything in its
place."

She nodded.  "Yeah, pretty much."

He frowned deeply.  "Do you suppose that means we're incompatible?"

"Possibly," she said with a shrug.

"Do slobs upset you?"

"Jean Claud was fastidious and I was always organized, so our house was
... "As antiseptic as an operating room?"

"Yeah."

Jack grinned.  "I guess I'm like a breath of fresh air."  When she
didn't respond, he let his hands drop from her waist.  "Why don't we go
below then?  I can start dinner and get cleaned up."

They went down to the salon.  Saying it would be wise to save the
batteries, Jack lit a couple of kerosene lamps, one of which he gave to
her.  The other he took with him to the galley.  Stephanie retrieved
her purse from her cabin and brought it out to the table in the
salon.

"We have the good fortune of being able to eat some of Tess's fine
cuisine," Jack called from the galley.  "She made a few dishes for me
to bring along."

"Great."

Stephanie had forgotten about Jack's gun and, finding it in her purse,
she put it on the table.  Then she spotted Francoise's passport.

"Oh, damn."

"What's the matter?"

"I left without giving Francoise's passport back to her."

"She can get another.  Anyway, it might come in handy.  God knows what
you'll have to do and where you'll be going before it's safe to be
Stephanie Reymond again."

He had a point.  She turned her attention to the money.  Having spent
most of her cash, she had to pay him with traveler's checks.  She'd
signed six thousand dollars' worth by the time he joined her at the
table with a bottle of mineral water and two glasses.

"I could probably dig up a bottle of wine if you'd prefer it," he
said.

"No, this is fine.  Why make it difficult for you unnecessarily?"

"Admittedly I've been avoiding temptation."  He opened the bottle and
poured some in each glass.  "Ice is a luxury we'll have to do
without."

"I'll survive," she said.

Sitting across from her, Jack touched his glass to hers.  "To us and
our common enterprise," he said.  "May all your codes be easily
broken."

"It would improve our prospects, wouldn't it?"

They each sipped their water.  The way Jack looked at her made her feel
strangely aware of herself.  His rakishness, if that's what it was,
went beyond simple mental undressing.  It was connection, a deep
connection.  She could think of no other way to describe it.

Stephanie pushed the traveler's checks over to him and put the gun down
beside them.  "I guess I owe you a bullet," she said.  "I used one to
knock out the radio in Bobby's plane."

"Don't worry about it.  It's all part of the service."

"Jean Claud was opposed to having a gun in the house.  He said the
potential for harm was greater than the potential for good.  And he was
probably right.  Had I not had your gun with me in St.  Thomas, I
wouldn't be wanted for kidnapping and air piracy."

"But you probably wouldn't be here with the disks, either."

"Sort of bad news, good news, isn't it?"

Jack gave her one of his particularly endearing smiles.  "I'm glad
things worked out this way, but whether we have the disks or not, I
can't think of anyone I'd rather be with."

She wondered at that, but didn't comment.  They contemplated each other
for a long time.

Finally Jack said, "I think I'll go get cleaned up now."  He picked up
the traveler's checks and the gun, which he stuffed in the waistband of
his shorts.  "I've got some rice steaming and seafood stew simmering on
the stove.  If you wouldn't mind, check them occasionally."

"Sure," she said.

Jack started for the head, then stopped.  "Oh, by the way, do you play
cribbage?"

"Not for years."

"But you know how?"

"Yes, Jean Claud and I played a lot when I was pregnant.  But as soon
as Suzanne was born we stopped.  I can't tell you why.  Maybe with the
baby we were too busy."

He had a funny look on his face.

"What"

"Oh, nothing."

"Tell me."

He sighed.  "Alicia and I used to play cribbage.  Especially toward the
end."

"When she was pregnant?"

Jack's expression was questioning.

"Malva told me," she explained.

He nodded.  "I guess she would have known."  There was an awkward
silence.

"Maybe cribbage isn't such a good idea," she said.

"Would it bother you?"  She shook her head.

"Let's let fate decide," he said.  "If the board hasn't been pinched,
it'll be in that locker over there against the bulkhead.  If you can
find it, we'll play.  If not, we'll leave our cribbage memories to
rest.  Fair enough?"

"Fine."

Jack went off to shave and shower, and Stephanie got up to search the
locker.  In an odd way, it seemed significant whether she found the
board, though she couldn't begin to say why.  Nor did she know whether
she wanted to find it.  Like Jack said, fate would decide.

Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman, The Cayman Islands

The barkeep put another rum and Coke in front of him.  Rico Behring
picked up the glass, examining it as if he wasn't sure he wanted to
drink it.  "How many's this?"

"That's your fourth, sir."

Rico regarded the man.  He was of medium height, a little on the heavy
side.  His dark skin glistened in the heat and a huge mustache
dominated his face.  They'd spoken very little despite the fact that
Rico was the only one at the bar.  A couple of gangly old guys who
looked like fishermen were sitting in the back corner, talking and
laughing over their beer, but the beach cafe was otherwise empty.

Out on the patio, under the thatch cabana, the barmaid was cleaning the
metal tables.  Her hair was cut short like a man's and she wore large
hoop earrings that hung nearly to her shoulders.  She was on the small
side, but she had the round est juiciest ass he'd ever seen.  The way
her little T-shirt dress stretched over it was enough to give a guy a
hard-on.

When she drifted from sight, Rico turned his attention back to the
bartender.  "What's your name again, sport?"

"George, sir."

"George.  Why is every fucking thing in this fucking place named
George?"

"I don't know, sir, perhaps it's our colonial past."

Rico found the guy's even temperament sort of surprising.  Every nigger
he'd ever known had some kind of attitude, but this one he liked.
George picked up an empty glass and polished it with his bar rag.
Seeing not a flicker of hatred in the bastard's eyes, Rico took his
roll from his pocket and peeled off a twenty.

"Here, amigo," he said, handing him the bill.  "That's for you.  It's
got nothin' to do with the drinks.  Put it in your pocket."

George smoothly tucked the twenty away.  "Thank you, sir.  You're very
kind."

Rico smirked because it sounded strange.  Nobody he could think of ever
called him kind.  Not even his mother.  Generous, funny,
happy-go-lucky, life of the party, but never kind.  "To tell you the
truth, George, I'm in a shitty mood."

"Sorry to hear that, sir."

"Problems with my wife.  I'm down here on business and the bitch is
back home, jerking me around.  I've tried calling her three times in
the last twelve hours and nobody's home, not even the kid with a
fucking baby-sitter."

"I can see how that would be vexing, sir."

"Fucking A," Rico said, knocking back more rum and Coke.  "If she's
screwing around behind my back, I'll cut her goddamn heart out."

"You obviously love her."

"Christ, I married her, didn't I?  How much more can you love a broad
than that?  And she wasn't exactly Miss Virgin Queen when we met,
neither."

"I understand, sir."

Rico looked at him appraisingly.  "You know, George, I think you do."
Draining the last of his drink, he put the glass down on the bar. "Give
me another, sport."

"Yes, sir."

Outside, the barmaid was sweeping the patio now; With every stroke of
the broom her ass rocked.  Rico could imagine thrusting his cock in her
with each hitch.  God, how he'd love to have those legs wrapped around
him, squeezing the be jesus 4 out of him.  George placed a fresh rum
and Coke in front of him.

Rico's eyes were still on the girl.  "Tell me, my friend.  Can that
piece out there be had?"

"I don't think so, sir.  She has a man."

"Does her man have money?"

George hesitated.  "I believe not."

is'

"Then I've got something her man doesn't have.  How much do you think
it would take to get her in bed, money-wise?"

"I really wouldn't know, sir.  But if that's your interest, there are
places in town ... "No," Rico said, shaking his head.  "I like that
one.  She's got a great ass."

George resumed his polishing.

"Do you think she'd have dinner and share some fun and games with me
for five hundred pounds?"

"Honestly, I have no idea, sir, but I tend to doubt it."

"Tell you what, George, I'll give you a thousand pounds to negotiate
with her on my behalf.  Go make a deal for me.  You can keep the
difference."

"Sir, I really don't think..."

"Here," Rico said, pulling another twenty from his roll.  "Don't be
shy. Go ask her.  What can it hurt?"

The bartender headed off.  As he went out the door, Carlos, Oscar's
sidekick, came in the front entrance.  He seemed surprised as he
hurried over to the bar.

"Jesucristo, we've been looking for you everywhere, Senor Behring," he
said anxiously.  "It's your father.  He's had a heart attack.  They
took him to the hospital."

Rico felt his heart clench.  "Pops?"  he said through an alcoholic
haze.  "Pops had a heart attack?"

"They think so," Carlos said.  "They were at dinner and he fell right
over.  Oscar was with him.  Everyone's been searching for you, senor.
We been combing the beaches, looking in every bar and restaurant
between the hotel and the town."

"This isn't a joke?"

"No, I swear it, senor.  Please come.  I got a car out front."  Rico
numbly got to his feet.  He felt so light-headed, he had to hold on to
the bar.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," he said, dazed.  "Just give me a minute."

As Rico stood there, his heart racing, the bartender returned.  Rico
stared at him mutely, only half recalling what they'd discussed. George
leaned across the bar and lowered his voice to a confidential tone.

"Corine said to tell you, sir, that she's not a prostitute."

Rico considered that.  "So what does that mean, that she wants more
money?"

George appeared uncomfortable.  "She said she'd be willing to come by
your hotel and have a drink with you, sir, and get acquainted.  But it
would have to be tomorrow afternoon.  Two o'clock."

Rico was beginning to get the drift of the conversation.  "So, how much
bread we talkin', George?"

The barkeep lowered his voice still further.  "Twenty-five hundred,
sir."

"Dollars?"

"Pounds."

Rico knocked back a big gulp of rum and Coke.  "Jesus, virtue is
expensive on this fucking island."

"Corine is not a professional, sir."

"Amateurs are more expensive, huh?"  George shrugged.

"Senor?"  Carlos said.  "You coming?"

"Yeah, go get in the car, Carlos.  I'll be right there."

The man went off.

"Tell you what, George," Rico said.  "I'll have somebody come by
tomorrow and pick her up.  But I'm not paying over two grand.  That's
more than top dollar for any piece of ass."

George frowned.

Rico smiled.  "The five was going to you, wasn't it' sport?"

The barman lowered his eyes.

"I'll pay her two thou," Rico said, taking his roll from his pocket and
peeling off three twenties.  "Here's sixty bucks.  If you can get more
out of her, more power to you."  Glancing up, he saw the woman at the
door leading to the patio, half hiding behind the door frame.  He could
see trepidation in her eyes.  He smiled.  "Hi there, doll," he called
to her.  "You're lookin' beautiful."

She shrank from sight.  Rico chuckled, liking the thought of an
amateur.  Then he turned to face the entrance, his hand still resting
on the bar.  He refocused his thoughts on what he was doing.  Carlos's
shocker entered his brain again.  Jesus, he thought, what if Pop died?
Well, he knew what it meant, of course.  This whole thing would land
right in his lap.  And

Oscar would have to kiss his ass right along with everybody else.
Christ.

Rico patted the bar with his hand.  "Thanks, George."

"Yes, sir."

He headed for the entrance, walking as straight and true as he could.
Even so, he wove a little.  Shit.  He wasn't sure he was ready for
this.  But not a fucking soul would find out he had doubts.  Not even
his father.

The Caribbean Sea

Stephanie cleared their dinner dishes while Jack went topside to check
out conditions.  They'd played two games of cribbage before they'd
eaten.  She'd won the first, pegging out with Jack sitting twelve
points back and holding a sixteen-point hand.  She'd been thrilled
since Jean Claud had usually beaten her.  Perhaps it was an omen,
though of what she couldn't say.  The second game had fallen into a
more familiar pattern.  Jack trounced her, coming within a few points
of skunking her.  They'd agreed to play the rubber game of the match
after dinner.

Jack came back down the steps.  "That's the calmest sea I've ever seen
in my life.  And it's a gorgeous evening.  Venus looks big enough to
sit on top a Christmas tree and the moon's so bright you could read a
newspaper by it.  What do you say we play our rubber game up there?"

Jack grabbed the board and cards and she followed him up the stairs. He
was right about the evening, it was glorious, the air incredible. While
he set up some chairs and a small folding table on the deck, she gazed
at the sea.  Far to the north a freighter and a cruise ship slipped
along the horizon, the latter aglow with lights.  The sky was a carpet
of stars.

They were in their own little floating world, just the two of them,
joined in a common enterprise.  But at times, that almost seemed to her
like an excuse.  Though she wouldn't have admitted it at the outset,
part of what she was doing was simply being with him.  This was
becoming clearer to her all the time, though it remained unspoken on
both their parts.

"This is truly magnificent," she said in awe.

"It's the kind of night you want to last forever," he said
meaningfully.

Stephanie sat quietly as Jack set up the board and shuffled the cards.
She thought about how attractive he was, how his presence alone could
arouse her.  The fact that he knew it, too made the feeling all the
more intense.  She wondered if he was determined to make love with her
tonight, and if he tried' how she'd react.  "All right," Jack said.
"Rubber game."  He contemplated her.  "You know, more should be riding
on the outcome than just bragging rights."

"What do you mean?"

"We need a bet of some kind."

"Like what?"

Jack stroked his chin as he considered her question.  She noticed his
eyes glide down her and it wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking.

"Nothing immoral," she warned.  "Losing a bet is the worst possible
reason I can think of for having sex."

"I don't recall saying anything about sex."

"It's what you were thinking."

"No, Stephanie, it was what you were thinking."  She blushed, hoping he
couldn't tell.  "There's more than one way to suggest something, you
know."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach.
"You're still afraid of me, aren't you?"

"I'm not afraid of you.  We haven't always wanted the same thing,
that's all."

He reached over and took her hand, surprising her.  "Look, Stephanie,"
he said, "I know this isn't the life you're used to and I'm not the
sort of man you've associated with in the past.  But I want to be
really clear about this.  As long as we're together, I'll never make
you do anything against your will.  Whatever happens between us, it'll
be what you want, what feels good.  So don't worry."

His words touched her, even if they were calculated for effect.  They
showed he understood what was on her mind.  "I appreciate that," she
said.  "I really do."

"But we still need a meaningful bet."

"Why is that so important?"

"The more you live on the edge, the more alive you feel.  That's why
people gamble, Stephanie."

"I don't need to gamble to be happy."

"Then why did you come with me?"  he asked.

"Why did you come with me?"

"Because I am a gambler."

She watched him riffle the cards.  He was daring her to play his game.
"Okay," she said.  "What do you want to bet?"

"Tell you what.  Let's play for an extra five percent of the booty. Our
deal now is I get twenty percent of whatever you get out of the bank,
right?"

"Unless it's through legal action, yes."

"All right.  We play this game to see whether it's going to be fifteen
percent or twenty-five percent."

She blinked.  "That could be a difference of three million dollars."

"That ought to get your palms to sweating," he said with a grin.

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I won't do it.  That's crazy."

"You offered me twenty percent out of the chute, Stephanie, so what's
five percent one way or the other?"

"A million and a half, that's what."

"You're afraid."

"I am not," she said indignantly.  "Besides, the way things stand with
the code, we may not be getting a nickel out of the bank, either one of
us."

"Then you shouldn't have any trouble making the bet."

Even in the soft light of the moon his features betrayed a certain
arrogance and self-satisfaction.

Stephanie felt herself rising to the bait.  "All right, Captain
Kidwell," she said with forced confidence.  "I'll bet you the five
percent."

"Excellent," he said, rubbing his hands together.  "I love a woman with
courage."

They cut the cards.  Jack got the first deal and crib.  Her palms were
sweaty, and at some level the excitement, the expectation, did appeal
to her.  It was just a game of cards, but she'd never been more nervous
playing in her life.

The game progressed, the lead swinging back and forth.  The ebb and
flow from exhilaration to despair was incredible.  But at the one-third
mark she took a commanding lead, bettering him by nearly twenty points.
She felt the thrill of blood sport.  It was a strange high.

"Having second thoughts, Captain?"

"Don't get smug, my dear.  The game's not over."

No sooner had he said it than his luck changed.  He had a couple of
good hands in a row, one a sixteen-pointer, and passed her at the final
turn.  Stephanie felt as though the wind had been knocked right out of
her.  She sat watching him shuffle the cards, her nails dug into her
palms, a sheen of perspiration on her lip as she considered what was at
stake.

They were tied, fifteen points from the finish, and it was his deal.
That meant he would get the crib, but she got first count.  If she
mustered fifteen points between play and count she'd win, regardless of
how many points he ended up having.

"Hmm," Jack said, studying the board.  "Fifteen points, a million and a
half dollars riding on the hand.  That figures out to a hundred
thousand dollars a point.  What do you think of your odds?"

"Not good," she said despairingly.  "Less than fifty-fifty."  He
nodded.  "Yeah, I'd agree.  Of course, I may not go out, either."

"But next hand you count first, which means your chances are probably
better.  You're definitely in control of the game," she said, trying
not to think of the stakes as real money.  When she looked up at him,
she actually saw pity on his face.  "What?"

"Let's make it interesting," he said.  "I'll let you buy an extra
card."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll deal you an extra card and you can discard one and keep the best
four Out of five in your hand."

She considered that.  It could make a big difference, increasing her
chances considerably.  "What'll it cost me?"

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.  "What do you have that I might want?"

His quirky smile told her he was having more suggestive thoughts.  But
instead of sharing them with her, he dealt six cards to her and six to
himself, then stopped.  "Okay," he said.  "Here's what I propose.  You
get a free card if you come with me for a moonlight swim."

"Here?  In the middle of the ocean?"  she said.

"The water's warm and it couldn't be calmer."

She contemplated him, wondering what the catch was.  "No sex?"

"Nothing you don't want to do.  We just go skinny-dipping."

Stephanie looked at the board.  "Do I get to see the turn card before I
have to discard the extra?"

Jack chuckled.  "Ah, practical as well as virtuous, I see."

"Yes or no?"  she demanded, flushing.

"Sure," he said.  "You can see the turn card."

"All right," she said.  "It's a deal.  Give me my card."

Jack, thoroughly amused, gave her the extra card.  It was a five.  The
turn card was a king.  She also had a queen, a ten and another five in
her hand.  That was fourteen points.  If she managed to get two points
in play, she'd win!

She discarded a six from her hand and put another six and nine in the
crib for Jack.  They began the play.  Her queen brought the count to
thirty, but Jack had an ace and got the two points.

"Damn," she muttered, losing a chance at a point.

Next round he was high card, winning another point.  Stephanie got a
point for playing last card in the final round but with the fourteen
points in her hand, that gave her a total of fifteen, which put her in
the stink hole, one point shy of victory.  Now the question was if Jack
had thirteen points in his hand and crib, or if they'd have to play
another hand.

Stephanie counted her hand for him and placed her peg in the stink
hole.

"Oh, poor Stephanie," he said.  "So close and yet so far."

"Come on, Jack," she said, her heart pounding, her face damp with
perspiration.  "Let's see your hand.  What do you have?"

"Only five points," he said grimly.

He showed her his cards.  She smiled, feeling a spark of hope.

"Now the question is if I have eight points in my crib," he said,
surprisingly cool.

