Protect Me, Love
by
Alice Orr

MY BODYGUARD

Years ago, a mysterious woman changed her identity and started a
company providing just one thing bodyguards!


SILHOUETTE

BOOKS

Delia's first Urge was to make a run for it... through the restaurant
and out the door before Nick Avery arrived.  There were lots of exits
from Rockefeller Plaza--whoever was following her couldn't be at all of
them, unless he wasn't alone.  Still, she'd be playing Russian roulette
with escape routes.

She tried to think what would be the best, the safest alternative, but
her mind refused to co-operate All she could think about was how Nick's
voice on the phone had thrilled her.

She reminded herself that she was in trouble ... she needed help ...
she needed protection... But did she need Nick Avery?

Dear Reader,

Sometime, somewhere, any woman might need protection.  And who could be
more sexy--or dangerous--than her bodyguard?  You're about to meet
another bodyguard employed by Protection Enterprises, Incorporated.

This month Alice Orr brings you Protect Me, Love, the third and final
book in the MY BODYGUARD series.  It is set in New York City where
Alice lives and towards which she feels both affection and trepidation.
Both are apparent in this story of passion and danger.

In addition to her writing life, Alice is a literary agent, wife and
mother.  She also lectures nationally on writing and publishing.  You
can write to her at Alice Orr Agency, Inc."  305 Madison Avenue, Suite
1166, New York, NY 10165, U.S.A. You may also E-mail Alice at
<orragency@ aol.com).

We know you'll enjoy Protect Me, Love, and hope you have enjoyed all
the titles in the MY BODYGUARD series.

The Editors

SILHOUETTE Intrigue

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the 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 the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises H B.V. The text of this publication or any part
thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or
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condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks of Harlequin Books
S.A."  used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 1997

Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey

TW9

1SR

Alice Orr 1996

ISBN 0 373 22398 6

46-9712

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Machays of Chatham PLC, Chatham

CRsTmI5 --To my husband, Jonathan, always my romantic hero.  To Ed
Vesneske, my beloved son.

To my precious confidant, Kathleen Zea, also my dear daughter.

To my editor, Julianne Moore, a true jewel.

To my agent, Rob Cohen, a savvy voice in a wacky world.

Prologue

Becky Lester of Denver, Colorado, woke up with Nick Avery on her mind.
For the first time in four years, she felt almost completely happy.
Because of that, she didn't let herself return to consciousness fight
off.  She kept the feeling of Nick in her heart, as if she were still
dreaming of him, the way he'd looked that day in the study of the main
house of the Lester estate.  She'd seen him many times before, of
course, when he'd first started working as a bodyguard for her father.
She simply hadn't noticed Nick as a man--as a highly desirable
man--until that particular moment, maybe he-cause she needed to notice
him, because now she needed a fantasy.

She'd been rushing past the study, late as usual to some hot evening
that wouldn't turn out to be so hot after all.  Nick was talking to
Mortimer Lancer, the Lester family lawyer and chief trustee of the
estate.  Becky had passed the open doorway before she registered what
she'd seen.  She backtracked then, and Nick must have heard her because
he turned around.  That was the moment the dream of him began.  He was
built exactly the way she liked a man to be--tall and rangy with
long-muscled thighs, tight in the hips, wide and hard at the shoulders.
He also obviously didn't mind letting that show.  Otherwise, he
wouldn't have had on close-fitting jeans and a blue chambray shirt that
stretched taut across his ample chest.  And that was only his body. His
face was just right for fantasy, too--dark brows over eyes arrogant
enough to be a challenge; a mouth that all but said out loud, "I want
to kiss you right this minute," and thick, somewhat overlong, dark haft
that was meant to be tousled on a woman's pillow.

Becky took all of this in, that particular day, along with the way her
knees were threatening to forget their function of holding her upright.
In response she locked those knees tight.  She did her best most of the
time to make people think she was all fluff between the ears, but she
drew the line at actually feeling that way herself.  Yet, at that
moment, she'd have sworn she had cotton candy for brains.  All of a
sudden, Nick Avery had made her feel like that, and she wasn't sure
whether this was good or bad.

Meanwhile, he'd been giving her the once-over, too.  She was decked out
in one of her deliberately bimbo id outfits--too tight, too short and
too black for a sensible woman to wear.  He slid his gaze over her. She
all but shivered, and not because she had too few clothes on in the
still chilly Colorado springtime.  Of course, he probably thought she
was on the skinny side.  Most men told her so, but she couldn't help
that.  It had been well over three years since she was able to get a
full meal down and keep it there.  She hoped Nick might think she was
pretty anyway.  Or, maybe it was enough for her to look at how gorgeous
he was and daydream about it, obsess over it, hang on to it.

Over the several weeks since, she'd played that fantasy out like a
Colorado River fishing line.  It gave her something to think about
besides the way, three-plus years ago, her beloved father had died, her
stepmother along with him.  There was nobody left now, except maybe
Morty Lancer, the housekeeper Penelope Wren and her caretaker husband
Tobias, to care whether Becky had a dream in her head or not.  She had
a brother, Samuel, but he was tucked away in a mental institution.  She
wasn't allowed to see him much because of how upset he got when she was
around, and she could barely remember the time before he was put away.
He resented her so intensely that she couldn't in-elude him in the very
short list of people who gave a damn about her anyway.  The last time
she saw him, he'd scowled like he wanted to kill her, then chucked a
vase at her head.  Luckily, he'd missed, but she hadn't missed the
hatred in his eyes.  She'd decided right then that she didn't have a
brother, not really, and she wrote him out of any corner he might have
claimed in her heart.

All of which made Becky feel even more alone and ripe for an imaginary
infatuation with the heartthrob bodyguard.  She'd flirted with Nick in
the weeks since that day in the study, but even her most vampy smiles
and teasing comments got her nowhere.  He was too much of a standup guy
to get involved with the boss's daughter, even when the boss wasn't
around any longer.  Still, just thinking about him made her stretch
long and lazy like a cat as she gradually awoke to another Colorado
morning.  She was coming out of that stretch when her arm hit something
hard beneath the sheet on the other side of the bed.  For a delicious
instant she wondered if her fantasy had come to life and Nick was
beside her.  She rolled toward that impossible dream with her lips
parted to receive a kiss as her eyes drifted open.

What Becky saw froze her to stone.  She sat up fast, too shocked to
scream.  A man's arm protruded from under the sheet and dangled off the
opposite side of the bed.  She could tell just from looking at the
angle of the arm that he was dead.  She could also tell by the
flabbiness of the skin that he wasn't Nick Avery.  She reached over and
grabbed the sheet, flipping the fabric aside to reveal what lay
underneath.  It was a man's body all right, and he was nude.  His skin
was so white it would have been pallid even while he was alive, with
rolls of extra flesh under his arms and around his waist where Nick was
lean and hard.  This man's back was to her.  Still, with the first
lucid thought she was able to piece together in her paralyzed mind, she
realized.  that she knew him.

She would have rolled him over so she could see his face, but she
couldn't stand to touch what she sensed would be a cold corpse.  She
could get up and walk around to his side of the bed, but she was too
frightened to move that far just yet.  Instead, she eased herself up
onto her knees, clutching her side of the sheet to her chest, suddenly
modest in the presence of this poor, lifeless man.  She leaned over far
enough away not to touch any part of him but sufficiently close to see
his face.  She clamped her hand over her mouth.  The sheet slipped from
her body as a muffled scream made a strangled sound behind her fingers.
As she'd thought, the dead man next to her was Morty Lancer.  His eyes
were open and staring at the opposite wall.  His mouth was open, too,
as if in surprise, and there was a bloody gash in his chest.

Becky doubled over with her head between her knees and gulped mouthfuls
of air to fight the spasms in her stomach.  Those spasms wrenched
through her for a long, tortuous moment, until her stunned psyche began
to comprehend the significance of Morty being dead and naked in her
bed.  Gradually, she straightened into a kneeling posture.  Her hand
moved from her mouth and drifted out in front of her as if on
marionette strings.  That was when her brain finally unscrambled what
might have been the scariest message of all.  Her hand and forearm were
spotted with blood.  She allowed herself the fleeting, desperate
conclusion that she had touched the bloody body just now and that would
explain the stains on herself, but of course that didn't make sense.
She hadn't allowed herself to touch him.

Becky rolled slowly off her knees to a sitting position on the bed. She
stared at her hand till her stomach started to retch again and she had
to look away.  That was when she saw the knife.  It was lying on the
pale peach rug at her side of the bed, the thick rug she liked so well
on winter mornings when this huge stone house could be' chilly as a
tomb.  The pale rug fibers bore the same stains that marked her hand
and arm.

Becky leaned over to see the knife more clearly.  The blade was long,
and the wooden handle showed a distinct palm print in crimson.  She
stared at that palm print for a moment, then down at her own hand while
thoughts formed themselves in her head, like titles on a movie screen.
The words were stark black on a white background as her mind snapped
with a jarring jolt from its shocked state into sudden alertness.  She
realized then, with undeniable certainty, that the print on that knife
was hers.

"My God," she blurted out loud.  "I killed him."  The sound of her
voice lurched her to an even sharper level of alertness, and she knew
at once that what she'd said wasn't true.  She'd gone to sleep alone
last night,

and she hadn't awakened till a moment ago when her idyllic dream of
infatuation ended and this horrible nightmare began.  Her next thought
was even clearer.  If she hadn't killed Morty, then she was being set
up to make it look as if she did.  The pieces fell together into what
might have been a paranoid conspiracy theory if she hadn't suddenly
been so sure it was true.  She'd had an argument with Morty just the
other day about letting her borrow on her trust fund because she'd
overspent her allowance.  They'd had that same argument at least a
hundred times before.  This time, however, they happened to be outside
the pool house with several people listening in.  Becky had even said
Morty made her so exasperated that sometimes she wanted to kill him.
That, along with the generally reckless way she lived her life these
days, added up to pegging Becky as number one suspect.  She sighed what
was nearly a sob and nodded her head.  Somebody was setting her up, all
right.  She even knew what their motive would be.  Her full inheritance
was coming to her in a few months when she turned twenty-five.  With
Morty no longer around to protect her legal interests and with her out
of the way in prison or on death row, a lot of people were destined to
make out like bandits.  Especially one person, who was crazy enough to
think up a deal like this one and maybe smart enough to carry it out,
too.  But there was no time to think about her brother Samuel now.  She
had to get herself out of this mess.  Becky swung her feet over the
side of the bed and stood up slowly.  She was dizzy, and her legs
quivered under her.  She was also standing very near the knife blade.
She suppressed the urge to leap away in disgust.  She had to steady
herself all over.  If she didn't think straight now, she could spend
the rest of her life, he ever short a duration that might be, paying
for it.  S had to depend on herself now, not even her fantasy Ni could
help her.  He was an ex-cop, after all.  He'd lo at this room and her
and come to one conclusion, tl she was guilty as sin.  He'd think she'd
lured Merry her bed then murdered him.  Becky was definitely on own
with no more time for daydreams; She needed a plan, a plan for her
escape.  From tl morning on, Rebecca Radley Lester and the life she
known would have to be history.  As she walked shakily across the
carpet to her bathroom to wash the blood, from her hands, Becky could
already feel the emp ness of loss widening inside her--the loss of her
hen her friends, her identity, and of Nick Avery, too.