He began turning over the cards one at a time, starting with the six
and the nine she'd given him.  That was two points.  He knew what he'd
put in the crib, which meant he also knew whether he'd just won or lost
a million and a half dollars.  There was no sign on his face, nothing
in his eyes indicating the result.

"Jack?"

He turned over a seven.  Her heart stopped.  if the next card was an
eight, she'd lost.  His hand rested on the card.

"Damn it," she said.  "Turn it over."

Jack picked up the card and turned it over.  The eight of hearts!  That
gave him eight points in his crib.  He'd just won another five percent
of the Halcyon money, her money.  Stephanie was stunned.

She swallowed hard, feeling as though she'd just been kicked in the
stomach.  She glanced up at him.  Jack actually looked embarrassed.

"Tough luck," he said.

She only half comprehended what had happened In one sense it was
cataclysmic, in another it was all pretend, anyway.  "I guess I should
hope that cost me a million dollars," she finally said.  "Because if
it's worthless to you, it's worthless to me."

"Whatever the outcome, it was good for a little excitement," he said,
sounding a touch too upbeat.

"I guess I'm a double loser," she said.  "I owe you another five
percent of the deal and now I've got to take off my clothes."

"Forget it," he replied.  "I think you've taken a big enough hit
already."

"No, I bought that card.  if I'd picked up just one more point in play,
you'd be singing the blues."

"A woman of honor," he said.

"I pay my debts.  Do you want me to undress now?"

"No, I already feel like Simon Legree."

"Good," she said, managing to smile.  "You should suffer a little."

Jack shook his head, like maybe he'd heard it before.  But she was
going to get it over with.  Standing, she turned her back to him and
removed her T-shirt.  Next she took off her shorts, sliding them down
her legs before kicking them aside.  Finally she slipped off her
panties, knowing Jack was not ten feet away, his eyes poring over her. 
If anything, her heart was pounding harder than when they were playing
cards.

She did not look back at him.  Instead, she moved to the gate in the
lifeline where the boarding ladder was normally deployed.  Gazing down
at the dark water, she told herself not to consider what dangers might
be lurking there.  Rather, she considered how beautiful the sea was in
the moonlight.  Then, rising to her toes, she dived into the water.

The initial sensation was coolness.  But she surfaced and after a
moment the water began to feel tepid.  Over the gentle swells she saw
another ship far to the south.  Behind her there was a splash.
Stephanie turned to see Jack surface three feet from her.  He pushed
his hair back off his face.

"You like the deep water?"  he asked.

"How deep is it, you suppose?"

"I don't know, around two miles, I imagine.  Ten, twelve thousand
feet."

"My God," she said.

Jack smiled.  "Quite a sensation to be in it though, isn't it?"

"Feels wonderful, I admit."

They treaded water, facing each other.  His wet face glistened in the
moonlight.  She moved closer, drawn to him, until their faces were only
a foot or so apart.

"Funny how stimulating water is," he said.  "I wonder why."

"Millions of years ago we were probably doing it in the water," she
said.

"The more things change, the more they're the same."

Stephanie wondered if he'd just propositioned her.  His eyes said yes,
but that came as no surprise.  The question was what she wanted.  The
moment had come either to retreat from the possibility or to advance.
She knew it, Jack knew it.

Stephanie reached out and put her palm against his chest.  He touched
her waist.  The water suddenly became an impediment.  She wanted both
his hands on her, she wanted to be in his arms.

Breaking away, she swam back to the boat where she grasped the boarding
ladder.  Jack continued to tread water, only turning around to face her
after a minute.  Seeing she had not climbed back onto the boat, he
slowly swam toward her, through the reflection of the moon on the
surface of the water.

Her back to the boat, Stephanie reached behind her head and held on to
a rung of the ladder.  The waves lapped at the top of her chest.

"What did you think when I told you I'd watched you and Tanya make
love?"  she asked.

"I figured you were trying to be provocative."

"Maybe I was.  I've thought about it a lot, wondering what it would be
like to be her."

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice tremulous.

Jack inched closer.  When they were about to touch, he reached behind
her and grasped the lower rung of the ladder.  His body bumped up
against hers, his thigh, his hip, his chest coming into contact with
her.  She drew a nervous breath.

"I'd like to think you just propositioned me"' he said in a low
voice.

She didn't have the strength to respond.  Jack encircled her waist with
his free arm and kissed her deeply, his tongue passing her lips.  She
wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him close enough that she
could feel his erection against her.  The kiss ended and he pressed his
face into the crook of her neck.

Through half-closed eyes, Stephanie saw the low, sleek lines of an oil
tanker slide across the black horizon.  But the image faded when Jack
slid his hand between her legs.

She gasped when he began caressing her.

"You like it when I touch you, don't you?"

"Oh, yes.

"Like it when I put my finger here?"

"God, yes."

She writhed against his hand.  He fingered her for several minutes,
bringing her to the precipice of orgasm three or four times, but always
backing off just before she came.

"Let's get back in the boat," she said.  "You go first."

Stephanie moved aside so he could go up the ladder.  He waited on deck,
helping her up, then embracing her.  The air felt cool on her wet skin
as they kissed, his salty lips pressed against hers:

"Will you make love to me the way you did Tanya?"  she asked,
trembling.

"No, we'll do it in a way that's just for you."

She held him, suddenly frightened.  "Jack, I haven't had sex in years,"
she blurted.  "Not even with Jean Claud."

He took her face in his hands.  "I know how to be gentle, sweetheart,
don't worry."

Taking her hand, he led her toward the companionway.  They went down
the narrow passage and through the dark salon to her cabin where he
embraced her and lowered her onto the berth in one motion.  His wet
skin was cool but still warmer than hers.

Enough moonlight came through the ports that she could see his face
hovering over hers.  She tried to understand from his eyes the full
meaning of what was happening, but it wasn't there.  This was about
pleasure--and if she was lucky, about tenderness and affection.  But in
a way it was also about finally getting her due, getting from Jack what
she'd never gotten from Jean Claud.

Propped on his elbow, Jack pushed the wet strands of hair off her
cheek.  He seemed in no hurry.  And though her heart still slammed
against her ribs, she felt herself begin to relax.

"What do you like best, babe?"  he asked, running his fingertip over
the top of her chest.

"I haven't done a lot.  My husband didn't have much of a taste for sex,
and I guess not much skill, either."

"That means we have to experiment.  But we each have responsibilities,
Steph.  Mine is to be intuitive and creative.  Yours is to tell me what
feels good."

Stephanie swallowed hard.  His words alone aroused her.  Sex with Jean
Claud had been a bit like a bumper-car ride at a carnival.  There was
contact, but it was brief and harsh and exciting only in a negative
sense.

"Can you do that?"  he asked.

"Yes, I'll try."

Jack cupped her breast and lowered his mouth to her nipple, taking it
between his lips.  He sucked it, lightly running his tongue over the
tip.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes."

"How does it feel?"

"You're making it throb."

"Good," he said, kissing and teasing it some more.  He moved to the
other breast, repeating the ritual, moving his mouth back and forth
from one breast to the other, occasionally nibbling the nipples
lightly.

"God," she murmured.  "I can even feel it in my stomach."  Jack slid
his face down to her abdomen, dragging his moist lips across her skin.
"Here?"

"Yes, everywhere."

He moved his head still lower and parted her legs.  His breath was hot.
She purred.

"Does this feel good?"

"Yes," she croaked.  "It feels very good."

His face sank deeper and he moved her legs still farther apart.  His
tongue lapped her again and she lifted her pelvis.

"How about this?"

Air passed through her throat, but words were hard to form.  She'd
never before done this, save in her fantasies--fantasies involving dark
men with dark intentions.

Jack looked up at her.  "Stephanie?"

"Oh, don't stop, please," she begged, taking his head and pressing his
face against her.

Again his tongue caressed her with perfect pressure.  When she felt her
orgasm coming, she grasped his head and squeezed it hard between her
legs.

The sensation was so intense that she had to ask him to stop.  The
pleasure was becoming pain.  But she'd never felt so purged, so out of
control.

"You liked that, didn't you?"  he said, rimming her navel with his
tongue.  "Did I satisfy you?"

The answer was yes, of course, because she couldn't imagine an orgasm
more intense.  But maybe that wasn't what he was asking.  Did she want
him to fuck her?  That's what he wanted to know.

"Yes," she told him, "but I want you in me now."

She could feel his erection and tentatively grasped his penis.  It
arched slightly.  She traced the upward curve with her palm, unsure how
to pleasure him.  But what she was doing seemed to be working.
Stephanie pictured that girl straddling him.  She wanted to do the
same.

Rising to her knees, she got astride him.  Jack gazed up at her as she
guided his sex into her opening.

"God, you're big," she gasped as he slid into her.

"You feel good," he said, touching her breast.

She sucked a deep breath of air into her lungs.  They both smelled of
sex and the sea.  She began rocking.  It only took a moment before she
was as turned on as she'd been earlier.

"Oh, oh," she murmured, realizing it wouldn't take much for her to come
again.

Jack took hold of her haunches.  She gyrated in concert with his
direction, lifting herself so that she could slide back down his shaft.
Wanting more contact, she leaned forward.  Jack increased the pace by
lifting and dropping her more rapidly onto his cock.

"Do you like this?"  he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, panting.  "This is the best of all."  And it
was.

"Your body was made for this, Steph," he whispered.  "Made for me to be
in it."

Her blood surged and she felt something powerful gathering.  As the
sensation heightened, her head rolled back on her shoulders and she
began to moan.  She could come then, if she let herself.  "Are you
going to come?"  she asked, wanting to let go when he did.

"You want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?  You ready?"

"Oh, yes," she said, her body trembling.

That was all it took to set him off.  He arched high and

Stephanie could feel him gush.  She came with a violent shiver, her
insides pulsing.  Pulling her down on his chest, he held her tightly. A
minute passed.  She was aware of her breathing and the waves that
continued to surge through her, their intensity only gradually
diminishing.

Jack kissed her soaked forehead.  "You and I just got laid, babe."

"I feel like I died."

"Oh, you're very much alive."

She sucked in his scent.  It was male, spiced with the sea.  and it
seemed as if it should be a part of her, and she of it.  She flopped
down beside him and Jack took her hand.

"God, it's not always like that, is it?"  she muttered.

He took her hand.  "No.  Sometimes it's quieter.  But you've had a
little catching up to do."

She rolled her head his way.  "You mean I have to wait another five
years for that to happen again?"

"I hope not."

She kissed his shoulder.  "I hope not, too."

She gazed at him, knowing that dangerous feelings were coming.  This
next turn was what she had to guard against because she knew perfectly
well what and who Jack really was.  She could love what he'd done to
her, but she couldn't love him.

George Town, The Cayman Islands

Oscar Barbadillo sat at his uncle's bedside in the darkened room.
Behind the bed was a whole bank of blinking lights.  Julius, an oxygen
tube in his nose, opened his eyes an squinted at him.

"Good, you're still here.  Where's Rico?"

"He's on his way, Uncle Julius."

"So you found him."

"Yes."

"Where was he?  In a brothel?"  Julius waved Oscar off with his hand.
"Never mind, I don't want to know."

"Rico didn't like it when you relieved him of command.

He's been upset, drinking more than usual."

"I know," Julius lamented.  "But he's got other problems.) Some he
doesn't even know about.  I'm afraid he can't handle) the burdens. This
heart of mine couldn't have given out at a worse time, Oscar.  I'm
dying and I know it.  You're going to.  have to help Rico.  He will
need you."

"I'll do whatever you want, Uncle Julius."

"Sometimes I wish you were my son, Oscar.  But Rico is my heir.
Inter-America will be his.  I cannot deny him his:

inheritance.  But in my will, you receive ten percent of the company.
This to ensure you will stand behind Rico.  I want your promise."

"Of course.  I will help in any way he lets me."

"I must tell him what I want.  That's why he must come.  I want him to
hear it from my lips."

Oscar watched and listened with compassion, but he knew that Julius
Behring's words would mean nothing once he was dead.  Only power
mattered--and whoever controlled Inter-America Ventures would call the
shots.  Soon he would be dealing with his cousin.

Julius again closed his eyes, resting while they waited.

In a few minutes Oscar heard Rico's voice in the hall.  "I don't care
about your goddamn rules," he was yelling.  "I'm going to see my father
now!"  Rico, looking as if he was in the middle of a drunk, appeared at
the door.  stared into the room, disbelief on his face.  "Jesus, Pop,"
he muttered.

Julius had opened his eyes again.  "Good, you're here."  He motioned
for his son to enter.

Rico moved slowly toward the bed.  "What's with this hospital shit,
Pop?  How you going to earn your pay flat on your back?"

"We must talk."

"Sure, Pop."  Rico pulled up a chair, ignoring Oscar.  He plopped down
and leaned toward his father.

"Your time has come, son," Julius wheezed.  "Even if I don't die now,
I'm through.  The company is effectively yours."

"Pop, don't say that."

"It's true.  So, we've got to prepare.  You've got to start thinking
like a boss, Rico, not somebody who's been sitting in the driver's seat
because his old man said he could."

"No."

"No, listen to me, son.  You've got the company to worry about now and
you've got your family.  Your wife and child need your attention.
There've been problems with Rhonda you don't even know about.  Before
we went to dinner I got a call from our lawyers.  Rhonda's divorcing
you, Rico.  She sent papers."

Rico's mouth dropped.  "You're shitting me."

"No, son, it happened.  You need to go home and take care of it."

Rico sat brooding for several moments.  "What about our money?"

"That's the other thing.  I'm putting Oscar in charge.  You'll have
your hands full in California dealing with Rhonda and settling in as
CEO.  I know you're fired up about the money, but this is something
Oscar can deal with.  Let him handle Stephanie Reymond."

Oscar watched Rico turn and glare at him.  Julius's words were nothing
but a futile attempt to control things from the grave.  Rico would not
listen, he was sure.

"Well, I guess he's had plenty of experience with her," Rico said
snidely.

Oscar could have throttled the sonovabitch right then and there, but
there was no point in coming to blows until absolutely necessary.

"I want you two to promise me you'll work together," Julius mumbled.

Oscar and Rico exchanged looks again.

"Do you promise?"  Julius insisted.

"Yes, Uncle Julius," Oscar said.

"Sure, Pop," Rico added.

"Okay, that's going to be it, then," Julius said.  "I can't do more
than that."  His head seemed to sink deeper into the pillow, his voice
becoming a whisper.  "It's in your hands, boys."

Julius's eyes closed.  He seemed exhausted.  Oscar realized the old man
had rallied for this speech, he'd passed the torch, and now he was
giving up.

The nurse entered.  "Please, gentlemen, let him rest."  Oscar and Rico
got up and shuffled from the room.  They went down the hall.

"Jesus Christ," Rico muttered.  "Here one minute and gone the next."

Oscar couldn't resist.  "We talking about your father or your wife?"

Rico gave him a dirty look.  "I was referring to Pop, but I'm not quite
through with Rhonda yet.  The bitch hasn't heard the last of me."

They stopped at the nurse's station and faced each other.  Oscar took a
cigar from his pocket and fingered it.  "So, are you going back to

L.A.?"

"I haven't decided."

"Well, am I in charge here?  Because if I start giving orders, I want
to know they're going to be obeyed."

"Cousin," Rico said, putting his hand on Oscar's shoulder, "Pop said
you were the man and Pop ain't dead yet, is he?"  Grinning, he walked
away.

Friday,

October 4th

The Caribbean Sea

The first hush of a breeze came shortly before dawn.  Jack had waited
out the lull and the Lucky Lady was actually moving when the sun first
peeked over the edge of the azure sea.  He figured that with some help
from the weather they would make it to the Cayman Islands by Friday,
the eleventh, which was when the window for withdrawing funds would
probably close.

The sale was taking place about now, back in San Francisco, but
Stephanie had said it took a couple of days for the funds to be
transferred out of the investment banking firm's account and into the
designated trust account.  They figured the clock would begin ticking
at the Grand Cayman Bank Ltd.  sometime on Monday or Tuesday.  They
couldn't be sure whether the deadline would come a week from now or on
the Monday after that, but they'd agreed to leave nothing to chance. if
necessary, Jack had told her they could put into Jamaica and fly to the
Caymans from there, though he wanted to avoid the airport if at all
possible.  But one way or another, October 11 was drop-dead day for
their enterprise.

Jack peered up at the gently rippling sail.  There was nothing as
exhilarating to a sailor as being at sea with a dawn breeze rising.  Of
course, there were a few other things in life he found pleasant.  Being
on intimate terms with a lovely lady was the first thing that came to
mind.

Last night with Stephanie would clearly be one of his more memorable
evenings.  Except for the fact that it had ended on a tentative note
with her saying she preferred to sleep alone, it had been
near-perfect.

But if Stephanie was unclear how she felt about him, the reverse was no
less true.  Sex normally didn't alter his feelings about a woman,
because he kept emotion out of the mix But he hadn't been able to help
himself with Alicia.  It was starting to look like the same thing was
happening with Stephanie Reymond.

It was difficult to say why.  He had every reason to keep emotionally
detached.  But realizing that did not tell him what to do, how he
should feel, what was safest, what was smartest In that sense she was a
little like his battle with the bottle, ever-present, impossible to
dismiss.

The early-morning sun was beginning to warm the back of his neck when
Stephanie appeared wearing a Hard Rock Cafe, Paris T-shirt and white
shorts.  Her hair was wet and slicked back, emphasizing her cheekbones
and giving her normally proper appearance a certain elegance.

""Morning," she said a touch self-consciously.

""Morning, sweetheart.  How'd you sleep?"

"Well," she said, blushing, "they say good sex will do that for you.
Now I understand why."

She'd mentioned it right off.  A good sign.  She was dealing with what
had happened.  She turned her face to the breeze and he studied the
line of her jaw.

"The train's moving again, I see," she observed.

"Yes, God doesn't let the world stand still, even when you'd like to
stay right where you are."

"I thought you wanted to go to the Caymans, Jack," she teased.

"I mean that more in the emotional sense, of course.  Last night was
special.  I could have stayed there a while, a good long while."

She didn't look at him, nor did she answer for a moment.  "True," she
finally said' "but there's no need to dwell on it.  We can appreciate
what we had and move on, can't we?  I certainly would prefer that."

She was both skittish and defensive, he could see.  Her tact--don't
make too much out of something that was routine to him.  Protect
yourself by being blase.

"Would it offend you if I chose to linger a while?"  he asked.

She thought for a moment.  "Are you wanting to make a speech, Jack?
Because if you feel the need to reassure me, don't.  I'm capable of
keeping things in perspective."

She was having a harder time than he thought.  He reached over and took
her hand.  "I hope we aren't going to let a little thing like sex come
between us."

Despite herself, she laughed.  "Jack, you're crazy."

"Hey, sweetheart, I calls 'em like I sees 'em."

She looked down at his hand.  "Maybe the easiest thing would be for us
to revert to a business relationship."

"You mean, we should consider last night an anomaly?"

"It was an itch we both had to scratch.  I was curious and you..  well,
I guess it was just something you had to do."

She needed reassurance but he wasn't sure how direct he ought to be. "I
think we should talk about this," he said.