Chapter One

Five years later

Delia Made Barry enjoyed Christmas in Manhattan.  Everybody was always
in a hurry here, but at this time of year there was a happy, expectant
quality to their haste.  When she let herself be swept along by the
crowd on Fifth Avenue, the lightness of her feet lifted the weight from
the part of her that had been heavy-hearted for the past five years.
She could almost believe she was a normal person again, with a family
to buy gifts for and a full life awaiting her at home.  The images that
haunted her dreams were replaced for the moment by the red, green, and
gold of the season.  She opened up her usually carefully guarded self
and let in the bright storefronts and the glitter of moving display
windows populated by bustling elves and sky-treading reindeer.  She let
herself believe she was a child again and Santa would he coming very
soon.  In Delia's five years as a New Yorker, she hadn't seen many
white Christmases, though the cold was certainly sharp here in winter.
This was one of those frigid days.  She was glad she'd worn her long,
heavy COat, the one that made her look like a version of King
Wenceslas.

She held the hem closed to shield "her ankles against the wind, knifing
down Fifth Avenue as a reminder that December was in full tilt and
Christmas only days away.  Still, this wasn't the winter she'd once
known, roaring off the Rocky Mountains onto the Colorado plateau,
burying the world in deep white as pure as the holiday promise of a new
beginning each year.  Delia ducked her head and told herself the sudden
stinging in her eyes was from the wind.  That was the trouble with the
holidays.  They made her remember, and memory was not her friend.  She
was an Easterner now, with her previous history submerged beneath an
avalanche of necessity.  She kept that mountain of subterfuge intact
every day.  Her safety, her very life, depended on maintaining her new
persona.  She even felt like she actually was that creation now, a
native of this revved-up, fast paced, snapped-to-attention city she'd
adopted as protective camouflage.  Even so, something of the tourist
remained beneath her carefully constructed urbanite facade, along with
the yearning to be as ordinary as all of these bustling people with
their over-full shopping bags and long lists of places to go and things
to do.  It was those not quite submerged remnants of her former serf
that pushed Delia through the revolving door into Saks Fifth Avenue on
the tide of the lunch hour rush.  The first floor of Saks at holiday
time was a sight to behold, with the most beautiful treasures of all
civilization--silks and scents, jewels and twinkling crystal, luxuriant
lotions and perfumes from Pads--in glorious array as if he-fore a
queen.  Suddenly, if only for a single reckless instant, she was Becky
Lester again with a bank account that could circle the globe and her
own long list of people to find gifts for.

At the first jewelry counter, she pushed herself out of the streaming
aisle of shoppers, drawn by the sparkle of precious gems like a chilled
wanderer to fire.  She'd accumulated high-ticket baubles like these
herself in that other life, filled a safe full of velvet-lined trays
with them.  Then, they'd been a form of security, the diamond-hard
proof that she had some value in the world.  They'd turned out to be
another kind of security, even salvation, when that world came crashing
down on her one terrifying morning five years ago.  She'd fled with
what she could carry, a change of clothes and the contents of those
velvet-lined trays dumped into a gym bag.  On that fateful morning,
Delia also took with her the possibility of staying free and alive. She
would be safe as long as she was careful to keep the connection severed
between a headstrong, flamboyant young fugitive from a murder charge
and the no-nonsense woman she'd since become.  Still, there was a hint
of her former self left as she bent over the jewelry case, dazzled for
an instant by its sparkle.  She was, of course, not recognizable as
Becky.  She'd been anorexic thin five years ago.  She was heavier and
healthier now, with flesh and curves she'd never hoped to have back
then.  She was also dark-haired rather than blond, with her hair grown
past her shoulders instead of spiky short.  Even more drastic was the
transformation in her style and hearing.  She'd been prone to zingy
little outfits in those days, lots of midriff showing in summer and
tight leather in winter.  By contrast, Delia Marie Barry had a
closetful of tailored suits, all chic and flattering but definitely
strictly business.  Even the way she carried herself had undergone a
drastic change.  Self-possessed and purposeful, that's what her city
sidewalk stride said about her today.  She hadn't darted restlessly
from one place to the next since the day circumstance set her on a path
so crammed with things to watch out for and take care of that there was
hardly a second left for restlessness.  The only place she let the more
zany side of herself loose these days was in her mind, and may he once
in a while at the Hester Street Settlement House where she volunteered
as often as possible.  She allowed herself only one slim connection
with her past.  It was there on her right hand now, pressed again at
the glass of the Saks Fifth Avenue display case, She'd taken off her
gloves and stuffed them into her coat pocket as she passed through the
revolving door.  On the smallest finger of that hand she wore the tiny
ring given to her by her mother just before she died.  Delia was
fourteen then, ten years away from calling herself by that name.  She'd
never worn the ring for fear of losing it.  She'd tucked it into the
bottom of the first of those velvet trays that would one day fill a
wall safe nearly to the top.  She'd kept it hidden, hers alone to look
at and cherish.  The narrow golden band of interwoven aspen leaves was
the only piece of jewelry she didn't sell five years ago.  She'd
slipped it on her finger instead, the one memento she allowed herself
to keep herself tethered, however tenuously, to some history of
herself.  Otherwise she feared she might break loose from earth
entirely and be set adrift in a universe where nobody, not even
herself, could ever know who she really was.  That tiny anchor sparkled
now, in the discreetly modulated light of Christmas at Saks, for
everyone to see.

Delia turned out to be a natural for the bodyguard business.  She'd
spent the last years of her Denver life shadowed constantly.  She was a
wealthy young heiress then, a prime target for kidnappers and con
artists.

She'd also been so rebellious that she wouldn't allow herself to be
accompanied directly.  The men assigned to her protection had to follow
her around.  In that period, from the deaths of her father and
stepmother in a fiery helicopter crash in the Rockies to the morning of
her escape from an inevitable homicide charge, she'd learned every
possible way to evade her bodyguard.  She'd also learned a lot about
the protection business just by watching them watching her.

Delia knew the world of the wealthy and powerful from the inside out,
how they live, how they think, what they require.  Five years ago, when
she'd needed a business to go into, personal security was tailor-made
for her.  She'd sold her jewelry for enough to get started, and keep
going until Protective Enterprises Incorporated became profitable, with
something left over to invest.  The trick was to accomplish all of that
while maintaining the low profile necessary to avoid detection by
whoever might still be after her--the police, the Lester family, the
person or persons who'd set her up for a very long fall in the first
place.  Her cover had to be deep and flawless.

Delia Made Barry--office manager, assignment coordinator, functionary
extraordinaire--was the answer.  As far as anybody knew, Delia ran the
company for a fictitious gentleman named Joseph Singleton.  Meanwhile,
PEI's Total Confidentiality System her an excuse for being secretive.
Nobody other Delia and the bodyguard himself knew what services an
individual customer had contracted for or why.  Thus, Delia kept one
hand from knowing what the other was doing while her cover story
remained comfortably intact.  Her obsession with secrecy turned out to
be very good for business, as well.  The wealthy and powerful live in
fear of robbers, kidnappers, extortion and swindlers, of enemies in
general, and visibility makes them targets.  PEI offered the closest
thing to anonymity they could find.  In less than three years, PEI was
far enough into the black to afford the fancy Rockefeller Center
address, which attracted steady customers.

Delia strolled the block from Saks to 30 Rockefeller Center, almost
secure in the belief that the Total Confidentiality System protected
both her clients and herself.  Almost secure, but not quite.

Chapter Two

Delia thought of herself as having a three hundred sixty degree
awareness.  She'd trained herself to be especially vigilant on foot, so
much so that she sometimes missed out on what she might be looking at
because of what she had to be intent upon looking for.  Some might have
said she could relax now.  Five years had passed without incident.
She'd even weathered that touchy situation last fall when one of Morty
Lancer's twin daughters came to PEI to have her sister guarded for a
while.  Delia'd given an Academy Award performance, ad no one ever made
the connection between her and Morty.  Still, she tried to be on her
toes every minute whether she liked living that way or not.  The truth
was, sometimes she got so sick of her life she wanted to scream.  She
didn't do that, of course.  Screaming attracted too much attention, and
the best security device was to keep yourself from being noticed.  So
she did her screaming on the inside.

The worst part was not being able to get close to anybody because that
would require too much trust on her part.  Trust had been her watchword
for so long she sometimes wondered if she'd be able to trust anybody
now at all.  All of which made for a lonely life she might not have
been able to stand if it weren't for her work.  She filled her life
with her business.  She kept herself at it long and hard.  She'd done
that this afternoon, which was why she happened to be leaving the
office later than usual.

She usually tried to get out of here while the streets were still
crowded from building front to curb with hundreds and thousands of
nine-to-rivers hustling to get where they wanted to go at the end of
the workday.  She'd slide right into that press of souls who paid
little or no attention to her though she kept a close eye on them.  She
also quit work at a different time each day.  A predictable routine can
be the downfall of anyone trying to avoid discovery.  Even making
allowance for varying her routine, tonight she was leaving" the office
later than she would have preferred.

The twenty-eighth floor was deserted with no light shining from any of
the doorways.  The shadowed cavern of the long, narrow corridor
suddenly reminded her of a tomb.  The minute she heard herself having
that thought, she knew she was spooked.  She got that way at times.  It
came with the territory of being constantly watchful.  She always
turned out to have spooked herself over nothing.  She reminded herself
of that now as she hurried toward the elevators.  Still, the skin on
the back of her neck felt as if it might be trying to shrink off her
spine.