"No, I'd actually prefer we didn't.  At least not now..  if you don't
mind."

"You're saying you want to table it."

She took a deep breath.  "Yes."  Her expression was tentative.  "I
don't mean to be difficult, Jack.  I'd just rather talk about something
else."

"Such as?"

"Business.  Our plan.  Maybe we should talk about our plan."

"Okay."

"So, what do you think?"  she said.

"Well, I'm in good shape, so I'll stay at the helm most of the day.  If
you could spell me this evening, I'll grab a few winks and take the
night watch.  This is shaping up to be an around-the-clock undertaking.
You'll have plenty to do working on the code, and we can share cooking
and housekeeping duties.  How does that sound?"

"Sounds good to me."

Stephanie had a hit in her voice and Jack could see she was happy to
have gotten things off to a constructive start.  And, to his relief,
she seemed reasonably content with the way they'd glossed over what had
happened the previous night.  He wasn't entirely satisfied, but the
important thing was that she was.

"Have you had breakfast?"  she asked.

"Not yet."

"How about if I make us some?"

"Perfect."

Stephanie went off and Jack checked out her legs.  He felt a sadness, a
deep longing, which had nothing to do with desire.  Last night, he'd
possessed more than her body--in a fundamental way, he'd possessed her.
He'd felt it and he knew she had as well.  Evidently that had scared
her.  It was probably what she was running from.

She was back in fifteen minutes with a tray, made up much as the one
he'd fixed the day before.  "Variety is not one of the strong points of
this sort of existence, is it?"  she said.

"Nope, we're sort of stuck with the same food and the same company."

"Which do you suppose is going to get old first?"  she asked, her
pretty mouth bending wryly.

"I'm afraid to answer that honestly.  You might take it as flirting."

She gave his arm a playful slap and they ate in companionable silence.
After a while she asked a few questions about navigation and sea
traffic, but conversation was intermittent.

Jack had trouble looking at her without feeling longing.  He would have
liked it so very much if she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"Jack," she said after they'd finished eating, "can I get your
professional opinion about something?"

"Sure.  Which profession are you referring to?  Sailor?  Investor?
Criminal?  Or observer of the social scene?"

"You didn't mention gigolo, so I guess the latter."

"Gigolo?"  he said, taken by surprise.

"By that I mean a guy who knows his way around the bedsheets."

"Hoist with my own petard, I see."

"No, it's an innocent question, but a serious one.  I need some help
with my insecurities."

"Shoot," he said.

"As you know, I had a... well, let's say unfulfilling sex life with my
husband."

He nodded.

"Somehow, Jean Claud found happiness with my sister.  I can't say they
had a sterling sexual relationship because I simply don't know.  But
there's no doubt they wanted each other sexually."

"You're wondering what was wrong with you."

Stephanie lowered her eyes.

"I wouldn't take it personally," he said.  "Nobody could say there's a
damn thing wrong with you, certainly not me."

"But I did nothing to deserve his rejection," she persisted.  "I was a
good wife and I tried to be a loving one.  I didn't put pressure on him
or make unreasonable demands."

"It may have been nothing more than the fact he was married to you,"
Jack said.  "Some guys can't mix sex and marriage.  I'm not saying it's
common, but there's that Madonna-whore thing.  A guy like that can take
a mistress and screw her all day long, but can't get it up for the
mother of his children to save his soul, not in the middle years of a
marriage, anyway.

"You don't think it could have been me, Jack?"

"Not unless you intimidated him.  Sometimes a woman can be too much for
a guy.  It's a psychological thing."

"That ever happen to you?"

He reflected.  "I've been turned off by a woman's attitude, but I don't
recall not being able to get it up because of it.  Of course, I've only
had one wife."

"How was it with her?"

Jack sighed.  It had been ages since he'd even thought of Ellen, much
less their sex life.  He really had to dig into his memory.  "The sex
was good, especially at first.  The whole relationship went south
pretty damn quick, though."

"Did you love her?"

His smile was wistful.  "Back then I was incapable of love, Stephanie.
I couldn't tell it from lust Which should have been a clue, considering
it meant I was in love with every other woman on the street."

She blinked.

"I've led a pretty licentious life, I grant you.  But I've mellowed in
recent years.  I'm not as obsessed with sex as you might think.  To the
contrary, I sort of half gave it up for booze."

"Hardly an improvement," she said.

"No.  But I'm in the midst of a campaign to clean up my act," he
replied.  "After last night I may have to go back to my old ways."

She gave him a sardonic look.  "It was just sex, Jack.  It couldn't
have been that special."

"Oh, but it was."

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably.  "I think we're due for a change of
subject."

The fishing boat they'd seen earlier was fairly near and Jack checked
it out with the binoculars.  He saw nothing suspicious.  A man on the
deck of the boat waved, Jack waved back.  They watched it pass them.

"Okay," he said as he put down the glasses, "you asked me a question.
Now I've got one for you."

"All right."

"After your mother ran her numbers on me, what would she say?"

She laughed.

"No, it's a serious question."

Stephanie shook her head, amused.  "I don't need to give you a
numerological reading to tell you you're dangerous, Jack."

"Do me, anyway."

She glanced around.  "I'll need a piece of paper and a pencil."

He got up.  "You take over here and I'll go get some."  He was gone
only a minute, handing her a small pad and pencil before taking his
place at the wheel.  Stephanie wrote out his name and then jotted a
number over each of the letters.  Then she did the calculation.

"Hmm," she said, looking at the pad.

"Good or bad?"

"Well, odd actually.  The name Jack Kidwell is a seven-four-eleven."

"What does that mean?"

"The numerical value of Jack is seven.  The value of Kidwell is four.
Seven and four combine to make eleven."

"Which is two, right?"

"Technically yes, but eleven is a special number in and of itself."

"That's what's odd?"  he said.

"No, what's odd is that I'm a seven-four-eleven myself."

"You mean we're twins?"  he said, tongue in cheek.  "Separated at
birth?"

"Hey, I don't believe in this stuff," Stephanie said.  "I'm just
answering your question."

"So, tell me, what are we seven-four-elevens like?"

"Seven is a lonely number.  It represents people with singular
qualities who are set apart and go their own way."

"That could be us, Steph."

"Four, both our last names, represents technical qualities, people who
are engineering, math and science oriented."

"You were an accounting major," he said, "and I was a developer and a
navigator.  I guess that works.  What does the eleven mean?  That we're
lonely nerds?"

She laughed.  "My mother loved people with eleven names.  They're
successful, high achievers.  Alexander the Great was an eleven."

"Sugar, I think you just lost me.  Alexander the Great and I are not
peas in a pod.  Now, you and me, that could be another story."

"Make fun all you want, Jack, I don't take it personally.  And my
mother's not here to take offense."

He made a slight course adjustment.  "What would your mother say about
our prospects?  Are two elevens like two Pisces, comfortable swimming
in the same sea?"

"I never got into it that much," she said, looking away.  "It was my
mother's and Jane's thing."

"Steph-an-ie," he admonished.

"All right," she said, relenting.  "My mother would have been thrilled
with you.  There, does that make you happy?"

"I knew there was something to this numerology business."

"Yes," she said, "what it is, is the key to that code.

Jack drew a deep breath.  "I've learned one thing from this
discussion," he said.

"What's that?"

"With two lonely little nerds going after that thirty million,
Inter-America Ventures and all its henchmen don't have a chance!"

Stephanie shook her head.  "if you'll excuse me, Captain, I'm going to
work on the computer."  She got up.  "Let me know if you need
anything."

He reached out and took her hand, drawing her fingers to his mouth and
kissing them.  "The sailing life is a lonely one," he said.  "If you
want to do something for me, come topside every once in a while so we
can share a little human warmth."

"Warmth?  In a tropical sea?"

"Euphemism," he said.

She gave him a look, then strode off, swinging her derriere a trifle
more than before.  Jack blew a silent kiss after her.  This was a woman
he could become very, very fond of.  It had taken him a week to figure
that out.  But it just could be that she ended up meaning more to him
than a lousy thirty million bucks.  My, but wouldn't his old partner,
Larry, have found that a hoot?

George Town, The Cayman Islands

Rico was on the phone, waiting for the office in L.A. to connect him
with Milly Wilson, Rhonda's mother in Van Nuys.  Through the slider he
saw Carlos with the barmaid, Corine.  They were across the hotel garden
and headed his way.  Rico was pleasantly surprised.  And relieved. 
He'd only half figured she wouldn't come, which would have been the
shits because he needed to get laid.

He watched them make their way through the palms, the banana plants and
flowering shrubs.  As they passed the pool, Rico got a good look at
her.  She had on a short dark skirt, high-heel sandals, a little gold
tank top and the same gold hoop earrings as the day before.  The legs
and the face were okay, but the ass, which he couldn't see from this
angle but remembered vividly, was primo.  He'd been thinking about it
all day.

Milly came on the line.  "Rico?"

"Hi ya, Milly, how's it goin'?"

"Okay," she said tentatively.

"Yeah, well, it's not so good with me.  As you know, Rhonda's pissed at
me.  And if that isn't enough, my father's had a heart attack.  A big
one."

"Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that, Rico."

"Yeah, we're down here in the Cayman Islands on business and barn, just
like that, it hit him.  We're hoping he makes it, but as far as work is
concerned, this is it.  He's out.  Retirement or death, one way or
another, he's gone."

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, Milly, I am, too."

Carlos and the girl had almost gotten to the suite.  Rico studied her
moves.

"So anyway, I've got something I want you to do for me, all right?"

"Well, if I can help .. . I suppose... "Great, Milly.  That's great.
But wait a second.  I've got another call.  Some banker.  Can you hold
on a second?  Thanks."

Carlos and the girl were at the slider.  Rico waved them in.  Corine
entered hesitantly, like some kid going into the spook house.  For a
second she didn't see him across the room, her eyes not yet adjusting
to the relative darkness after the bright sun.

"Hi, there, sugar," he called to her, his hand clamped over the
mouthpiece of the phone.  "It's Corine, right?"

She nodded like a deaf mute.

"That's great.  And you're looking sharp, real sharp.  Nice shoes.  But
listen, I'm on the phone doing some business with this banker, see, and
I'm going to be a couple of minutes.  Why don't you go into the bedroom
over there ... show her, Carlos.  Yeah.  And I'll join you as soon as I
finish this call.  Make yourself comfortable in there, sugar, and
Carlos will bring you a drink.  Rum, vodka, beer.  Whatever you want.
Carlos, take care of the lady, will you?"

The two of them went off, Corine into the bedroom, Carlos to the bar.
When the bedroom door was closed, Rico returned to his call.

"Yeah, Milly, sorry about that.  High finance.  You know how it is."

"Rico, I don't know what I can do," she said.  "Rhonda told me she's
not supposed to talk to you, only her lawyer, so maybe I shouldn't,
either."

"Milly, Milly.  You and me don't have problems.  We're cool, aren't we?
I get you a new car every couple years, don't I?  You're not saying you
and I've got to talk through lawyers, are you?"

"I don't want to get anybody into trouble."

"Hey, there's no trouble.  There's just two old friends talking.  No
harm in that.  I'm not calling for secrets.  I want you to give a
message to Rhonda.  That's no big deal."

"All right, Rico, what do you want me to tell her?"

"Well, first, tell her I'm sorry, whatever it is I did, I'm sorry.
She's in France, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm sure you can reach her because you gotta know in case Andy
gets sick or something, right?"

"Right."

"So, first tell her I'm really, truly sorry.  Then tell her I don't
care if she's got a guy.  That don't mean a thing.  I'll forget and
forgive if she kicks his ass out.  That's number two.  Three, Milly,
because of Pop and all, I'm runnin' things now.  Inter-America, the
whole thing, is mine.  So Rhonda's the wife of the big man.  No more
second banana.  That means we gotta live a little better, right?  Tell
her that, Milly.  Hang on a second, okay?"

He waited while Carlos carried a tall drink into the bedroom.  When he
came out, closing the door, Rico signaled for him to leave the suite.
Rico returned to his call.

"Milly?"

"Yes," came the feeble reply.

"Right.  Now number four is a little harder for me to say, but if
Rhonda don't like one, two and three, then there's number four.  That's
the baby, Milly.  I know Andrea means a lot to Rhonda and she means a
lot to me.  So tell her Andrea's stayin' with me, no matter what.  Tell
her her lawyer might say that her fucking the plumber don't mean shit,
but, well, it does because I say it does.  I can buy the Supreme Court,
if I have to, though it would be much cheaper to buy her lawyer.  I
think Rhonda understands that, Milly, but if she hears it from her
mama, then she'll know it's serious.  Tell her, Milly."

He paused to take a breath and he heard sobbing.

"Milly?  What's with you?  I gave you three good things to say, too."

"Rico," the woman said as she sobbed, "don't fight over the baby,
please don't.  It will only hurt her.  Andrea doesn't need her parents
fighting over her."

"Milly, you're right.  But the one you should be saying this to is
Rhonda.  She's the one that's been fucking around while I'm out busting
my butt, trying to earn an honest living.  Tell her this, Milly, tell
her I'm coming home in a few days to live in my house, just like
before.  My kid's going to be there.  It'd be nice if my wife is, too.
Now, you call Rhonda in Paris and tell her that her husband's going to
be home soon and he's going to have this big old fat ring in his
pocket, and who knows, maybe a bracelet or something' else.  I'd like
to see her there with a smile on her face.  But if she's stupid, if she
fucks with me, she can tell her sorry ass goodbye.  Got that, Milly?"

All he could hear was sobbing.

"Well, I've got work to do," he said.  "If Rhonda needs to talk to me,
tell her to call the office.  They'll put her through to me.  You
understand, Milly?"

"Yes," came the feeble reply.

"Good.  Meanwhile, be thinking what new car you might be wantin'.
Christmas is coming, Milly."  He hung up the phone.  "Fucking broads,"
he said under his breath.

Rico went to the bar and made himself a rum and Coke, then went to the
bedroom.  Opening the door, he found Corine sitting on the corner of
the bed, the drink Carlos had made in her hand.  It looked untouched.

"So, how's it going, doll?"  he said, closing the door.

"I don't know if I should do this, man," she murmured.  "I don't even
know your name."

He slowly walked over to her.  "It's Rico, sugar.  Rico.  It's a good,
honest name.  My mother gave it to me.  And I can tell you, no mother
of mine would raise a son you wouldn't be proud to call a friend," he
said, putting his hand on her shoulder.  She smelled like lilacs or
something.

She gazed up at him from under her brow.  "I've never done nothing like
this before, man.  Never."

"You want to know something?"  he said, massaging her shoulder.  "I
haven't either.  But you're such a good-looking woman, I couldn't
resist asking you over."

"Still..."

"Believe me," he said, "if I had the time, I'd have taken you to dinner
a couple of times and sent you flowers and all that because I can see
you're the kind of girl who'd like that romantic stuff.  But then I
said to myself, gee, with two thousand dollars in her pocket, Corine
could go out and have all the dinners and buy all the flowers she
wants, maybe buy her mama a little present or something."

"My mother's the reason I came.  She's been sick and couldn't work.
We've lots of bills."

"Hey, that makes me think all the more of you, sugar.  I like the idea
of helping out a loving daughter."  He gave her chin a pinch.  "So,
drink your drink, doll.  I'm a busy man.  It'd be nice if you got more
comfortable, maybe take off your top so I can see those tits."

Corine stared down at the floor, biting her lip.  Rico started getting
annoyed.  What the fuck did she want?  For him to get on his knees?

"Something wrong?  You don't like me?"

"How can I not like you, man?  I don't even know you!"

Rico took her jaw in his hand and turned her face up to him.  He
smiled.  "Look at me, sugar.  I ain't a bad-looking guy.  Good sense of
humor.  I got a little bread.  What's not to like?"

He could see that she was agonizing, fidgeting nervously.

"It's the easiest two grand you'll ever make," he said softly.

"Okay, I'll do it," she said, her voice trembling.  "But two things.
You got to give me the money first, and you've got to wear a condom."

Rico smiled.  "Now you're sounding like a businesswoman.  I like girls
who learn fast."

"And man, I'm telling you now, I won't do nothing kinky."

"Babe, I just want a piece of ass."

Corine took a long drink, obviously fortifying herself.  Rico went and
got his money, returning with a stack of hundred-dollar bills, which he
counted out.  "Okay, babe, I've done my part.  Now take off your
clothes.  Everything but that little skirt and the sandals."

"Everything else?"

"Yeah, the panties, the works."

The girl tucked the bills into her purse and went over to a chair,
where she began stripping.  Rico watched her, enjoying this more than
usual because she was nervous and embarrassed.  He undressed, dropping
his shorts as she took off her panties.  She seemed surprised to find
him already erect, saluting the flag.

Rico went over to her, his cock leading the way.  She was short and her
big, round eyes gave her a childlike air, despite the womanly body. She
gave a little flinch when he took her nipple between his fingers. After
he rubbed it for a few seconds, it started getting hard.

"You get wet easy?"  he asked.

She shrugged, lowering her eyes.  She was trembling.

"So, reach under your skirt and play with yourself."

She blinked.

"Go on," he said as he continued toying with her nipples.  "Play with
yourself."

The girl complied, closing her eyes.  Rico listened to her breathing,
liking it that she was getting excited.

"So, you got a boyfriend?"  he asked.  She nodded.

"What's his name?"

"George."

"George?  The bartender?"

"No, man, my George is a turtle farmer."

"Turtle farmer?  Christ, next I'm going to hear all the turtles in this
fucking place are called George, too.  So, what's your turtle guy like?
He got a big cock?"

She nodded, averting her eyes.

Rico took her free hand and guided it to his cock.  "See how you like
this one."

Corine squeezed her eyes closed again and bit her lip.  But he noticed
she was working the hand between her legs real good.  And she was
tugging pretty good on his cock.

"I think I'm ready, sugar," he said.  "How about you?"

She nodded without opening her eyes.

"Okay," he said.  "See that chair over there by the window?  Go bend
over it and point your ass at me."

She opened her eyes and gave him an uncertain look.

"Go on, I'm not going to do nothing but fuck you from behind."

Corine looked as if she'd decided that might be all right.  Before
going to the chair, she grabbed a pillow from the bed.  Putting it on
the arm of the chair, she bent over it.  The little skirt hiked right
up, exposing the goods.  And what a beautiful sight it was.  Rico could
have given himself a couple of yanks and it would have been over.

"The condom, man," Corine said.  "Don't forget the condom."

"Yeah, right."  Rico went over and fiddled with the drawer on the
bedside table as if he was getting something, but he didn't.  He faked
like he was putting on a rubber.  Then he approached her, his cock like
a divining rod.  "You've got one hell of an ass, baby."

"You're not going to hurt me, are you?"  she whined, childlike.

"Sugar, I'm going to have you begging for more.

Rico lifted the girl's skirt and ran his chalky white fingers over her
ebony ass.  His cock strained toward her, eager.  But he wanted to take
a minute to admire the goods before ramming her.

"So, George ever do you this way, Corine?"

She shook her head.  "Not so much."

"Turtle farmers got no imagination.  Well, this'll give you something
to think about when ol' George is doing you."