She poked the elevator button several times in rapid succession though
she knew that wouldn't make it arrive any faster.  She wanted to get
out of this building, which was putting her more in mind of a mausoleum
by the minute.  The clunk of the elevator landing at her floor and the
doors opening were music to her ears.  She was also relieved to find
the car occupied until it occurred to her that she'd never seen this
guy around here before.  She was inside by then with her finger
pressing the door-close button.  She might be able to switch to the
door-open button and make a dash for it back onto twenty-eight, but
what then?  If this was a bad guy, he could easily follow her out into
the deserted hallway, and she'd be on her own with him again.  The
lobby button was already lit, and the door was closing.  She told
herself he was probably okay and did her best to relax.

She could feel the eyes of the cat's other occupant watching her.
Reaching into her coat pocket, she gripped the thin, black canister of
pepper spray she kept there.  She wished it were Mace instead, but that
was illegal in New York State.  There were places to get it, but she
was as leery of getting into trouble with the police and having the
past catch up with her that way as she was of the bad guys who might be
after her.  She restrained herself from punching the lobby button again
and gripped the metal canister so hard she was in danger of peppering
her pocket lining.

The elevator reached the lobby level at last, without stopping for a
single additional passenger.  Delia really was getting out of here late
tonight.  In the lobby, the guard usually on duty was nowhere to be
seen.  Delia took a right toward the Rockefeller Plaza end of the
building.  She fully expected her elevator companion to be hot on her
heels, but when she glanced behind her she saw him headed in the
opposite direction toward the Sixth Avenue exit.  He was also glancing
back at her with a very wary expression on his face.  She understood
then what must have happened.  He'd been watching her jumpy performance
in the elevator so closely because he thought he might be trapped in
there with a nut case who could leap on him at any moment.  Delia
almost laughed out loud at how close she'd come to staining his
well-tailored topcoat with a liberal dose of pepper spray.

Still, she kept herself alert.  She took a few deep breaths to make
sure she was calm, as well, as she passed through the revolving doors
out of 30 Rock Center and into the street.  The spectacle of the Plaza
Christmas tree took her by surprise as always, towering into the sky
just across from the entrance to her office building.  What looked like
a million colored lights sparkled from the branches of the majestic
pine that was one of the city's most popular yuletide attractions.
Delia permitted herself a moment of holiday heart-swell before
returning full attention to her immediate surroundings.

That's when she saw him.  She was checking window reflections, as was
her habit, pretending to examine the merchandise while she scanned the
crowd behind her for exactly what she'd just spotted--a person whose
general demeanor didn't quite fit the profile of a random face in the
crowd.  He was a tall man and big enough to give her considerable
trouble in a confrontation.  He was also just a bit too watchful,
especially in her direction.  Delia's years in hiding, along with her
experience in the protection business, had given her an extra keen
sense for detecting such behavior.  That detection apparatus was out of
tune back in the elevator.  She'd been spooked then, and that could
knock everything out of kilter.  She wasn't spooked now.  She was
almost a hundred percent certain that this man was on her tail.  Still,
she didn't run away or even pick up speed.  She steadied her pace into
her usual gait.  The man might have followed her on other occasions. If
that was the case

and if he was good at the shadowing game, he'd be likely to notice any
unusual behavior on her part, such as taking off at a gallop down the
street.

The holiday crowd was too dense here to make much progress anyway, even
at a run.  Tourists lined the opposite sidewalk several deep and
spilled over the curb into the street to gape up at the tree.  Delia
had turned right out of 30 Rock Center toward Forty-ninth Street.  She
continued in that direction to the corner then turned onto Forty-ninth
and crossed the road pavement in the direction of Fifth Avenue.  She
glanced back over her shoulder as she crossed.  The tall man was still
following.  She returned her attention to looking for an opportunity,
whatever it might be, to get away from him.  A crowd lined this side of
the Plaza, as well, leaning toward the brass rail to watch the ice
skaters spin around Rockefeller Center Rink beneath the imposing tree.
Bright strains of holiday music piped from speakers camouflaged by
decorative evergreens.  Excitement charged the air.  Delia kept herself
steely calm by contrast as she searched for an escape route.

She eased her black wool beret out of her left coat pocket while her
other hand once again gripped the pepper canister on the right.  She
generally kept her hair a dark brownish, innocuous shade, only faintly
auburn, but the hairdresser had missed that mark this time.  The result
was more conspicuously coppery than she'd intended and far easier to
pick out in a crowd than Delia's usual mousey dark brown would have
been.  She needed a chance to be out of her pursuer's range of vision
long enough to make her first move at disappearing while she was still
right in front of him.  She spotted that chance halfway down the
block.

A glass kiosk framed in polished brass marked the street level access
to the lower concourse of Rockefeller Plaza.  Too many people were
already trying to squeeze into the small, domed enclosure.  Delia
wedged in among them, shoving herself into the center of the pack.
Despite her "Excuse me's," there were grumblings and remarks about rude
New Yorkers from every side.  She concentrated on wriggling out of her
coat with one hand while jamming her beret on her head and stuffing her
hair under it with the other.  The glass-and-brass elevator car purred
to a stop three people in front of her.  The elevator door, which
constituted the inside wall of the kiosk, eased open and the press of
bodies tumbled through, carrying Delia with it.

Her maneuverings with her coat and hat had further irritated her fellow
passengers.  She took a couple of elbows to the fibs in response, but
she didn't care.  She was inside the elevator and headed downward,
leaving the street and her human shadow behind.  She'd caught sight of
him hurrying past as she jammed herself into the kiosk elevator.  He
was peering ahead into the street crowd at the time.  That single
glimpse of his exasperated expression convinced Delia she'd been fight.
He was searching the street for her.

The elevator door opened at the lower level, and Delia spilled out
along with the crowd.  She ignored their parting accusatory glances,
too relieved to be bothered by a bit of public embarrassment.  The
sparkling white marble concourse seemed too pristine a place for
anything very horrible to happen.  That lightened her state of mind
only a little and not enough to keep her from coming to the obvious and
unavoidable conclusion.  She needed help, and it had to be somebody
good.  It also had to be somebody she didn't usually employ at PEI.

She needed to keep this personal situation as separate from her work
life as possible.  The elevator had deposited her only a few feet from
the entrance to the Sea Grill Restaurant.  She walked to the doorway
and glanced in the direction of the bar.  She'd be able to sit down
there and think for a moment, though she already had an answer to her
dilemma in mind.

She'd kept track of Nick Avery through the bodyguard network ever since
she started PEI, but she'd never hired him.  That would have been too
risky, both to her hidden identity and to her determination to avoid
personal involvements.  She'd never completely abandoned the fantasy of
him that kept her company in her loneliest moments.  She'd specifically
kept track of when he was here in New York, where he generally spent
any time he might have between jobs.  She even knew where he stayed
when he was in town, at an out-of-the-way hotel in Soho.  She'd
imagined going there many times, just to catch a glimpse of him, but
she never had.  He was in Manhattan now.  She rummaged in her coat
pocket, under the canister of pepper spray, for the quarters she kept
them.  She picked up a coin then dropped it again.  She couldn't call
Nick.  It was too risky.  Still, as she declined the steward's offer to
take her coat and headed past the gleaming tables and away from the
glass wall onto the white marble concourse, Delia's heart was beating
very hard with what felt like anticipation.

Chapter Three

Nick Avery had been living in hotels so long they'd begun to feel like
home to him, or as much" like home as he cared to deal with.  He'd have
an assignment here, an assignment there all over the country.  He'told
himself it wasn't practical to set up a base residence he'd hardly ever
be in.  Actually, he liked living this way, most of the time.  He
thought of himself as in tune with one of the major lessons he'd
learned about living in general: nothing lasts very long and you're
smart to have a bag half packed and ready for takeoff the minute things
fall through.  He'd had that bag in his closet for the past five
years.

He was saving up a nest egg, too, though he hadn't yet decided exactly
what for.  The great escape maybe.  Someday he'd cut loose from even
the spindly roots he had now and kick back someplace where it was warm
forever and he didn't speak the language.  That way he wouldn't be
tempted to tell any of the too many secrets he knew about too many
people.  Or, maybe what he'd been building up was a cushion thick
enough to keep from mangling any limbs when everything finally fell
through for good and he came plummeting down.  He figured it was mostly
the cushion he had in mind.  Be sides, he was one hundred percent Scot.
He carried caution in his bones.

When Nick was in Manhattan, he stayed at the Tivoli Hotel on Mercer
Street in Soho.  He preferred to go back to the same place in each city
he frequented.  This small illusion of belonging somewhere saved him
from having to think of himself as totally on the drift.  He usually
chose a hotel like this one, with character and plenty of street life
around the neighborhood.  Maybe the Tivoli was his version of a
hometown.  This would be the second Christmas in a row he'd spent here.
Last year there'd been a card slipped under his door on Christmas Eve
with a peace dove on the front and "Happy Holidays from the Management"
printed in red foil letters on the inside.  All of the staff had
signed, even the day maids.  A couple of them wrote brief, semi
personal messages along with their names.  Mindy, the night clerk,
wrote something more personal than semi, but he'd ignored it.  He
didn't intend to mess up the comfortable thing he had going here by
getting involved with somebody on staff.  He might still have that card
tucked into one of the handy, pack rat pockets of his bag in the
closet.  Something kept him from throwing it out.  In general, however,
his attitude was that holidays didn't have much to do with him.  They
were about family, and he didn't really have one.

Thinking about that now turned Nick restless.  He hopped up off the
bed, which was the only really comfortable seat in the room, and paced
to the window.  He was on the front side of the hotel with brick
buildings across the narrow street and people bustling back and forth
on the sidewalk below.  Many of them were loaded down with packages,
probably from the fancy shops over on West Broadway.  He could see the
tinseled paper twinkle in the streetlights even from up here.  He paced
back to the bed but didn't sit down.  Holidays!  There was no getting
away from them.

The television set murmured and flickered from the corner of the room.
He hadn't been watching, only using it for background noise.  The
picture switched from some silly sitcom to a commercial of a guy in a
Santa Claus hat in front of a bank of CD players, then cellular phones,
then TV sets.  Nick grabbed the remote from the bedside table and gave
the Off button a savage punch.  He needed a new assignment.  He needed
to get out of this room.  He'd go to a movie.  He was only a few blocks
from the Angelika.  That was one place he could count on them not to be
playing It's A Wonderful Life, Nick grabbed his brown suede jacket from
the chair near the window and was almost to the door when the phone
rang.  He hesitated.  He really didn't want to talk to anybody.  Then
he remembered that nobody ever called him here except about a job. He'd
just been thinking he needed a job.  He picked up the phone. "Avery,
here."