Taking her haunches in his hands he moved up against her, his rod so
stiff it didn't need any help finding the mark.  Corine shuddered when
he touched her opening.  Rico leaned hard against her, his cock sliding
right to the hilt.  She gasped and he almost came then.  Taking several
moments to get control, he began thrusting.  At first it was long and
slow, then when he felt his balls gather, he really started ramming
her.  He watched her gold hoop earrings swing and shudder as he pounded
her, her scent rising in his nostrils.  She gave a little cry every
time he hit bottom.

After a while she cried out more loudly.  Whether in pain or pleasure
he couldn't tell, and he didn't really care.  "Jesus,"

he said, feeling it coming.

Just after he exploded in her, he looked up and saw a face glaring at
him from the shrubs outside the window.  It was a big buck nigger whose
round eyes turned to rage as he realized what was happening.  The head
disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and Rico shuddered with a
final thrust, collapsing on Corine's beautiful round ass.

The girl was definitely crying.  "Can I get up now, man?"  she managed
to say.  "Are you through?"

Just then there was a terrible noise in the other room, the sound of
shattering glass.

"What the hell?"  Rico exclaimed.

Seconds later the bedroom door flew open and the buck who'd been
outside loomed in the doorway.  He wore a tattered muscle shirt that
barely stretched over his huge shoulders and chest, long pants and work
boots.  His fists were clenched and there was rage in his eyes.

Corine, with Rico still in her, looked back over her shoulder to see
what the commotion was.  When she saw the guy, her face went round with
horror.  "George!"  she screamed.

Rico, rubbery from the sex and only half juiced with adrenaline,
withdrew from the girl's ass and had just managed to turn around when
the guy was on him.  George's big fist caught him square in the middle
of the face, knocking him to the floor.  For a second Rico lay flat on
his back, his eyes a blur.  He saw George grab the girl and whack her
on the side of the head so hard she went flying into the chair.

"Fucking whore!"  he raged.  "Fucking bloody whore!"

The man advanced again on Rico.  He'd grabbed him by the arm and was
pulling him to his feet when Carlos and two other men came rushing in.
Blows were exchanged.  The girl screamed hysterically.  George, after
getting in a couple of licks, was finally knocked to the floor and
subdued.

Rico, with blood streaming from his nose, staggered to his feet.
Corine, still frenzied, tried to get to George, but Rico grabbed her
arm and flung her back into the chair.

"I'll kill you, man!"  George shouted, even with Carlos shoving his
face into the carpet.

"How did this sonovabitch get in here?"  Rico screamed at the men.
"Look at my fucking face!"  Enraged, he went over and stomped on
George's head with his heel, once, twice, silencing him.

Corine wailed.  Rico told her to shut up.  He glared at the men.

"Take this fucking bastard out to some swamp and whack him."

"Oh, no," the girl pleaded.  "It's my fault.  You can have your money
back, man.  Let George go.  I'll take him home.  Keep the money, man.
Keep it."

Rico grabbed her by the face and gave her a shove backward.  "I told
you to shut up!"

Just then Oscar came in.  He wore a polo shirt and freshly pressed
khakis.  "What's going on?"

"Our security stinks around here!"  Rico shouted, wiping his bloody
nose with the back of his hand.  "I can't even get laid without some
asshole popping me."

Carlos and one of the other guys had pulled George to his feet.  Corine
was sobbing in the chair, her thighs streaked with Rico's juices.
Carlos told Oscar what happened.

"Take that sonovabitch out of here before I shoot his ass right here!"
Rico said, pulling up his trousers.  He didn't bother with his
shorts.

Corine slid to the floor and began crawling around, gathering her
clothes.  George, who'd taken a couple of pretty good shots, mumbled
half coherently.  Oscar, looking around as though he were standing in
the middle of a freeway accident, told the men to escort George and the
girl out the back way and to drive them home.

"Hey, Oscar," Rico protested.  "I already told them what to do with
this jerk-off."

"You got bigger problems, Rico.  We gotta talk."

He motioned for the others to leave.  The men dragged George out the
door.  Corine, still putting on her clothes, trudged after them.  Rico,
seeing her purse, picked it up.

"Hey, bitch!"

She turned and he threw the purse at her.

"Might as well take this."

She picked it up and ran out of the room.  Oscar went over and closed
the door.

"Listen, Oscar," Rico said' the rest of his face as red as his bloody
nose, "you ever contradict me in front of anyone again, I'll have your
ass.  That's the only warning you'll ever get!"

"Rico," Oscar said, looking at him with undisguised contempt, "Julius
had another attack.  I just came from the hospital."

Rico was taken aback, sobered by the news.  "So, is he all right?"

"No, Rico, he's dead."

Rico sank onto the corner of the bed.  "Shit."

Oscar stood silently, waiting.  Rico glanced up at him.

"Dead?"

Oscar nodded.

"Fuck."

"So, Inter-America is yours, cousin.  Nobody to second-guess you.  You
going to L.A. or are you staying?"

Rico rubbed his face, careful when he touched his nose.  What a way to
find out he was suddenly king.  He looked at Oscar, realizing he hadn't
answered his cousin's question.  "I guess we'll do what Pop said, but
I'm not leaving for a couple of days."

"What do you want me to do?"  Oscar asked, not trying especially hard
to mask his contempt.

"Organize things here, like Pop said.  But I want to know everything
that happens.  Same as Pop, I don't want surprises."

"Then I might as well tell you the latest.  Alexander Manring had lunch
with the girl in the bank today.  Cynthia.  The sale of that stock went
through yesterday in San Francisco.  The bank got a wire transfer of
thirty-one point five million into Reymond's account this morning."

"Thirty-one point five!"

"Yes, there's a little extra.  We got five days, starting Monday, to
come up with that code or we lose the money for good."

"Fucking A," Rico said, staring at his bloody hands.  He'd heard every
word Oscar had said, but he had to remind himself of the part about his
father being dead.  It just didn't seem possible.

"Another thing," Oscar went on.  "The men we sent looking for the
Englishman found his island, all right, but he's off somewhere in his
boat.  But he keeps in touch with his housekeeper.  She was convinced
to share what she knew.  Turns out Stephanie and Kidwell are in his
boat, headed this way.  Manring talked to some sailors about makin' a
trip like that.  Depending on weather, Kidwell and the woman ought to
be showing up here along about the middle of the week."

"I suppose you're planning a welcome party," Rico said.

"A very special welcome party."

"You've got a thing about that broad, don't you, Oscar?"

"Let's just say I owe her."

Rico smiled, though his nose hurt when he did.  "I guess you know what
you want, cousin, but take it from me, you're better off with a
professional."

"Thanks, but I'm actually looking forward to Stephanie's arrival.  I
plan to entertain her in a manner to which she isn't accustomed."

"Well, I'm anxious to see her, too, but for different reasons."  He
dabbed his nose with his handkerchief.  "So, what's your plan?"

"From what I'm told, we should be able to spot them coming fifty miles
away.  And this time there'll be no place for them to hide."

"I guess there are advantages to being in the middle of the fucking
ocean."

Oscar looked down at Rico's bare feet and the blood all over the front
of him.  "So, you want a doctor?"

"No, the nose stopped bleeding.  I'm okay.  The motherfucker punched me
while my cock was still in the broad's ass."

Oscar actually smiled.  Rico could see that the picture he painted was
a pretty amusing one.  If it'd happened to anybody else, he'd be
laughing his head off.

"The hospital suggested we should be thinking about what we want to do
with Julius's body," Oscar said.  "I said we'd let them know."

"He wanted to be cremated.  No funeral, no bullshit."  Rico shook his
head with disbelief at the situation.  "You know what Pop told me once,
Oscar?  It was when I was a kid and I'd got this girl pregnant.  He had
to give her parents a big check and afterward he came to my room and he
said, "Rico, when I die, I know exactly what you'll be doing.  You'll
be off someplace fucking a whore."  Rico shook his head.  "Scary,
huh?"

Oscar nodded.  "Yeah, Rico, it is."

Saturday,

October 5th

The Caribbean Sea

A woman of many talents," Jack said to Stephanie.

"Don't start giving compliments until you've seen the result," she
replied.

He was sitting cross-legged on the deck in front of her and Stephanie
was cutting his hair.  Earlier he'd confessed to feeling grubby and
she'd agreed he could use a haircut, offering to give him one.  She was
not completely without experience, having regularly cut Zanny's hair as
a child.  Hair salons had set off the girl's asthma.  Stephanie had
become rather adept at hair cutting so much so that the child's
haircuts had gotten compliments from other mothers.

Before she'd started on Jack, there'd been some negotiation.  "I'm
willing to go shorter," he'd said, "but don't make me look like a
banker."

They'd agreed that a Robert Redford look was about right and Jack had
gotten her a pair of scissors and a comb.  She'd been at it a while,
not wanting to be too aggressive for fear of butchering him.

It was getting toward noon.  Jack had taken the night watch and, after
Stephanie had spelled him, he'd gotten about four hours' sleep. There'd
been a fair breeze during the night, Jack had told her, and a nice
stiff one most of the morning.  She'd been a little nervous tacking,
but her confidence was growing and Jack admitted to being impressed
with the way she'd handled the boat.

That was the bright side of the trip.  On the negative side, Jean
Claud's damn code was getting her down.  She'd spent virtually all
yesterday afternoon trying to come up with a key.  Several ideas had
come to mind, but the possibilities were myriad.

"You ever cut your husband's hair?"  Jack asked as she made him lower
his chin so she could see the back.

"Heavens, no, are you kidding?"

"Didn't he trust you?"

"Jean Claud would have been humiliated, plus he wouldn't have liked the
intimacy."

"Is this intimate?"

She surprised herself by having brought up intimacy, and was
embarrassed when Jack pressed the point.  "Mutual grooming tends to be,
Jack."

"It's nice that it doesn't bother you," he said, caressing her bare
foot.

She did not recoil.  She liked it when he touched her, though he hadn't
done it a lot since they'd made love.  There'd been a couple of
spontaneous hugs and he'd brushed her cheek with his fingers or rubbed
her back.  Mostly he'd left her hungering for more.  Jack, she was
coming to realize, understood the female mind.

"What do you think, Stephanie?  Are we compatible?"

"Compatible for what?"

"A relationship."

"You mean as business partners?  Crewmates?  Friends?  What?"

"How about lovers?"

His question caught her unprepared, though it wasn't out of character.
"What are you doing, pro positioning me?"

"No, I've just come to realize how strong my feelings are.  I feel real
comfortable with you.  I think it's an adult thing."

She stopped trimming and rested her hands on her knees.  "Adult?  You
mean I seem different than the girls you usually take for lovers?"

"Yeah, I think that's exactly what I mean."

"Thanks a lot.  Is it my wrinkles that turn you on?"

"Hey, I'm trying to say something nice here.  I've never felt this kind
of rapport with a woman before.  Sure, I'm attracted to you physically,
but your mind and character and personality turn me on even more.  I'm
drawn to you in a way I'm not used to.  That's what I'm trying to
say."

His tone was too serious, too earnest by a turn for her to dismiss it.
But still, she didn't know what to make of it.  She'd spent so much
time damping down her feelings the past week that facing them
forthrightly wasn't easy.

"I think it's propinquity," she told him.  "We're in the same boat in
more ways than one."

"I'm not willing to dismiss it so easily."

"I'm not dismissing it, I'm trying to explain it."

"Do you feel it, too?"  he asked.

She started trimming his hair again.  "You really believe in putting
people on the spot, don't you?"

"Well, to be honest, I've felt a mutual attraction right from the
beginning.  But I also knew that in one sense or another we were using
each other.  I did consider you a business opportunity--you were right
about that.  Now I'm wondering if there might not be more."

"Like what?"  she said warily.

Jack caressed her foot some more.  "I know you're discouraged about the
code," he said.  "I'm pretty disappointed myself.  So the last couple
of days I've been trying to look past next Friday, asking myself what
if we come up empty?  What happens to you, what happens to me?"

Stephanie froze.  This was the very thing she'd been wondering herself.
"I don't know what I'll do in the short run.

Eventually I'll go home and try to salvage what I can of my life."

"Do you have a life you want to go back to?"  he asked.

His questions were getting more and more pointed.  They began to scare
her.  "You're trying to get at something, Jack Maybe you should just
say it."

He turned to face her, his gaze intent.  "This is not easy for me to
say," he began, "but I don't want next Friday to be the end for us,
whichever way this deal turns out.  I'd like for us to have a chance to
get better acquainted... under more normal circumstances."

"I don't know what to say.  What is it you really want?  A playmate?  A
lover?"

"All right," he said, "fair question.  Say the Cayman deal goes bust,
we come up empty.  The way I figure, we'll be sitting a hell of a lot
closer to the Yucatan in Mexico than the Virgins.  I know some people
over there on the peninsula.  We could rent a place on the beach and
spend a month being as happy as fate and circumstances allow. Depending
on the way the wind's blowing, we can decide where to go from there."

Stephanie stared into his eyes for a long time, feeling torn.  Touched,
moved, but especially torn.

"I know I'm not being practical," Jack said.  "And I know that drives
women batty, but damn it, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than
shack up with you."

She weighed her response.  "Your offer is a lot more tempting than you
might think."

Jack sighed.  "That's progress, I guess."

"Look, I'm going to make some admissions that no woman makes lightly.
Even to herself."  She took his hands.  "You've changed my life, Jack.
For starters, you literally saved it.  if you fell overboard right now
and were lost at sea, our lovemaking would live in my heart forever.
I'd probably think of it before dropping off to sleep every night for
the next fifty years."

"It's nice to be appreciated," he said.

"But nice as the experience was, it's nothing compared to the part of
myself that you've given me," she said earnestly.  "Since meeting you,
I've gotten in touch with a side of me I didn't even know existed.  I
was closed up.  And I don't just mean sexually.  I didn't know how to
live, to get in touch with my passions, to shuck off my doubts, my
fears.  I know I've still got a ways to go, but I have lived this past
week.  I've looked both myself and the world in the face and I've taken
chances.  Emotional chances, physical chances, you name it."

"I'll say this, Stephanie, I like what I see."

"Thanks.  But the real bonus is discovering that I haven't been a whole
person.  The one role I deeply cared about was being Zanny's mother. My
daughter was my life.  And I used the fact that she was young and
sickly as an excuse not to live, not to realize my potential."

Jack caressed her face and big tears welled in her eyes.  "You are a
very special lady, Stephanie," he said, his own eyes glistening.

They hugged.  She loved the feel of his arms.  Especially then.  After
a minute they settled side by side on the seat and she rested her head
on his shoulder.  She'd never in her life felt so close to a man, so
much in tune with his spirit.

"So, is Mexico a viable option?"  he asked.

"You were serious about that?"

"Absolutely."

"Jack, don't you see, I'd just be trading one kind of dependence for
another.  I won't do that again."

"I'm not asking to be boss," he said.  "Partners is enough."

"That's not the issue, either.  I need to feel the wind in my hair. And
be free."

"And you don't see me in the picture."

"That's not true.  I just can't commit to anything yet."

"I'm rushing you," he said.

She pressed his hand to her cheek.  "I think we need to take one step
at a time."

Jack took her chin and, smiling, he kissed her.

She allowed herself the luxury of inhaling his salty, sun-drenched
scent.  Putting both her arms around him, she gave him a hug.  Despite
what she'd said, she liked what she was feeling now.  They seemed like
a team, a couple.  Maybe even Soul mates.  "Jack," she said, "do you
suppose we could let the ship sail herself for an hour or two so we
could take a nap together?"

He laughed with delight.  "I love a woman who knows what she wants."

They kissed.  Stephanie put her hand on his thigh, then drew it up
until it rested on the bulge at his loins.  "What I want right now,"
she whispered, "is for you to make mad, passionate love with me.  All
day long."

"My darling," he said, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

Wednesday, October 9th

The Caribbean Sea

They'd been lovers for a week.  The last four days in particular had
been incredible.  Stephanie had learned more about her body in that
short time than she had in the previous forty years.  Jack managed to
surprise her every time they became intimate.  And great sex, she
discovered, existed in a world all its own.  Other realities faded into
the background; there was only her body and his.

With just the two of them on the boat, they would come upon each other
in likely or unlikely circumstances.  A touch would follow, then
arousal and intimacy.  He might enter her from behind as she soaped her
hair in the shower, or she'd awaken him by kissing his shoulder and
taking his sex in her hand.

With the supply of water running low they had been forced to go for
hours at a time perfumed with the scent of their lovemaking, his
fragrance as much a part of her as her own.  At times she would play
the aggressor, then the subdued maiden, allowing him to dominate her.
Sometimes they laughed, sometimes the sex was as violent and elemental
as the limits of pleasure would allow.  Often they made love with care
and tenderness.  For the first time in her life, Stephanie lived in the
realm of her body.  They connected more profoundly and powerfully than
she thought possible.

But there were many separate hours, as well, hours to contemplate both
immediate pleasures and distant dreams.  She thought about Mexico and
she thought about home.  She envisioned Jack as her dream lover and as
a life partner.  She visualized herself dancing with him at a black-tie
alumni banquet, and then would picture him alone in the Lucky Lady,
reading for the hundredth time the letter in which she said goodbye.

Jack, by his very existence, was everything good and everything
painful.  Jack was the embodiment of her own contradictions.

And she thought about the Cayman Islands, her siren's call.  Yes, it
was a ticking bomb, yes, it was fraught with danger.  But it was as
irresistible as the allure of Jack himself.  It was the challenge she
had to conquer, the last hurdle before she faced the future.

Jean Claud's code remained a thorn in her side, that frustrating
windowpane between her and the dish of candy.  She worked on it each
day.  She fought it, struggled with it, used an entire tablet of paper
playing with every conceivable possibility her imagination could
conjure up.  Jack tried as well, but chalk == 4, book == 5, nut == 4,
runway == 7, wound == 2 and cow == 1 confounded them both, haunting her
to the point of dementia.  Sometimes she awoke in the night, sweating,
moaning, worrying if she'd ever find the key to unlocking it.

That morning they'd lost the easterly wind that had been carrying them
across the Caribbean.  At breakfast, while they drifted under a nearly
slack sail, Jack told her that, although they had just two days left to
make it to George Town, only an extended calm would put them in
jeopardy of arriving late.  They were forty miles off the southwestern
tip of Jamaica with about a hundred and fifty miles to go.

"It's hard to know whether I wished it was longer or shorter,"
Stephanie said.  "Part of me is convinced I'll crack the code if I have
enough time.  Another part of me knows it's hopeless."

"As long as we've got breath, we've got life."

Stephanie sighed, wondering if he wasn't kidding himself + Maybe
letting go of the dream of fabulous riches was just too hard.  "I may
he too much of a realist for this kind of work

She eyed the stale crust of bread on her plate.  It was the last of
their "fresh" food.  She flicked the bread into the water, thinking how
much that would have annoyed Jean Claud who abhorred waste.  Of any
kind.  Jack, on the other hand, was so easygoing, she never feared
being herself around him.

"If it's getting to you, we can slip right on past the Caymans and go
on over to the Yucatan," Jack said.  "No extra charge."

"And buy a grass shack with the money I've got left?"

"I used to be in real estate, don't forget.  Bet I could get us a
fabulous deal."

Stephanie smiled.  "That's one thing about my sister She might have
been after my husband, but she never tried to get me involved in any
hot real estate deals.  On the other hand, why should she?  Jean Claud
gave her the key to all my money."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when a startling realization
hit her.  She had her sister's computer which on the hard drive,
contained all the documents from Jane's real estate business, as well
as her household accounts.  Except for a cursory look early on,
Stephanie had not made a thorough examination of her sister's files. It
suddenly struck her that she might find something helpful on Jane's
hard drive.

"I just thought of something I can check on the computer, she said. "If
you're finished with your coffee, I'll take this stuff and go below. 
Do you mind standing watch a while longer?"

"Far be it from me to get in the way of inspiration.

Stephanie gave him a kiss on the cheek, took the tray and hurried
below.  After rinsing the dishes, she got out Jane's computer.  On
Monday the batteries had begun fading so she'd been working exclusively
on paper.  To save time now, she went right to the directory.  Nothing
immediately jumped out at her.  Then a folder entitled Family caught
her eye.  She checked the contents and found files with titles like
Birthdays, Gifts, Holidays, and so forth.  Stephanie looked inside them
all, and as best she could tell, Jane had transcribed years' worth of
notes and entries from old calendars, diaries and the like.  There was
information about things such as gifts Jane had received from their
mother on various occasions and presents Jane had given Zanny over the
years.

In the gift file there was an entry entitled Jean Claud, followed by
something that nearly stopped Stephanie's heart: craje == 4, livre ==
5, noix == 4, piste == 7, blessure == 2 and vache == 1. These French
words were equivalent to the English words in Jean Claud's code.  The
corresponding numbers following each word in the two languages were
identical.  Stephanie's heart beat wildly.

Her first thought was that it was strange that Jean Claud, whose native
language was French, should have used the English words in his copy,
and Jane's version was in French, a language she didn't speak.  Logic
would dictate that Jane would have had the English and Jean Claud the
French version of the code.

Stephanie did a quick numerological check of the French words and found
that they bore no obvious connection to the numbers following them,
either.  It seemed as random as the English.  She racked her brain.
what could Jean Claud have been up to?  This was his doing, she had no
doubt about it.  Then it occurred to her that the true code was based
on the French word, not the English.  Jean Claud had simply used the
English to make the code more obscure--not a bad ploy considering how
long she'd worked with the wrong set of letters.  It was logical since
Jean Claud was bilingual and knew the French equivalent to the English.
When he saw "chalk" he'd know the actual code word was "craje."  Jane,
on the other hand, had in her version of the code the actual word that
was to be used.

Stephanie became really excited, though she still didn't know what the
connection was between the words and the numbers.  But she'd had a
breakthrough.  The irony was that for days she'd struggled with the
right words, but in the wrong language.  Realizing she was using
valuable battery power, she started to turn off the computer.

In her excitement, Stephanie inadvertently hit a function key and the
program's spell check came on, highlighting the word craje.  In the
drop-down screen there were a list of alternative words for what the
computer had taken to be a misspelled English word.  The words on the
list were "Craig," "Craik," t "crake," "crane," "crape," "crate,"
"crave" and "craze."  As she stared at the screen, it suddenly hit her.
The spell check was the key!

Stephanie clasped her hands to her chest, dizzy with awe.  "My God,"
she muttered.  "That's it!"

The craje = = 4 entry must mean the true code word was the fourth
alternative spelling indicated in the drop-down screen of the spell
check for the French word craje.  In this case it would be the word
crane.  That, Stephanie was certain was the actual word Jean Claud
intended to be in the code not chalk or craje!  Its numerological value
was the first digit in the access code for the bank.  She did a quick
calculation "Crane" was a five word, which meant the first digit in the
access code was five.  If she was right, she'd just broken the code!

when the computer screen began to flicker, Stephanie broke into a cold
sweat.  She needed the spell check to decode the last five digits of
the access code.  what if the damn thing died on her?

She quickly repeated the process she'd just gone through for the five
remaining French words.  Using this method, she determined that the
digits in the access code were 547658.  Her hands trembling as she
stared at the number, Stephanie told herself that those six little
numbers might well be worth thirty million dollars.

Hardly able to contain herself, she ran up to tell Jack.  "You'll never
believe it," she said, dropping down beside him, "but I think I cracked
the code."

He was incredulous as she excitedly told him how the spell check
contained the key to unlocking the code.  Jack put his arm around her
shoulders.

"Steph, you're a genius."

"It was dumb luck.  Purely accidental."

"And those French words were in a file on the hard drive all along."

"Yes, the family-gift file, if you can believe it.  Maybe Jean Claud
did intend to give Jane my inheritance, after all."

"why are you so sure the spell check is the key, and that the numbers
paired with the words indicate the true code word?"

"I can't be positive," she said, "but when you think about it, it makes
a lot of sense.  Jane had to be able to use the code, which meant
whatever Jean Claud set up would have to be simple, yet tricky enough
that it wasn't obvious.  Since the bank access code is a series of
numbers, and Jean Claud's code involved letters, the way to transcribe
from one to the other had to be through numerology, given my sister's
predilection for it.  All along, the stumbling block has been the
numbers after each word.  Sure, they might be numbers you're suppose to
add or subtract from the value of the letters, or whatever, but with
this, Jane wouldn't have had to memorize a thing."

Jack rubbed his chin.  "I grant you, it makes sense.  But are you
willing to walk into the bank with those numbers?"

"Seems to me it's worth the risk.  How about you?"

He took her hand.  "Sweetheart, haven't I been your man all along?"

Stephanie gave him a hug.  "God, I think we may have done it.  You may
be on the verge of becoming a very rich man, Captain Kidwell!"

"Have you written down the code?"

"I've got it memorized.  if Oscar Barbadillo is waiting for us in the
Caymans, I figure the thing to do is hand over the disks and let them
try to figure out the code."

"Babe, you've got a mean streak in you, know that?"

"One way or another, I intend to get my money back."

He caressed her cheek.  "if I was a drinking man, I'd suggest we open a
bottle of champagne," he said, sounding almost sad.  "Of course,
nothing says you can't have some."

She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eyes.  "A bottle
of mineral water would be just fine.  Don't forget, we're partners,
Jack.  All the way."

The wind picked up that afternoon.  Stephanie was at the helm for
several hours while Jack slept.  when he finally came up on deck,
sleepy-eyed but in good spirits, she asked if he'd dreamed about being
a millionaire.

"No," he said, giving her a kiss.  "I dreamed about you."

"Now why would that be?"  she said, feigning skepticism.  "Could it be
because I've got the access code?"

Jack grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her down over his knee and
gave her behind a couple of good whacks.

"Hey," she protested as he let her up.  "That hurt!  why'd you do
that?"

He wagged his finger at her.  "Don't get cheeky with me, young lady.
That code may or may not work, you don't know for sure."

"Oh, it's the right code, all right.  I've been thinking about it for
hours.  I know Jean Claud and I know Jane.  This is exactly the sort of
thing he'd have set up for her.  I'm sure of :

it."

"Needless to say, I hope you're right."

She heard something in his voice.  "What, Jack?  what's wrong?"

He shrugged.  "Nothing."

"No, there's something."

"Well, you having figured out the code does pose a problem," he said.

"what's that?"

"Now I can hardly say what's on my mind because you'll misunderstand my
motives.  I waited too long."

"what do you mean?  what's on your mind?"

He took her face in his hands.  "I think I'm in love with you,
Stephanie."

"You mean that?"

"Yeah.  But, to be sure you believe me, I almost have to hope we fail
to get the money.  otherwise..."

"I won't believe you?  Jack, if you really loved me, it ought to be
obvious.  I should be able to feel it.  Something as important as that
has a power of its own."

"You sound pretty certain about that," he said.

"I have reason to know."

"Which is..."

"Maybe I'm falling in love with you, too," she said.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

He scrutinized her, their expressions equally severe.  "Isn't this
something," he said, "for two people just having professed their love,
we're looking pretty dour."

"It's a complicated situation."

He kissed her lightly on the lips.  They peered into each other's
eyes.

"It's impossible to ignore the money, though, isn't it?"  she said.

"I'm afraid so."  Then, shaking his head, he laughed.  "I see now why
money is considered the root of all evil.  The judge in my trial tried
to make the point, but I didn't see it at the time.  He said, "Mr.
Kidwell, for some people money's a curse.  I think you may be one.""

"I hope you aren't suggesting we're cursed."

He pinched her cheek.  "Being challenged is more like it."

"God, here we are worrying how our money' S going to affect us and we
haven't even gotten it yet.  If I'm going to worry about anything," she
said, "it should be what happens to me when I try to go back to the
States.  People will have questions, and it's still not clear how much
trouble I'm in.

"Are you going to head right for San Francisco?"

"I may go to Washington first to see my friend Leslie," she said.  "Her
husband, Warren, will be very helpful in sorting out my problems."

He nodded.  "Obviously, I wish you well."

"Jack, I've been thinking it would be nice if you came to Washington
with me."

His eyebrows rose.  "Really?"

"Yes."

"In what capacity?"

"My friend.  And lover."

"Win, lose or draw?"

"Yes," she said.  "Win, lose or draw."

Laughing, he kissed her lips.  She kissed him back deeply.  They held
each other for a long time.  She didn't know how long, but they both
came back from their thoughts at the same time, drawn by the sound of a
plane.  Looking up, they spotted it, the late-afternoon sun shining on
its wings as it approached from the northwest, the direction of the
Cayman Islands.  As they watched, it made a looping circle high
overhead, then turned and headed back the way it had come.

Jack said nothing.  He didn't have to.

Thursday,

October 10th

The Caribbean Sea

Stephanie had gone to bed early, but she hadn't slept.  Sometime after
midnight she heard the door to her cabin rattle and slowly open.  Once,
a few days earlier, Jack had lashed the wheel and paid her a visit
during the night.  Since they hadn't made love that evening, she
wondered if he didn't have the same thing in mind now.  In a way, it
would surprise her.  They'd both been tense and edgy and preoccupied.
Seeing that plane had been a wake-up call.

Jack had said he thought they should stand off Grand Cayman and not put
in until after dark the next day, preferably in some marina remote from
George Town, assuming one could be found.  He had no detailed charts of
the area, which meant they would have to approach the island cautiously
because of the coral, keeping one eye over the side and the other on
the depth sounder.  Stephanie knew that now, just as in the beginning,
she was very much in Jack's hands.

She didn't say anything as he crept into the cabin, though she was
surprised when he went to her locker.  Using a flashlight, he began
rummaging through her things.  She almost asked what he was doing, but
something--a vague premonition, perhaps--kept her silent.  After a
minute he closed the locker and crept back out the door, silently
shutting it.

Stephanie wondered what that was all about.  what was he looking for?
Then it occurred to her it might be the gun.  But on her return to the
Lucky Lady she'd given it back, and Jack had made a point of putting it
in a drawer in the galley, where either of them could get it quickly in
the event of an emergency.  Had he forgotten?  She assumed that was it
and tried to go to sleep.

As she lay listening to the hiss of the water against the hull through
the open port, she relaxed as best she could.  It had been an
incredible day.  She'd broken the code.  She and Jack had professed
their love.  Wealth and happiness both were within grasp.  But one
obstacle remained--Inter-America Ventures.

Stephanie knew she faced a formidable challenge.  Inter- America had
resources.  She had the code.  That made her a target, true, but it
also gave her leverage.  And she did have Jack, too.  She wasn't in
this alone.

Glancing over, she noticed that the door to the locker was still open.
A thought suddenly hit her.  The computer!  It hadn't occurred to her
until now--she had no idea why--but that's where she kept Jane's
computer.

Jumping out of bed, she went to the locker and peered inside.  It was
too dark to see anything so she felt around.  The computer wasn't on
the shelf where she kept it.  My God!  she realized with horror.  Jack
had taken it!

Stephanie broke out in a cold sweat as she calculated the implications.
She'd told him how she'd broken the code, but she hadn't told him what
the actual numbers were that she'd deciphered.  Surely that wasn't what
he was after.

Creeping to the door, she carefully opened it, only to spot Jack seated
at the table in the dark salon.  He had a flashlight trained on the
screen of her computer.

Stephanie's heart nearly stopped.  She sagged against the bulkhead.
"Dear God," she muttered under her breath.  Jack had been playing her,
waiting to see if she managed to break the code.  It was probably what
he'd had in mind from the very beginning.  No, of course he wasn't
going to sell her out to Inter-America for a lousy half-million
dollars.  He wanted all thirty million for himself!

She breathed heavily, her heart racing.  The implications went much
deeper than a simple double-cross.  Once Jack had the access code, he
wouldn't need her.  He could slit her throat and throw her overboard
and keep all the money for himself!

The question was, what did she do?  Confront him?  Pretend she hadn't
discovered his treachery?  If he did work Out the numbers, she'd be in
real danger.  And she had to assume that he'd be able to decipher the
code.  After all, she'd explained the theory; any four thor
fifth-grader could figure it out once they had the key words.  If she
was going to confront him, it was best to catch him off guard.  Now was
the time.

Drawing a breath, she opened her cabin door.  Jack swung his head
toward her.  The light from the flashlight shone up from under his
chin, giving his face a ghoulish appearance.  The surprise in his eyes
was plain to see.

"Jack, what are you doing?"

Caught flat-footed, he couldn't come up with a lie.  He lowered his
head and sighed.  "I was checking out the code."

"why?"  she asked, edging into the salon.

"Well, because..."

"Because why, Jack?"  She didn't move directly toward him, but rather
on a tangent.  Her intent was to get to the gun in that drawer in the
galley.

"I thought it would be best if we both knew the access code," he said
lamely.

She could tell by his voice he knew he was unconvincing.  "why's that,
Jack?  why do you need to know the code?"

She was nearly opposite him now.  The face she'd loved only hours, only
minutes ago, now seemed heinous, threatening.  She sidled toward the
galley, keeping her eyes on him.  Jack got up abruptly, his chair
noisily scraping on the sol.

Stephanie panicked.  She dashed madly toward the galley, tripping over
something in the dark and falling to her knees.  She scrambled to her
feet, getting to the galley first.  She jerked the drawer open and
found the gun just as he was on her, trying to wrench the weapon from
her hands.

"Stephanie, for chrissakes!  what are you doing?"

"No," she shrieked, backing away from him.  "The question is what are
you doing!"

They faced each other, the flashlight on the table providing what
little light there was.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you think," he said, almost
sounding angry.

Stephanie didn't believe him.  In a sudden fit of courage, she lunged,
knocking him against the bulkhead.  That gave her the opportunity to
scramble past him.  She ran as fast as she could through the salon to
the companionway, then up the steps.  Reaching the deck still in the
flush of panic, she realized there was no place to go.  Could there be
another vessel nearby?  She peered out, seeing nothing but the dark sea
on the port side.  She hurried to the bow and searched the starboard
side of the Lucky Lady, only to discover nothing but a couple of dim
lights miles in the distance.

Stephanie spun on her heel, spotting Jack.  He moved slowly toward her,
the gun dangling from his hand.

"Stephanie," he said, "will you please listen to me?"

She backed as far from him as she could, but she was trapped.  In her
T-shirt, she trembled, not sure if it was because of the cool wind or
her fear.

"Listen," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you"

"I don't believe you."

"I want to explain why I was looking at the computer.

"You don't have to.  It's obvious.  You want all the money for
yourself.  what were you going to do?  Throw me overboard?"

"No!"  he said sharply.  "I have no intention of hurting you!  If I
did, I'd do it now."

"Maybe you haven't finished deciphering the code.  Maybe you think you
may still need me."

He put his hands on his hips.  "Damn it," he said.  "why are you so
paranoid?"

She was incredulous.  Her mouth sagged open.  "You sneaked into my
cabin and took the computer with a code worth thirty million dollars
and now you ask why I'm paranoid?  You're delusional!"

"No, just stupid.  I should have come right out and asked you to share
the code.  But I was afraid you'd mistrust my intentions."

"what were your intentions, pray tell?"  she said, unable to mask her
sarcasm.

"I was nervous, afraid if things got tense, you might forget it.  I
worried about them grabbing us.  I thought if we both knew the access
code, the chances of one of us making it to the bank were better than
if only you knew it."

"How noble of you."

He grimaced.  "My mistake was not discussing it with you.  I wanted you
to trust me and figured that if you did, you'd tell me the code.  And I
was afraid if I asked you to tell me outright, I'd undermine what trust
you had.  So I thought about it for a couple of hours and decided I'd
get it surreptitiously so we'd never have to face the issue.  I wanted
the code for insurance.  If I never needed it, if things worked out and
you were able to withdraw the money okay, it never would have mattered
and you'd never have known."

"I don't believe you."

"It was stupid, I admit.  Maybe some of my deviousness is still with
me."

"That I believe."

"Look," he said, "can't we just put this behind us as an unfortunate
example of my poor judgment and you too readily jumping to
conclusions?"

"I'll never trust you again as long as I live!"

He groaned miserably.  "why do you have to interpret this in the worst
possible way?  why can't you look at the bigger picture, the way things
have been, the way we feel about each other?"

"The way we feel about each other is bullshit!"  she snapped.  "You are
a liar.  I knew that the day I met you and

I know it now."  She shook her head.  "I've known all along

I shouldn't trust you, but I stuck my head in the sand.  You don't care
about me.  You never have.  It was always the money."

"You're wrong!"  he shouted.  "Dead wrong!"

"Oh, so this whole thing is about love and devotion, is it?"

"I told you I loved you, Stephanie, and I do.  Yes, I've been thinking
about the money.  At first, that was all I cared about.  I mean, I
liked you but I saw this as my big chance to score and I was going for
it."

"But now you love me and that's all changed," she said, her voice
dripping with sarcasm.  She shook her head.  "Nice story, Jack, but I
don't buy it.  Not after tonight."

He stared at her for a long time.  The wind blew her hair across her
face.  She pushed it aside, meeting his gaze.  Finally Jack extended
the hand with the gun toward her, handle first

"Here," he said.  "If you're going to have to protect your self, you
might as well be prepared."

She stared at the proffered gun.  "why are you doing this?"

"If you're really worried I might steal your money, you might want to
shoot me now and get me out of the way.

"I wouldn't even consider such a thing and you know it."

"Well, at least now I can't shoot you.

She took the gun.  He gave her a wan smile and headed back toward the
cockpit.

"Jack," she called after him.  He turned.  "Yeah?"

"Did you decipher the access code?"  "Yes," he said, after a brief
hesitation.  "I did."

Jack sat in the cockpit, slumped in his seat, ruing his stupidity.  He
wasn't afraid of losing his cut of the money so much as he was of
having alienated Stephanie beyond the point of forgiveness.  If he got
her to George Town, she'd probably pay up, then kiss his sweet ass
goodbye.  This was not a woman who could be won back.  Not with sweet
talk.  Not by any means he could conceive.

"Damn it to hell!"  he growled, giving the steering pedestal a kick
with his heel, hurting himself.  "Shit."

He probed his mind for a workable strategy, but he could think of no
good options.  His best bet if he loved her was to hope they couldn't
withdraw the money.  Then, when he asked her to join him in Mexico, it
could only be for one reason--because he cared about her, and her
alone.  How ironic!