Nobody answered, but he could hear breathing.

"This is Nick Avery.  Can I help you?"

"I hope so."

The voice on the other end of the line was calm but pitched unnaturally
low, almost to a whisper, as if she didn't want anybody around her to
hear.  Nick recognized the sound of someone who might be in trouble.
"Who is this?"

It occurred to Nick that calls from possible customers went to his
service first.  Then they called him to make sure he wanted to respond.
Where did this woman get his direct number?  How did she know he was in
town anyway?

"This is Delia Marie Barry.  I'm with Protective Enterprises, Inc.,"
she said.  That answered Nick's immediate questions.  He'd instructed
his service to give his direct number to any of the bodyguard services
that might want to hire him.  The surprise was that this was the first
time PEI had called.  He was one of the top names in the bodyguard
game, even if he did say so himself.  Still, PEI seemed to avoid him
like the plague.  He'd wondered who at Delia Barry's office had tossed
in the blackball on Nick Avery.  Now they were calling at last,
probably because it was the holidays and everybody wanted vacation time
so the great PEI was in a bind for talent.  Nick was considering
whether or not to blow them off as he said, "What can I do for you?"

Delia went into the Sea Grill's ladies" room as soon as she got off the
pay phone outside of it.  She needed to calm herself.  She hadn't known
his voice would have such an effect on her.  "Avery, here."  It was an
abrupt sort of greeting in the first place, but she would have been
startled by anything he said.  She was that unprepared.  She'd
fantasized about calling him many times; just as she had about going to
his hotel.  She would plan out what she had to say, like a script for a
Scene, so she wouldn't get on the phone and be the way she was a few
minutes ago--stunned and confused.  She'd never actually made any of
those fantasy calls.  Unfortunately, tonight she had.  Now she could
hardly remember what she'd said.  Had it been something stupid?  She
couldn't be sure.  She'd hoped to be alone in the ladies" room.
Unfortunately, she'd forgotten about the presence of a washroom
attendant.  The one on duty that evening was a

 Atce Orr kindly looking woman in an extremely clean, white ruffled
apron.  She smiled as she held out a hand towel made of paper so fine
it could pass for cloth.  Delia took the towel and did her best to
return the smile,.  though she was about ready to jump out of her skin
with anxiety.  She stared into the mirror but didn't really see
herself.  She had to get in control and stay that way.  She turned on
the sink tap and dampened the paper towel with warm water then touched
it to her throat where she could feel the tightness intensifying and
her pulse working.  The attendant walked away as if she were busy with
other things rather than trying to avoid staring at Delia in her
obviously troubled state.

This day had turned out badly enOUgh already, with Delia finding
herself under surveillance and all the terrifying possibilities that
brought to mind.  As if all of that wasn't enough to drive her crazy,
she'd called Nick Avery.  She should have stopped to think.  She might
have decided against it.  Too late for that now.  He was on his way
here.  And she'd given him her name.

Delia's first urge was to dry her hands, leave the attendant a tip and
make a run for it, back through the restaurant to the concourse and out
the door before Nick got here.  There were lots of exits from
Rockefeller Plaza.  Whoever was following her couldn't be at all of
them, unless he wasn't alone.  Delia found it hard to believe there was
a phalanx of operatives out there lying in wait for Delia Marie Barry
n6e Rebecca Radley Lester.  Still, she'd be taking a chance at least by
her choice of exits, like Russian roulette with escape routes.

She tried to calculate what would be the best, as in safest,
alternative, but her mind refused to cooperate.  All she could think
about was how Nick's voice on the phone thrilled through her like a
sudden shattering of glass.  She reminded herself that she was in
trouble.  She needed help.  She needed protection.  She needed a
bodyguard, and Nick best suited those needs at the moment.  That
consideration had to remain foremost in her mind.  Every ounce of
common sense she possessed told her this was true.  She must go through
with meeting him tonight.  She'd do her best to keep him from
recognizing her.  She'd already invented a cover story to go with her
much altered appearance.  She really did look entirely different from
five years ago.  Men tended to be easily fooled by superficials like
hair color and style, makeup, clothing type.  She'd changed all of that
dramatically.  Would he recognize her voice the way she'd recognized
his--immediately?  Had they really talked all that much five years ago?
She'd had a smart-aleck tone back then, anyway.

Delia balled the paper towel up tight and pushed it through the waste
chute door.  She absolutely could not let herself think about the past.
If she did, she'd come undone for sure.  She had an important acting
job ahead of her tonight.  She couldn't afford to be undone.  The
acting part was what would save her.  She'd be playing Delia Marie
Barry, a woman who hadn't yet been born five years ago.

She rummaged in her bag for a dollar and put it in the china tip plate.
The attendant thanked her, and Delia smiled back, much more broadly
than before.  She was getting into character, a character she was about
to play to the hilt.

Chapter Four

By the time Nick arrived, Delia had her story down pat.  She'd even'
taken off her gold ring, the one with the circle of aspen leaves her
mother had given her.  There was little chance Nick had ever seen it,
but she slipped it off anyway.  Now she was ready for him--or so she
thought, until she saw him.  Suddenly, she could barely breathe much
less think.