The sad part was he had lived enough years that he knew they weren't
going to be living on love alone.  Stephanie wasn't going to come out
of this destitute.  She'd still be better off than he, which meant any
overture he made would be suspect.  He'd put himself in a no-win
situation.

Needless to say, he was depressed, angry with himself, disappointed.
He'd had a good thing going and he'd blown it.  Hell.

That same old craving for a drink began lighting his soul.  He'd done a
pretty good job of fighting it up to now.  Though he'd come close a
couple of times, he hadn't fallen off the wagon.  But at the moment, he
dearly wanted to do just that.

Staring at the dark' empty sea, with the Lucky Lady gliding smoothly
toward the Caymans, Jack pictured himself going below and digging out
that bottle of scotch.  Was this what he'd been waiting for, the reason
he hadn't chucked the goddamn bottle overboard?

For another fifteen minutes Jack battled his demons, fighting himself
as much as them.  Finally he went below, digging through his locker
until he found the bottle.  He stormed from his cabin, only to run into
Stephanie, who was coming out of the head.

"Oh!"  they said simultaneously, both stepping back.

Stephanie looked at him a moment before she noticed the bottle.  He
couldn't see her expression in the darkness well enough to divine her
thoughts, but when she went to her cabin without uttering a word, he
had little doubt it was disgust.  Jack couldn't get up on deck fast
enough.

Once he was topside, he leaned against the cabin trunk and slowly
unscrewed the cap.  His hand shook as he lifted the bottle to his
mouth.  He stopped before tilting his head back and asked himself if he
was ready to die.  "Yes," one voice cried.  But another, quieter one,
told him, "No, not yet."

Jack knew he was trapped between weakness and strength.  This was a
test he'd unconsciously been seeking.  In the end, pride won out.  He
tossed the bottle overboard and turned to watch it bob in the wake of
the Lucky Lady.  He might have lost Stephanie, but he hadn't lost
himself.  At least not yet, anyway.

Stephanie came up on deck at dawn to relieve him.  His bottle was
nowhere to be seen and he gave no indication that he had been drinking.
Jack regarded her soberly, his expression seeming to say he had as much
reason to be disappointed in her as she had in him.

"We're sixty, seventy miles south by southeast of Grand Cayman," he
said.  "If you hold this heading for a couple of hours, it'll put us
about fifty miles due south of George Town.  Since we have all day, I'm
thinking of circling around and approaching from the north under the
theory they may not be looking that way.  We need to find some
advantage."

Stephanie said nothing in response.

"I'm going to try and get a couple of hours' sleep.  Wake me then, if
you would, and I'll set a new course."

"All right."

She could tell he wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words.
There was no point in apologizing, they were beyond that.  But there
was need for some sort of understanding She stopped him from leaving.

"I'm not going to try to make light of what happened last night," she
said.  "I was..  well, you know how I feel.  There's no point in going
into it.  But I need to know where things stand, what we're going to do
once we get there."

"what do you want to happen?"  he asked.

"I'd like to go to the bank and try to get the money.  If I succeed,
I'll settle up with you.  A deal is a deal.  But then I want to say
goodbye.  For good."

"I expected that," he said.  "And I can't say I blame you."

"I'm glad we agree."

"That may be the least of our problems, though.  We still have to
figure out how to get past that pack of wolves waiting for us."

"Do you have a suggestion?"  she asked.

Jack sat back down.  "I've given it some thought.  It seems to me we
increase our odds if we split up."

A well of suspicion rose in her.  "Really?"

"Your chances of getting to the bank safely would be better if I acted
as a decoy.  Say we stand in close to the coast and you go ashore in
the dinghy.  You can get to a road, have a taxi take you to some small,
out-of-the-way hotel and hold up there until morning.  Meanwhile, I'll
take the boat into Hog Sty Bay.  if they grab me, I'll say I dumped you
overboard and have been frantically trying to break the code so I could
grab the money for myself.  I'll show them the disks, like you
suggested, and let them have a go at breaking the code."

Stephanie searched for ulterior motives, for duplicity, for a trick.
Nothing jumped out at her.  what he proposed gave him no advantage she
could see, unless he'd decided to try to join forces with
Inter-America.  But Jack had no reason to believe they'd honor any deal
he might work out with them.  And besides, once she was ashore, he
would be unable to betray her more than he already had.

"That sounds reasonable," she told him.  "I'll agree to that.  But how
will we settle up?"

"We'd better plan to rendezvous afterward," he said.  "I don't know
anything about George Town, but there's got to be a cafe near the bank.
Ask where the nearest one is and I'll meet you there, after you've made
the withdrawal."

He sounded surprisingly confident she'd succeed.  It could be wishful
thinking on his part, but then, too, there was nothing to be gained by
being pessimistic.  "Okay," she replied.  "We'll meet at the nearest
cafe."

"Well," Jack said, getting up, "I'd better get a little rest."

"Yes, do that."

"You don't look like you got much yourself."

She shook her head.  "No, I didn't sleep."

"Sorry, Stephanie."

She shrugged.  "It'll be all over tomorrow, one way or the other.  Then
I can sleep for a week."

He nodded, his expression anxious.

"what happened to that bottle of liquor you had last night?"  she
asked.

"I chucked it overboard.  Figured it'd be easier if I took my problems
one at a time.  I'll worry about getting drunk tomorrow."

She did not like hearing that.

"But you never know," he added.  "I might stay sober without you."

She nodded and Jack went below.

Stephanie sighed.  She felt a little better having gotten things out in
the open, but even if she ended up pulling this off, she'd still feel
as if she'd lost.  Jack had been trying to redeem himself, but last
night he'd blown it.  He'd really blown it.

The sun, a golden sliver, appeared on the horizon to stern.  The wind
was stiff, and over the next hour, with the sun climbing rapidly in the
eastern sky, the Lucky Lady made good time The rising seas crashed
against the hull and the rigging whistled in the wind.  The calm that
had prevailed most of the trip had come to an end.

Stephanie was so lost in thought, agonizing over Jack, that she didn't
notice how close two other craft were until they were nearly upon her.
Finally the roar of their engines drew her attention, and she looked
back to see a large motor yacht and a speedboat converging on the Lucky
Lady from the port and starboard quarter.

The two boats were about a hundred yards away and closing fast.
Stephanie knew instantly who it was.

Securing the wheel, she dashed to the companionway and ran down the
steps.  "Jack!"  she cried as she hurried across the salon.  "Jack,
some boats are chasing us!"

Sticking her head in the door of his cabin, she saw him lift his head
and blink at her.  "Boats?"

"Yes, a big one and a little one.  I'm sure they're after us."  He ran
to a port and tried to look back.  Spinning, he dashed to the
companionway and up the steps.  Stephanie followed.  By the time she
reached deck, Jack was staring at their pursuers, his hands on his
hips.  The cabin cruiser was less than thirty yards back and the
speedboat was fifteen yards off the starboard side.

"Heave to!"  came a voice over a bullhorn from the larger craft. "Heave
to and prepare to be boarded."

"Well," Jack said to her, "what's your pleasure, m'lady?  Surrender or
go out in a blaze of gunfire and glory?"

Her heart chugged.  "I don't know if I'm prepared to die for that
money, Jack."

"There's no guarantee they'll be merciful."

She swallowed hard.  "But it's our best shot."

"Shall I run up the white flag then?"

She instinctively took hold of his arm, though minutes ago she'd half
condemned him as a traitor.  "Yes," she said.  "I don't want anybody
hurt if I can possibly help it."

"Even me?"  He was amazingly calm.

"Yes, Jack," she said.  "Even you."

Their captors, Jack noticed, were a mixed bag.  Most of them appeared
to be local thugs, probably hired by Inter-America.  The man who gave
the orders was Latino, perhaps South American.  His name was Carlos and
he was no businessman, unless the commerce of drugs or guns could be
considered a business.

Stephanie, like Jack, leaned against the cabin house as a man guarded
them with a submachine gun.  Half a dozen others were belowdecks,
searching.  Carlos paced, occasionally passing them and muttering.

The Lucky Lady was tied up alongside the cabin cruiser.  Jack had only
had a glimpse of the captain, who he judged to be a mercenary like the
others.  When a nice-looking Latino guy in a black polo shirt appeared
on the deck of the motor yacht, Jack heard Stephanie moan.

"What's the matter?"

"That's Oscar Barbadillo," she said under her breath.

She immediately began trembling and Jack put his arm around her.
Considering him the lesser of two evils, evidently, she sagged against
him.  Jack gave her a good firm squeeze as Barbadillo made his way
along the deck.

"Whatever you do, don't give them the access code," Jack whispered,
"because if you do, you won't have any leverage.  Tell them the story I
was going to give them, that we have the code words, but can't decipher
them.  Offer a little resistance, but not too much."

"Jack, I know that man is going to hurt me," she said, her voice
trembling.

"They have no way of knowing you broke the code.  Hang on as long as
you can."

Oscar Barbadillo was opposite them now.  He smiled cruelly.  "Dios mio,
if it isn't Mrs.  Reymond," he said, leaning on the railing.  "It seems
we do meet again, querida."

Stephanie shrank even closer to Jack and he could tell she was
terrified.

"Who's that you're with there, Stephanie?"  Barbadillo asked.  "Your
bodyguard?"

She didn't answer.

"Or might that be the famous Captain Kidwell?"  Oscar chuckled.  "Are
you ready to do business with us now, Captain?"

Jack glared at him.

"Unfortunately the price has dropped to five cents," Barbadillo said,
"but that's more than you'll ever be worth, so you might consider
it."

"If I had anything to offer you, I would, Barbadillo," Jack said.

"Are you saying the lady hasn't shared the code, Captain?  Because if
not, I'm sure she can be persuaded to share it with me."

There was some commotion farther along the deck of the sailboat.
Carlos, who'd been talking to one of the men, came walking toward them.
He had the computer.

"Look, Oscar," he said.  "I found a computer and we have some disks
also."

"Good," Barbadillo said.  "Bring it all on board.  And bring the woman.
Stephanie and I have a little catching up to do."  He smiled broadly.
"It was nice meeting you, Captain Kidwell.  And I thank you.  Your
greed saved us half a million."

Carlos gave the computer to one of the men, then stepped over, taking
Stephanie by the arm.  Jack reached out, touching the man's shoulder.

"You'd better not hurt her, amigo, because I promise you, if you do,
you're a dead man."

Carlos's lips peeled into a smile.  Then, out of nowhere, he swung,
hitting Jack on the side of the face, knocking him back against the
cabin house.  "Fuck you, amigo," he snarled, then led Stephanie away.

"I'll buy you a cup of coffee in George Town, Steph!"  Jack shouted
after her.

Barbadillo, who'd watched everything from his vantage point at the
railing of the yacht, laughed, shaking his head.  "You won't be buying
anybody anything ever again, Captain," he said.  "Unless you're a hell
of a swimmer."

"There's no reason to hurt her," Jack said to him.

"Do I look like a man who would hurt a woman?  Captain, you
misunderstand me.  My way is to make myself irresistible.  That's how I
deal with women.  Anyway, Stephanie likes me.  She may not yet know how
much, but she will learn."  He grinned.  "Adios, Capitan."

Jack watched him move down the deck to where Stephanie was being helped
aboard.  Barbadillo went up to her and kissed her on the cheek as if
she was an old friend.  Jack could tell she was terrified.  Clenching
his fists, he wanted to vault up onto the deck of the cabin cruiser and
tear Barbadillo to pieces.  The man guarding him must have been aware
of his feelings because he fingered the trigger on his weapon, eyeing
him closely.

"It's time to say goodbye, amigo," Carlos said, moving back along the
deck of the Lucky Lady.

Walking up to Jack, he punched him in the stomach without warning. Then
while he was doubled over, Carlos took the submachine gun from the
guard, then brought the handle of the automatic sharply down on Jack's
shoulder, dropping him to the deck.  He lay stunned while Carlos kicked
him in the stomach and back, then in the ribs.  The last blow resulted
in a loud crack and a sharp pain.  Carlos reached down as Jack writhed
in agony and grabbed a handful of hair, jerking up his head.

"What's the code, my friend?  Tell me the code and I won't kill you."

"I don't know," Jack said, wincing with pain.  "We couldn't break it.
Stephanie has the code words, but they're words, not the numbers.  She
doesn't know what they mean."

The man stared at him as though he was evaluating Jack's truthfulness.
At last he said, "We'll let you die, anyway."  Then he slammed Jack's
head down, got up and walked away.  The guard followed along behind.

Jack lay there in pain, certain he had a cracked rib.  He heard the men
departing from the Lucky Lady, clambering aboard the cruiser.  Surely
they weren't going to leave him there.  They must intend to shoot him
from the deck of the yacht.  He was sorry now he hadn't resisted.  If
he'd only shot one or two of them, it would have been something.  The
one thing he regretted was dying without knowing whether Stephanie
would be all right.

Jack could hear them casting off the lines, then the revving of the
cruiser's engine as it pulled away.  He was incredulous.

It was then he heard a crackling sound and smelled smoke.  Rising to
his knees, he peered down the deck and saw smoke belching from the
companionway.  Soon the flames were licking up and the sails began to
catch fire.  This was how they planned to kill him, he realized--by
burning his boat out from under him.

Jack forced the emotion from his brain and tried to think clearly.  If
he was going to save himself, he'd have to act fast.  The dinghy was
clear at the other end of the boat and it was deflated.  He calculated
his chances of getting by the fire.  Given the time it would take to
get the thing inflated, he'd never make it.  And it was also possible
they'd punched a hole in it or had already tossed it overboard.

No, he saw what fate was in store for him.  He had a fifty-mile swim to
land, which would have been a piece of cake if it wasn't for the ribs.
Sitting down painfully on the deck, he watched the motor yacht heading
off to the north.  The thought of Stephanie taken prisoner by those
bastards made his heart ache.  He didn't want to think what they might
do to her.

Wincing with pain again, Jack was aware he had one chance of
surviving--if someone saw the smoke and came to investigate.  Why the
stupid bastards had set the Lucky Lady on fire, he didn't know.  If
they wanted to scuttle her, all they had to do was disconnect the thru
ll and open the valves and she'd have sunk quietly into the depths. And
nobody would have known the boat was going under--except maybe a shark
or two.

The fire was raging and the heat had become intense.  Jack sidled over
to the railing.  He'd give it a few more minutes before quietly
dropping over the side.  He didn't relish the thought of trying to swim
with these ribs, and he knew the longer he waited before getting in the
water, the better off he'd be.  Damn, he thought.  What a lousy day
this had turned out to be.

Stephanie peered out the port, pressing her cheek to the glass as she
watched the Lucky Lady slowly disappear from sight.  The sails were
ablaze and a column of dark smoke rose into the azure sky.  Jack, they
told her, had elected to stay behind.  She wondered if they'd killed
him, or left him for the sharks.

When she could no longer see the boat, she turned from the port, wiping
her eyes.  She'd known from the beginning that this might happen, but
she had no idea they would be so savage.  She'd seen Carlos beating
Jack.  They'd hurt him, but when they told her he said she knew the
access code, she knew they were lying.  If Jack was going to break,
he'd have told them the code himself.

So far they hadn't hurt her, but Barbadillo had looked at her as though
he had every intention of settling the score.  When she'd told him that
Jean Claud had devised a code and that it was on the disks, he was
pleased.  But he became skeptical when she said that it was a word
cipher, and the access code was a six-digit number she hadn't been able
to figure out.  He'd given the computer to one of his men.  They'd have
a look and then talk some more.  "Meanwhile, Stephanie," he'd said, "I
want you to make yourself comfortable in your cabin."

Up to now nobody had gotten rough with her.  She figured they wanted to
keep her healthy so she could help recover the money--though she knew
she'd be a fool to count on that.  The biggest surprise was the
condition of the cabin.  It was well-appointed and clean, but stripped
bare.  There wasn't even any bedding on the berth, nothing in the
lockers.  Apart from the furniture, all there was in the cabin was her
suitcase, a pillow and a few short links of rope.  God, she hoped they
didn't plan on torturing her.

Stephanie paced, worrying about Jack, about herself, about a future
that looked bleak at best.  The irony was that even if she gave them
the deciphered code, she couldn't be sure they wouldn't kill her.

Once more she went to the port and peered out.  There was no longer any
sign of the Lucky Lady, not even smoke on the horizon.  Poor Jack.

Hearing the lock turn and the door open behind her, she spun around. It
was Oscar Barbadillo.  She tensed.

"I hope you find the accommodations adequate," he said.  "I know it's
kind of Spartan, but that's intentional."  He went to the one armchair
and sat, crossing his legs.  Then he took a cigar from his pocket and
lit it.  "More comfortable than the trunk of a car, don't you think?"

"What do you want, Oscar?"

"To talk."

"About what?"

"Us, Stephanie."

"I don't see we have anything to discuss."

"That's because you're fully dressed.  We seem to communicate best when
at least one of us is naked.  I believe it's your turn, querida.  Take
off your clothes."

"What's that going to accomplish?"

Barbadillo drew on his cigar.  "It's going to make me feel better and,
at this point, that's important.  So take off your clothes or I'll
invite a couple of my men to come in and assist you."

"You're sick."

"What were you when you had me undress on St.  Thomas?"

"I was trying to keep you from going to the police.  The alternative
was to shoot you."

"Ah, I see.  A humanitarian gesture."  He took another drag on the
cigar.  "This, too, is a humanitarian gesture.  You can contend with me
while you're naked, or with half a dozen of my men.  I leave the choice
to you.  Me or the hungry horde."

Stephanie's heart raged.  Oscar was a monster, but a suave one.  She
could defy him, or she could try to please him.  With luck, he might
stop at humiliating her.  She decided to make one more attempt to
reason with him.

"Isn't the money the important thing, Oscar?  You realize, I assume,
that you only have until tomorrow to get it from the bank.  Then it's
gone forever.  Shouldn't you be working on breaking the code?"

"I have a computer expert in the salon, doing just that.  But I have a
hunch I'm going to get the code faster by talking to you.  So, as you
undress, think about what you wish to tell me.  Now get started before
I lose my patience."

Stephanie saw it was hopeless.  So she quickly undressed, keeping her
back to him.  Shivers went up and down her spine and her hands
trembled.  Once she was naked, she snatched the pillow and sat with it
in front of her on the bed.  Oscar slowly drew on his cigar.

"Now lie on the bed, querida," he said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Interrogate you."

She moved onto the middle of the berth, clutching the pillow to her
body.

"Put the pillow under your head," he commanded.

She didn't argue.  Oscar slowly got to his feet.  Her skin crawled as
he made his way to the berth, sitting casually beside her.  He drew on
his cigar, exhaling toward the ceiling.  He nonchalantly looked over
her body.

"So, was Kidwell a good lover?"  he asked.

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, Jack's a wonderful lover and a decent man."

"Your wonderful lover was negotiating to sell you to us, you know,"
Barbadillo said, drawing the tip of his index finger up her side.

She tensed.  "I know that.  He told me."

Oscar drew light circles on her breasts with his finger, making her dig
her nails into the mattress.  "And you believed he made love with you
because he loved you, querida?"

"Yes," she said, her jaw trembling.

"You are a very trusting woman," he said, lightly pinching her
nipples.

It took all her willpower to lie still.  "You have the disks," she
lamented.  "What more do you want?"

"I want for us to know each other very well, Stephanie.  Only then can
there be trust."

He ran the flat of his hand down over her stomach.  Unable to help
herself, she grabbed his hand.  "Please don't," she said, half
sobbing.

Barbadillo frowned insincerely.  "What are you afraid of, Stephanie?  I
won't hurt you.  You'll like what I do to you.  And afterward you'll
tell me who was better, Kidwell or me."

"No, Oscar, please."

"Tell you what I'm going to do," he said.  "I'll tie you to the bed.
Then you won't need to resist.  That way, when you enjoy it, your
conscience will be clear.  You'll have no choice but to accept the
pleasure."  He grinned.  "Isn't that considerate of me?  I'm making it
so easy for you to have a good time."

"I don't want to have sex with you," she cried.

"Oh, but you do, querida.  The only unknown is how much."

Rico Behring stood next to the pilot of the speedboat and held on to
the windshield for balance as they skimmed along at high speed, the
warm sea air stinging his eyes.  There were a couple of sailboats in
sight and a fishing trawler, but no cabin cruiser.

"Where the fuck are they?"  he said over the roar of the wind.

"Should be dead ahead, sir," the pilot replied.  "This is the course
the captain of the yacht gave in his radio transmission."

Rico was pissed.  Oscar was supposed to keep him informed and it was
only by chance Rico had learned that Kidwell's boat had been sighted.
More than once the last two days his cousin had gotten cheeky with him.
"I thought you were going back to L.A.," Oscar had said when they'd had
dinner a couple of nights ago.

"What difference does it make to you?"

Oscar had shrugged.  "Somebody's got to run the company."

Rico hadn't thought anything of it until he realized what Oscar had to
gain.  Thirty million was up for grabs.  Anybody with the code could
walk into the bank and claim it.  His goddamn cousin was planning on
double-crossing him.  When Kidwell's boat was sighted and Oscar went
off to pick them up without saying a word, Rico knew he was right.

He glanced back at the three heavily armed men in the back of the boat,
nodding.  Oscar might have him outnumbered with his little band of
pirates, but Rico definitely had his cousin outgunned.  He'd called in
some real professionals, men who could handle the rough stuff.

"There she is, Mr.  Behring!"  the pilot said, pointing.

"Great," Rico said, patting the man on the shoulder.  He signaled the
others to get ready.  "The captain knows to stop and let us board?"

"Yes, sir.  He knows who's paying the bills."

"Everybody does, except my fucking cousin."

Stephanie cried softly as Oscar ran his hands over her.  Her wrists and
ankles were tied to the corners of the berth, her eyes closed, her head
turned as far from him as she could.  He'd tried to make her watch as
he'd undressed, but she refused to look at him.  She didn't want to
feel or sense anything.

When Oscar put his hand between her legs for the first time, she let
out a mournful sob.  He continued purring into her ear, undaunted, his
tobacco breath washing over her as he tantalized her with his
fingers.

"Don't fight it, querida," he whispered.  "Let go and it will be so
much more pleasant."

Suddenly the boats engine stopped.  Stephanie opened her eyes.  Oscar
sat upright.

"What the fuck?"  he said.  He walked naked to the port.  Seeing
nothing, he went to the other side.  "Cristo!"  he exclaimed.

"What's happening?"

Barbadillo ignored her.

Moments later they heard shouts up on the deck and what sounded like
gunfire, in short staccato bursts.  Oscar rushed back and picked up his
clothes.  He was in the middle of trying to put on his pants when the
door burst open and a large man in dark glasses carrying a submachine
gun charged into the cabin, ready to fire.  He ordered Oscar to put up
his hands.

As Stephanie stared, mouth agape, a younger man entered the cabin,
glancing first at Oscar, then at her.  "Well," he said, "I see we're
having a little fun.  What's the deal, Oscar?  Figure you'd fuck the
code out of her?"

"Rico, for chrissakes, what's with all the theatrics?"

"Theatrics, cousin?"  Rico said, walking up to him.  "Is that anything
like double cross?"

"What are you talking about?"

Rico got right in his face.  "What the fuck you doing grabbing the
broad without telling me, huh?  Decide you didn't need to share the
dough with the company, Oscar?"

"Rico, you're nuts!"

"Nuts?  No, I'm stupid to trust you.  You were going to run out on me.
My old man not dead a week and you're going to steal our money and
run."

"You're not only stupid," Oscar said, "you're insane."  He gave Rico a
shove.

Rico's eyes rounded with rage and he reached behind his back and pulled
a pistol from his belt.  Then, without a word he shot his cousin in the
chest, the force of the bullet knocking Oscar back against the
bulkhead.  Stephanie gasped.  Oscar's eyes were round with disbelief.
He gave a little groan as he slumped to the floor.

"Stupid sonovabitch," Rico muttered.  Then he turned to the man who'd
broken into the cabin.  "Have somebody dump the bastard overboard, will
you?  All he's good for now is fish food."

The man stuck his head out the door and called in a couple of hands.
They entered, casting curious looks at Stephanie before carrying Oscar
from the cabin.  Rico ordered the gunman out and told him to close the
door.  Then for the first time, he turned his full attention to her.
Stephanie was at a loss for words.

Rico sat on the bed, looking at her face.  "You must be Mrs.  Reymond,"
he said in a bizarrely calm voice.

She swallowed hard.  "Yes," she croaked.

"I'm Rico Behring, head man of Inter-America Ventures."  He reached
into his pocket and produced a jackknife, which be opened, waving the
blade before her.  "You'll have to forgive my cousin, Mrs.  Reymond,"
he said.  "Oscar is a stupid, pathological sonovabitch."  Then, using
the knife, he cut the ropes, freeing her.

Stephanie snatched the pillow from under her head, covering herself
with it.  "Thank you," she gasped.

Rico got to his feet and gazed down at her.  "Get dressed, then come
into the main salon.  You and I are going to have a drink, then we'll
talk."  With that, he left the cabin.

Trembling, Stephanie quickly put on her clothes, aware of the pool of
blood on the floor where Oscar Barbadillo had fallen.  Fighting back
her rising gorge, she left the cabin, finding Rico Behring alone at the
table in the main salon.  He had her purse, with the contents dumped
out, and Jane's computer.  The framed photo of Suzanne was in his
hand.

"Who's the kid?"

"My daughter," Stephanie said.

"How old is she?"

"She'd be twenty-one on her next birthday.  That's an old photo."

Rico blinked.  "No shit?  You're old enough to be the mother of a
twenty-one year old?"

"Yes."

"My compliments."  He gestured to her.  "Come over here and sit by me,"
he said.  "I want you to explain to me how the code works."

She went to the table and warily slipped into a chair.  "Mr.  Behring,"
she said, her voice shaking, "Oscar left Jack Kidwell on a burning
sailboat out at sea.  Can we please go back and pick him up?"

Rico looked surprised.  "Oscar did that?"

"Yes."

"Jesus, how long ago?"

"I don't know, half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes."

"Sugar, that long ago, there's no way he's alive.  You best forget
him."  He somehow managed to look sorry.  "Don't worry, though.  You've
got a new partner now.  Me, doll."  He reached over and pinched her
cheek.  "You and me are going to get along real well.  And we're going
to get rich.  That's a promise."

Friday,

October 11th

Grand Cayman Island

Stephanie had terrible nightmares about people being shot and drowned
and tied up and thrown into burning buildings.  But she awoke in the
clean hotel bed, the sheets fresh-smelling, the balmy air wafting in
the window, fragrant with blossoms.  She was alive, unharmed, and had
been promised one million dollars by Rico Behring for her cooperation.
But she was also scored by a deep wound--Jack, she'd come to accept,
was dead.

Though it had taken hours to sink into her brain, Jack's death had hit
her harder than any of the many tragedies that had befallen her over
the past few weeks.  The other deaths had been staggering, but knowing
Jack was dead had completely eviscerated her.  Sure, he'd disappointed
her that last night.  His betrayal had been painful, even devastating,
but she knew a part of him had loved her and that in the end he'd tried
to do the right thing.  Now he was gone.

Stephanie had tried to make sense of what had happened.  There was no
logic to it, no grand meaning that she could see.  By luck, pluck and
chance she was alive.  That was all she understood.

The bedroom door swung open and Rico Behring entered.  No knock, no
excuse-me.

"Good, you're awake," he said' approaching the bed.  "This is our big
day, doll.  We can't sleep through it, now, can we?"

Stephanie pulled the sheet up to her chin, incensed that he would walk
in on her that way, but he'd proven so unpredictable, she wasn't
surprised.  The man, she decided, was pathological.  Yet he'd treated
her with courtesy, in a crude sort of way.  The closest he'd come to
direct intimidation was on the boat when he'd explained what he
expected.  "Tomorrow morning we're going to the bank together," he'd
said.  "One of my associates will be with us.  You will present the
code and if it doesn't produce the money, my associate will put a
bullet in your head, no questions asked.  You get one chance to come up
with the right answer, and one chance only.  Do we understand each
other?"

Rico Behring was so inherently evil that she had instantly capitulated.
She'd admitted she'd broken the code, explaining how she'd accidentally
discovered it with the spell check.  "But it's only my best guess,"
she'd said.  "I think it's the right code, but I can't be absolutely
sure."

Rico had grinned, given her cheek a pinch and said, "Doll, you'd better
hope it's right, because if not, you're dead.  If we have to do you
right there in the bank, we will.  Succeed and you'll be a million
bucks richer.  Fail and it won't matter."

But then he'd given her lunch on the yacht and later he'd taken her arm
as they were disembarking at the marina, personally escorting her to
their waiting limo for the short drive up the coast to the hotel.
"Please don't get any ideas about trying to run for help," he'd said.
"There'll be more people guarding you than the president of the United
States.  Just remember, we're partners and partners gotta treat each
other right."

Later they'd shared a room-service dinner, including wine and soft
background music.  Rico hadn't made a pass at her, though he'd given
her a couple of oblique, but suggestive, compliments.  "Not to be
personal or nothing, but how old are you?"  he'd asked.

"Forty-two," she'd said.

"Jesus, you'd never believe it.  And I'm pretty particular about my
women."

He hadn't touched her, saying good-night politely when she said she
wanted to go to bed.  Stephanie had found that there was a man posted
in the garden outside the suite and probably another in the hall.
They'd disconnected the phone in the bedroom.  Rico's trust obviously
had its limits.  Besides, she'd been so numb that laying plans were
beyond her.  The money no longer mattered.  She just wanted to get
through this alive.  She didn't even care whether Rico Behring gave her
a million dollars or not.  Jack was dead, everything else paled beside
that tragic fact.

But Rico wouldn't let her give up.  He stood over her now, a psychotic
zealot unwilling to give value to human life.  She was his key to the
bank vault and he would use her as such to accomplish his purposes.

"So, what's the matter, sugar?"  he said after she'd stared at him
mutely for several long moments.  "Can't get up your enthusiasm for a
million bucks?"

"No, I told you I'd do it and I will."

"Great.  Come and have some breakfast.  The room-service waiter just
delivered it."

"I don't care for anything."

"I ordered it and it's here," he said, losing his patience, "so come
and eat it while it's hot."

"Can I get dressed?"

Rico grabbed the sheet and flung it back.  Stephanie jerked her T-shirt
down, covering herself.

"You're fine," he said.  "Put on a robe and come eat."

As soon as he'd left the bedroom, Stephanie got up and' grabbing the
hotel robe, put it on.  Casting a wary eye toward the door to the
sitting room, she made a quick trip to the bathroom, pausing at the
mirror long enough to run a brush through her hair.  Fearing she'd
antagonize him, she hurried to the sitting room, cinching the tie of
the robe still tighter.  Breakfast was laid out on the table.  Rico
surprised her by holding her chair for her.  Stephanie sat warily,
fearful of what his bizarre behavior might lead to.

Once she was seated, he let his hands rest on her shoulders.  "Think
what this means, doll," he said.  "You and me are having one hell of a
payday.  Even after I give you your million, I'm still making a
ten-million-dollar profit!  Ten fucking million!  It's cost me a few
hundred thousand, but that's still chicken feed."

"I'm glad you're pleased."

Rico started massaging her shoulders.  "Funny when you think about it.
When this business started, you were married and I was junior nobody.
Now there's only two of us left standing--you and me."

The way he chuckled convinced her he was crazy.  She wasn't the most
coherent she'd ever been herself, but she could feel the man's
insanity.  And his touch, while less indecent than Oscar Barbadillo's,
was somehow more menacing and dangerous.  She was in the hands of a
maniac.

Rico began massaging the back of her neck.  She could feel the strength
in his hands.  As he slipped his fingers around her neck, exerting only
the lightest pressure on her throat, she quailed.

"You know, you've got nice skin," he said, running his fingers under
the collar of her robe.  "I've never made it with anybody over
thirty-five before.  I'm wondering if after we finish at the bank maybe
we should come back here and have us a little party.  I've got some
ludes and there's enough fucking champagne to float a battleship."

Stephanie was torn between ordering him to take his hands off her and
playing along.  If she didn't stop him sometime, when would it end?

Just then there was a shout outside the door to the suite.  A woman's
voice, then a man's.  The door flew open and a voluptuous redhead in
tight parrot green Capri pants, a one-shoulder tunic top in a garish
yellow and gold platform slides came barging in.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Rico said, removing his hands from under
Stephanie's robe.

The woman fought off the man trying to grab her and stumbled toward
them as Stephanie tightened the robe at her throat.  Rico stepped
around the table.

"Let go!"  the woman screamed as the man tackled her.  "He's my goddamn
husband!"

"Mr.  Behring?"  the man said, his arms wrapped around the woman as she
tried to stomp his feet.

"Let her go," Rico commanded.

The man did.

"It's all right," Rico told him.  "Go back out in the hall."  After the
man was gone, Rico stared at the woman, his hands on his hips. "Rhonda,
what a pleasant surprise.  Where's your fucking lawyer?"

"So," she said' glancing at Stephanie, "you don't like me having a guy,
but it's just fine if you play doctor with some slut.  Or is this your
secretary?"  She glared.  "Know what?  You're a hypocrite, Rico.  The
biggest goddamn hypocrite in the world."

"As a matter of fact, Rhonda, this happens to be my business partner.
Not that I owe you any explanations."

"What business?  Prostitution?  You pimping now, too, dear?"

He doubled up his fist and made a threatening gesture.

"Button it, bitch!  I won't put up with any shit from you.  I'll do any
fucking thing I want."

"Oh, you can screw every whore in the Caribbean for all I care."

"So what the hell are you barging in here for?  Why aren't you home
with the kid?"

Stephanie was in shock Her initial impulse was to leap to her feet and
tell the woman she was under the wrong impression--not for Rico's sake,
but for her own.  But she was too stunned, and things were moving too
quickly, for her to react.

Rhonda gave Rico a painful smile, pursing her lips and clearly fighting
mightily to keep from crying.  "I came because you're going to hear how
you've ruined my life."

Jesus, Rhonda, give it a rest.  This ain't the time."

You need to hear what you've done to me, Rico," she insisted "I want
you to know."

Fine say what you gotta say, then get your ass out of my sight

She glared' pausing for a moment as if summoning her courage.  "I was a
person when I met you, Rico, not a perfect one, maybe not even a very
good one, but I had a life, I had a little self-respect," she said
tearfully, her eyes bubbling over.  "Then I married you and I didn't
feel good about myself anymore.  You make me feel like shit, like a
cheap whore, if you want to know the truth."

"That's what you are, Rhonda, I got news for you."

"Yeah, well, not everybody thinks so.  There are people who like me.
Even love me.  Men who love me-and I'm not talking about my body.  You
know what, Rico?  You and your damn father even took that away.  You
drove away the only man I ever really cared for.  And you've scared my
mother and got her telling me not to leave you because it's not worth
losing my baby.  You're blackmailing me just so you'll have somebody at
home to beat up.  A punching bag.  You're a cruel-hearted sonovabitch,
Rico, the most evil man I've ever known."

He laughed.  "You come all the way down here to tell me that?  You're
an even dumber cunt than I thought."

"Well, that's not quite all," she replied.  "I brought my lawyer along
to make an official response to your threats."

"What?"

"You won't give me a divorce without taking Andrea away from me,
right?"

"You got it."

"Well, my lawyer said a divorce may not be necessary.  He said there's
a better way.  Want to know what it is?"  she asked' reaching into her
bag.

"What the fuck are you talking about?  You on drugs again, Rhonda? That
what's going on?  You fry your brain again?"

Rhonda pulled a shiny nickel-plated automatic from her purse and
leveled it on her husband.  "Meet my new lawyer, Rico."

Stephanie gasped.

"Jesus Christ," Rico moaned.  "Put that fucking thing away."

"No, Rico.  I'm calling the shots now.  It's payback time.  You can
either stand there and take it like a man or act like the disgusting
little bully you really are."

"You know how this marriage is going to end, bitch?"  Rico said,
stabbing his finger at her.  "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Sorry, Rico, but I thought of it first."

Without another word, she opened fire.  Three shots rang out in quick
succession, all crashing into Rico's chest.  Stephanie saw the look of
utter incredulity on his face as he dropped to the floor.  Rhonda
calmly stepped forward and administered the coup de grace just as the
door to the suite flew open.  One of Rico's henchmen came rushing in,
his own weapon in hand.  Rhonda fired once, dropping him on the spot.
Then she turned to Stephanie, who sat frozen in her chair, cringing.

Smiling, Rhonda put the automatic back in her purse.  "Have a nice day,
honey," she said, then strolled casually toward the door, stepping over
the groaning man.

Rico was covered with blood and didn't appear to be breathing.  The man
in the garden pounded on the sliding glass door.  Stephanie managed to
pull herself together and get up from the table.  As she went into the
bedroom, she heard the crash of glass, probably a patio chair coming
through the slider.  Her head pounding, she went to her suitcase and
hastily put on a dress and shoes.  More people arrived and she heard
shouts and oaths in the next room.

Spotting her purse on the chest, Stephanie grabbed it and went to the
door.  Two men were bending over Rico, pressing on his chest and
cursing.  Another guy tended the wounded man.  Stephanie slipped past
them and headed for the slider.  She made it out into the garden and
began walking briskly toward the pool.  She expected to hear a shout
from behind her, maybe feel a bullet in her back, but nothing happened.
In moments she was on the beach.  Taking off her shoes, she started
running in the sand.

She didn't know how far she'd gone, perhaps half a mile, before she
came to what looked like a beach-front bar or restaurant.  It didn't
seem to be open, but there was a young woman sweeping the patio.  She
turned, her large gold hoop earrings swinging as Stephanie came running
up.

"I need a taxi," Stephanie said breathlessly.

The woman, who had a bad contusion on her cheek said' "I can ring one
for you.  Come inside."

Stephanie stood at the bar while the girl phoned for a taxi. Afterward,
she looked at Stephanie and said, "Man, you look kinda hot. Want
something' cool to drink?"

"That would be nice."

The girl got her a Coke and put it on the bar.  Stephanie opened her
purse.

"No, it's compliments of the house, ma'am."

Stephanie took a five from her wallet and gave it to her anyway.

It seemed forever before the taxi arrived.  The driver, an elderly man
with a grizzly white beard told her they were doing repairs on the only
road into town and it would take a while to get to the bank.  The
warning was not without merit.  Arriving at the construction area, they
waited a long time before they were permitted to creep through a muddy
stretch of temporary bypass.

Stephanie clutched her purse, replaying the scene in Rico's suite over
and over in her mind.  Her hope was that Rico's men would be so
confused by the shooting that they would have forgotten about her.  Her
best hope was that she could reach the bank and get out of there before
any of them showed up.

She thought, too, about going to the police.  She'd witnessed Rico's
and Oscar's murders, and at some point would have to report to the
authorities what had happened to Jack.  But there was no urgency on
either score, and it was probably in her interest to get back to the
States as quickly as she could.  Yet, she couldn't get the image of
that burning boat from her mind.  Just thinking about it made her heart
ache.

Knowing Jack, he would have wanted her to grab the money and run.  He'd
have understood her need to right the scales and get her due.  And even
if greed had gotten the best of him that last night, she was convinced
that there was as much good in him as bad.

Stephanie ran the code numbers through her mind.  There was no
guarantee that she'd worked out the right one, but she dare not dwell
on the possibility of failure, not after all she'd been through.  Not
after Jack... They eventually reached town, a village compared to
Charlotte Amalie.  Bank after bank lined the waterfront road. 
Stephanie had the driver stop up the street from the building where the
Grand Cayman Bank Ltd.  was located.  She paid him in dollars, doubling
the fare.  When she got out of the taxi it was ten thirty-five.

She walked slowly along the sidewalk, alert for faces she'd seen in St.
Thomas or on the boat.  A smiling woman with a baby buggy and a toddler
passed by.  People were shopping or going about their business. Two
boys worked on the engine of a motorbike.  It was a slow, sleepy day
for the rest of the world.  Not a likely time to be picking up thirty
million dollars.

Stephanie reached the entrance to the bank.  "Grand Cayman Bank Ltd."
was written in gold-relief letters on the face of the building, and it
was etched in the glass of the door.  She went inside, immediately
looking around, fearful of who she might see.  But she didn't recognize
anyone.

The atmosphere was surprisingly tranquil.  It was not a large room, the
style colonial with ceiling fans, potted palms and clerks in
short-sleeve shirts or sleeveless dresses.  Stephanie approached the
heavy wooden counter, staffed by a bright young woman.  She asked for
Harris Ivory.

A very proper-looking man in a three-piece suit came to the counter. He
wore small, wire-rimmed glasses and though he appeared to be still in
his thirties, he was half-bald, his dark dome shining.

"I'm Stephanie Reymond," she said, introducing herself.  "We spoke
several days ago on the phone."

"Ah, yes indeed, Mrs.  Reymond," Ivory said, beaming.  "Delighted
you've come."

"I'd like to make a withdrawal from my husband's numbered account," she
announced without ceremony.

Harris Ivory frowned slightly, pressing his lips together.

"Please come to my office," he said.

Then, stepping over to the gate in the wooden railing, he opened it,
inviting her to pass through.  Stephanie followed him.  His office was
not ostentatious, but very tidy and suffused with banker dignity.  He
went behind his desk and invited her to sit in the guest chair.  His
demeanor was sober as he took a form from his drawer and slid it across
the desk in front of her.  Taking a pen from the holder, he handed it
to her.

"If you would be so kind as to enter the account number where
indicated, please."

Stephanie complied, handing back the form.  Ivory took the sheet and
turned to the computer terminal on the corner of his desk, his
expression glum.

"To access this account, I shall need the six-digit access code," he
said.  "Please be good enough to enter it there, in that device on the
corner of the desk."

Stephanie, her palms wet' her blood racing, carefully entered five,
four, seven, six, five, eight, then pushed the enter key.  She looked
at Ivory, who stared at his computer screen for a long while.  Her
nails dug deep into her palms.

"Mrs.  Reymond," the banker said, "you have successfully accessed the
account, but I regret to inform you there are no funds available for
withdrawal."

She was incredulous.  "What?"

"The account is empty, Mrs.  Reymond."

"But how can that be?"  she said, getting to her feet.  "There's
supposed to be thirty million dollars in that account."  Ignoring
protocol, she went around the desk and stood next to the man, peering
at the screen.

"Please, Mrs.  Reymond," he said uncomfortably.

"No, I want to know what happened to my money.  Didn't Meriwether &
Handley wire you the thirty million?"

He looked up at her over his glasses.  "Please return to your chair and
I'll explain."

Stephanie, sick with dismay, returned to her seat.  Ivory got up and
closed the door to his office, then returned to his chair.

"The deposit was made.  Thirty-one point five million dollars was the
precise amount.  I'm afraid the entire sum has been withdrawn.  The
account balance at the moment is nil.  I'm very sorry.

"Wait.  The money was withdrawn?  When?"

Ivory cleared his throat.  "This morning.  Right after we opened our
doors.  I handled the transaction myself.  That's why when I saw the
account number I had misgivings.  It was possible additional funds had
been wired to the account without my knowledge, so I didn't say
anything, but I'm afraid that's not the case.  I'm terribly sorry," he
repeated.

Stephanie sat stunned.  It made no sense.  Who could have known?  Then,
it hit her.  He was the only other person who knew the access code.  At
least, he was the only one so far as she knew.  "Mr.  Ivory, I have to
know who withdrew the money.  Was it Jack Kidwell?"

"Mrs.  Reymond, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to."

"I don't care what you're at liberty to do.  I have to know!  Jack's my
... partner!"

"All the same--"

"He's American, in his early forties, about six-two or three, blond
hair, quite good-looking.  Does that fit the description?"

Ivory, his frown deepening, slowly but emphatically nodded.

Stephanie fell back in her chair, covering her mouth with her hands.
"Dear God."

Somehow, he'd survived.  Somehow, he'd escaped his burning boat and
made it to shore.  She was filled with a sudden euphoria.  Jack was
alive!

"Oh, thank God," she said, her eyes instantly brimming.  "Was he all
right?  Did he seem okay?"

"Yes... though he seemed to be in some sort of discomfort.  He held
himself rather stiffly, I must say."

"Poor Jack," she said.  "My God, I thought I'd lost him."  Stephanie
took a deep breath.  Looking at a perplexed Harris Ivory, she smiled.
"It's incredible, but I almost feel better than if you'd handed me a
check for thirty million dollars."

The man was at a loss.

"Tell me, Mr.  Ivory," she said.  "Is there a cafe nearby, or a tearoom
or something?"

"Yes, indeed.  There's a coffee bar directly across the road.  They
serve tea' as well, and light snacks."

"It's the nearest?"

"There's another a few hundred yards farther down the road, but this
one's quite pleasant.  Aunt Hazel's it's called.  You'll see it."

Stephanie got up, feeling lighthearted.  She was so relieved to hear
Jack was alive that everything else almost seemed unimportant.  That
said something, considering how angry she'd been.  The thought,
innocent on its face, gave her pause, followed by a stab of doubt. Jack
would surely be at the cafe.  That was what they'd agreed. Suddenly,
she wasn't so sure.

"I've got to go," she said.  "If Jack should happen to come back for
any reason, would you tell him I'll be across the street in the coffee
bar?"

"Certainly."

Ivory came around his desk and they shook hands.

"Oh," he said, "I nearly forgot.  A piece of mail came for you a few
days ago.  Let me find it for you."

They went out into the bank proper and Ivory retrieved a letter-size
envelope from a case and brought it to her.  Stephanie glanced at the
return address.  It was from Francoise and it had been mailed from
Guadeloupe.  Stephanie stuck it in her purse, thanked the bank manager
again and left.

Stepping into the bright tropical sun, she looked across the street and
saw Aunt Hazel's a few doors up.  Fear rose within her.  Jack had her
money, but would he be in the cafe', as they'd agreed?  The joy she'd
felt only minutes earlier turned to doubt.

She crossed the street, knowing she was about to discover the truth
about Jack Kidwell.  Her questions, her doubts, the uncertainty were
about to be resolved.  With each step she took, her skepticism
deepened. Maybe she was trying to prepare herself.  Or maybe, deep
inside, she already knew.

Reaching the open door, she peered inside.  The place was tiny, only
half a dozen tables squeezed in the small space.  Two women sat at one
table, the woman she'd seen earlier with the baby buggy was at the
counter.  In the corner a man was reading a newspaper that masked his
face.  Unable to bear the suspense, she marched over.  He lowered his
paper.  It wasn't Jack.  It was a very British-looking chap with ruddy
cheeks and a large mustache.

"Good day," he said, as amused by the way she stared at him as he was
taken aback.

"Sorry," she said, turning away.  She went to an empty table by the
window and sat down to gather herself.

Well, that answered that.  Her brief attempt at being stoic quickly
fizzled and her eyes filled with tears.  What did she expect?  The man
had been handed thirty-one point five million dollars.  Did she really
think he'd bring it to her in some insane fit of honesty?

Stephanie checked her watch.  It was just after eleven.  Jack had been
a multimillionaire for an hour.  But when she thought about it, she
realized that wasn't such a long time.  Was there any chance he might
still show up?  Could he have gone to buy some clothes or something?
Maybe plane tickets?  No, Jack had left with the money.  That was
obvious.

When the counter girl had finished serving the last customer, Stephanie
went up to talk to her.

"Excuse me, miss," she said, "but I was supposed to meet someone here
this morning and I'm wondering if I might have missed him.  He's an
American, early forties, over six feet, blond, blue eyes.  Has anyone
fitting the description been in, perhaps left a message for
Stephanie?"

The girl shook her head.  "No, ma' am, not that I did see.  The only
white gentlemen that's been here this morning is that one sitting over
there and two gentlemen from Barclay's who get their coffee every
morning."

Stephanie was disappointed, but not surprised.  She ordered a cup of
coffee and a pastry.  When she went to pay, she noticed the envelope in
her purse.  Returning to the table, she read the letter while she had
her coffee.

Francoise recounted how she and Nigel had spent several blissful days
on St.  Kitts where he'd surprised her with a proposal of marriage and
a gorgeous ring.  She wrote:

The wedding will be in Paris in May, cherie, and we expect you and Jack
to be there.

The mention of Jack brought instant pain, but Stephanie read on.

Nigel and I have a bet as to whether you will come together or
separately, but I won't tell you the size of the bet or who bet which
way.  Please don't disappoint me.

"Sorry, Francoise," Stephanie murmured, "but I will have to disappoint
you."  She knew what Francoise had bet and was sad to say that Nigel
knew Jack better than either of them.  The letter went on:

We also have a bet whether you two will leave the Cayman Islands
fabulously wealthy.  This one I will tell you.  I say yes, Nigel says
no.

Strange as it may seem, kids, Stephanie thought, you're both wrong and
both right.  Stephanie continued reading:

On another subject, you may be happy to learn that you are not the
criminal you feared you'd become.  Nigel made inquiries from St. 
Kitts. No charges or arrest warrants were issued for any of us.  To the
contrary, there was a big fuss in St.  Thomas over police involvement
in the affair.  It seems the bad guys took off without settling with
people they owed money to and the authorities are so busy pointing
fingers at each other that your little escapade has been forgotten.
Felicitations!

Sonia, you will be happy to hear, is back in her house and her family
is well.  Bobby Brown has his ten thousand and won't be making waves.
We were very surprised to hear from Malva that she is leaving Isola
Lovejoy for good.  Nigel pleaded with her on the phone for half an
hour, but it was no good.  She wants to return to the States to start
her own business.  Nigel is very sad, but in the end he sent her
twenty-five thousand dollars as a bonus for her years of service.

Finally, if my passport did not wash overboard in a storm, perhaps you
could send it to me in Paris.  Address below.  I hope this letter finds
the two of you in good health.  Indeed, we should be so lucky it finds
you at all!

Stephanie was heartened somewhat by Francoise's letter.  The
Frenchwoman, too, had been taken in by Jack, which relieved some of
Stephanie's embarrassment, if not her pain.  And it was good to know
she wasn't going to be a fugitive from justice.  Sorting out the mess
in California would be challenge enough.

Stephanie checked her watch.  Two hours had passed.  She knew Jack
wouldn't show up, but a part of her had been determined to give him
every chance just so there'd never be any doubt.

Around one-thirty she went to the travel agency a few doors down to
inquire about flights.  She would go to Washington, as Leslie would be
returning any day, if she wasn't home already.  There were no direct
flights, but she was booked on a connecting flight through Atlanta,
leaving that evening.

Stephanie returned to Aunt Hazel's.  The girl told her there'd still
been no sign of Jack.  Stephanie went out and had lunch at a fish place
a block up the street, not far from the monument to George V. She
bought herself a magazine afterward and returned to the coffee bar. The
girl didn't wait for her to ask, she solemnly shook her head.

Stephanie had to kill time before her flight and couldn't think of a
better place.  It was unlikely the police would be searching for her in
connection with Rico's murder.  His men wouldn't want them to know
she'd even been there, much less have her interrogated.  But there was
no point in advertising herself and this was as unobtrusive a spot as
any.

Finally the time came to leave for the airport.  Stephanie debated with
herself for a while before tossing aside what dignity she had left by
writing her address in Mill Valley on a slip of paper and giving it to
the girl.  "if he shows up, give him this.  I'll be there in a week or
so.  I'm headed for Washington now."  Then, feeling as though a part of
her had died, Stephanie went out, found a taxi and rode to the airport
in tears.

In what may be her final indulgence for a while, Stephanie bought
herself a first-class ticket.  Cayman Airways was most accommodating
about helping her sort out formalities with customs, about her lack of
a passport.  She did have her driver's license and was told to expect
some questioning in Atlanta, but she was on her way home.

As she suspected, there was no sign of the police.  Stephanie had a
hunch whoever was left at Inter-America wouldn't have wanted to bring
Rhonda in on the murder, either, because it would only expose them to
scrutiny, and at this point they had nothing to gain and everything to
lose.  In all probability, Rhonda was as free as she--rude justice
maybe, but justice nevertheless.

The first-class compartment of the plane was scantily occupied.
Stephanie was glad.  She hoped to stretch out and sleep a little.  The
adrenaline that had been carrying her had finally run out.

She gazed out the window of the plane, getting her last look at the
Caribbean.  The ground crew was in the process of closing the doors to
the baggage compartment in the belly of the plane.  She could hear them
slamming doors.  The fuel truck had pulled away and the fasten
seat-belt sign was on.  Stephanie closed her eyes and prayed she'd fall
asleep soon.  She wanted to awaken in a different world.

Over the general hubbub, she heard the commotion of a late- arriving
passenger which she tried to ignore like everything else.  She felt
someone drop down next to her and was annoyed.  Why sit next to her
when there were plenty of seats available?  Opening her eyes to see who
it was, her heart all but stopped.

"Hi, sweetheart," Jack said.  "Headed for Washington?"

She couldn't speak.

"You're not too happy with me, are you?"  he said.  "Hell, I don't
blame you.  I'd be pissed if somebody grabbed my thirty-one point five
mil, too."

He put his hand on hers and grinned as though that was going to rectify
things.

"Jack, I can't believe this."

"I can't, either."

She stared at him.  He was cleaned up and wearing a new white,
short-sleeve shirt and dark slacks and shoes.  And he smelled good. She
was beyond caring about that sort of thing, though.  She shook her
head.  That was all she could do.

"Maybe I ought to explain," he said.  "I'll give it to you straight and
you can draw your own conclusions."

She waited.

"I was rescued by some fishermen who saw the smoke and came to
investigate.  The Lucky Lady had burned to the waterline by the time
they arrived and I was down to my last gasp.  A couple of broken ribs
and no lung capacity, it's a miracle I lasted in that water as long as
I did.

"Anyway, they brought me to George Town and gave me a meal and a place
to sleep.  This morning I talked my way into some new clothes in a shop
in town.  I was at the bank when the doors opened, sure I'd be seeing
either Barbadillo or you or both."

"And what would you have done if you had?"  she asked.

"Negotiated, I guess."

"But nobody was there, so you went in, nervously gave them the code and
thought you'd died and gone to heaven when the money started pouring
out."

"Basically."

"That's all obvious, Jack.  What I'm dying to hear is what happened
next."

He stroked his chin.  "This is the bad part."

"I bet it is."

"Well, I had the money, all right, but if I wanted to live to enjoy it'
I figured I'd better take a powder.!  got my butt out to the airport.
The first flight I could get on was headed for Houston, but I figured
anywhere but here.  So I boarded the flight and, as they were sealing
the hatch, I changed my mind and got off the plane."

"Why?"

"I asked myself the same thing.  For shorthand purposes, let's just say
my conscience got the best of me."

"Really.  It's good to hear you've got one," she intoned.  He sighed.
"Better late than never, Steph."

"So, why are you here?  To apologize for stealing my money?"

"No, guilt isn't the only thing that got me off that plane.  I started
thinking about the way I felt about you, and I realized the money
wouldn't mean much without you by my side.  Oh, I'd figured all along I
could track you down sooner or later, but as I sat on that plane I
asked myself why I was leaving you at all.  What I really wanted was to
be taking you to Mexico.  Or Paris or London or Tahiti, if you'd
prefer."

"You want to treat me to a trip."

"On my money.  That's quite a payback, Jack.  Real generous.

He caressed her fingers.  "Let me get to the bottom line.  I think we
belong together, sweetheart.  Longterm Permanent as you like."

Stephanie longed with all her heart to believe him, but she knew there
was a catch.  "What about my money?"

"The transfer receipt is right here in my pocket," he said, tapping his
breast.

Her eyebrows rose.

Jack reached into his pocket and drew out the receipt, which he handed
to her.  She read it.

"Jack, this is in favor of a Florida bank account in your name.  All
thirty-one and a half million."

"Yeah, I know.  Basically, it's my money now.

"Yours?"

"Right."

She shook her head, not understanding.  "Surely you don't think you're
going to end up with my money and me!"

"Well, yeah.  I guess that's what it boils down to."

"Jack, you're nuts."

"Thirty mil is a lot of bread," he said.  "Say I give it back to you
and we get married.  I'd be beholden to you the rest of my life.  You'd
always wonder if I was staying with you because of the dough.  But if I
keep it, then the only uncertainty will be whether you're with me
because of my charm, my wit and my ability to turn you on, or because
I'm a rich sonovabitch.  That's a scenario I can live with!"

She was aghast.  "You've got nerve, Jack Kidwell.  I'm amazed you can
sit here and say that with a straight face."

"Come on, Steph, be honest.  If the money's in your name, you'll never
be sure what's keeping me around.  On the other hand, if I stick with
you even though you're poor as a church mouse, then you'll know it has
to be true love."

"jack, that is the most self-serving argument I've ever heard.  Do you
actually think I'd marry you after you stole my inheritance?"

He took her hand and drew it to his lips.  "Well, not today, maybe.  Or
tomorrow, either.  But after a month in Tahiti..  well, I think you
might.  In fact, it wouldn't surprise me at all."