He was just as she remembered, strong-boned in the face, tall in the
body.  Yet he was different.  For one thing, his eyes had lost their
arrogance.  They were cool but not so challenging.  His features had a
haggard edge she was certain hadn't been there before, as if the time
since might not have been easy for him.  His handsome-ness had been
almost too smooth five years ago.  This new, life-marred face might he
less picture perfect, but she found it even more affecting than she had
the last time she'd seen him.

The last time she'd seen him was in her fantasies-- He was halfway
across the restaurant, striding toward the bar in a suede jacket and
dark slacks, but she was seeing his long, naked flank on the bed beside
her.  The sheen of his skin in the moonlight from a window drew her
fingers to slide along the contour of him, over the jut of his hipbone
where she could feel the skeleton beneath the skin and slip her thumb
into the shadowed hollow below the bone.  She ran the flat of her palm
across his thigh to that curious juncture where smooth flesh became a
dark pelt of hair, wffy yet soft to her touch.  Her movements were
hypnotic, in sync with her entrancement.  Such a sweet and tender
moment with so few to match it, at least in her real life.

Delia felt the moistness in her eyes and ducked her head while she
blinked it back.  When she looked up again, he was at the end of the
bar.  His eyes met hers, and she felt the breath catch in her throat.
Then his glance moved on.  A few seconds passed before her mind could
truly register what had happened.  He didn't recognize her.  The
disappointment of that struck her like a blow, all the harder because
she hadn't expected to be disappointed by the achievement of her goal.
Her disguise had worked.  She didn't look anything like she had back in
Colorado.  Or... Another possibility hit her with even more impact.
He'd meant so much to her five years ago she'd never imagined that,
just maybe, she hadn't been particularly important to him at all.

He had returned his glance to the bar, and he'd begun to walk toward
her.  She had to get a grip on her emotions.  She was generally so in
control.  Yet right now she felt herself literally carried away on a
wave of memory and sensation stronger than any control.  She couldn't
let that happen.  She held her breath for a moment and concentrated on
pulling her straying emotions back within reach.  She must keep her
purpose in mind.  She could sort out the rest of it later.  She let her
breath out in a gush then raised her hand to signal Nick toward her.

He quickened his pace down the bar.  "Delia Barry?"

"Yes," she said and extended her hand.  "You must be Nick Avery."

She made her voice confident and straightforward, totally unlike the
bantering sarcastic tone of her younger, more mixed-up years.  She was
in charge of herself again.  When he took her hand, she was even ready
for the shock of touching him, as ready as she could be.  She looked
directly into his eyes and steeled herself against the flutter inside
that threatened to undo her calm exterior.  He held her gaze a moment
longer than expected.  He let go of her hand then and took the stool
next.  to hers.  Delia felt the relief of no longer touching him and
the desire to grab his hand again at the same instant.

"You said on the phone that this was an urgent case," he began.

"Yes, it is."  She was surprised to hear her voice ring out, still
clear and confident.

"Who's the client?"

He'd lifted his hand in a casual motion to get the bartender's
attention.  Slowly, he put his hand down and turned toward Delia.  His
scrutiny was even more intense than it had been a moment ago.  She took
a deep breath and willed herself to suppress the blaze his eyes
threatened to raise on her cheeks.

"A personal situation has come up for me," she said before he could
question further.

"What kind of situation?"

The bartender had arrived.  Delia waited while Nick ordered a beer. Her
mineral water with a slice of lime sat untouched on the bar, the ice
melting in the tall glass."  Nick turned toward her.

"An old boyfriend," she said, just as she'd planned.  "He's been
stalking me.  He followed me from the office tonight.  I came in here
to lose him."

"An old boyfriend," Nick repeated.  He looked her up and down quickly
as if confirming for himself whether or not she might be stalking
material.  "How long has he been after you?"

"A few weeks now."  She turned away from Nick and stared into her
mineral water.  It was easier to lie when she wasn't looking at him.
"He's been more persistent lately;"

"Has he threatened you with anything specific?"  Delia had anticipated
his questions, and her answers were ready.  Bodyguarding was her
business, too.  She knew the routine.

"He doesn't need to make overt threats.  I know what lies capable
of."

Keep it simple, she'd counseled herself in planning her approach to
this conversation.  There are fewer details to remember that way.

"You were with him a long time?"

"Long enough."

"How long would that be?"

"Several months."

Delia could tell from the timbre of his Voice that he was inquiring
about her supposed sexual relationship with this fictitious boyfriend.
She could also tell that Nick was just a bit uneasy with discussing the
subject.  She wondered why.  He didn't seem like the prim, old:
fashioned type.

"If you were with him for that long, didn't you pick up on these...
tendencies of his?"

She could hear an edge of disapproval in Nick's tone.  That might be
good for keeping him at the distance needed for making sure he didn't
recognize her.  She resisted the impulse to curry his favor.

"Maybe I should have suspected, but I didn't.  He seemed like a regular
guy until I decided not to see him anymore."

Nick's beer had arrived.  He took a long sip before responding.  "What
made you decide that?"

Did she hear a hint of something more than professional interest in
that question?  If so, what was the reason for it?

"We turned out not to have as much in common as I'd thought.  I
couldn't see the point in continuing."

"So you dropped the guy?"  Disapproval again.  "Something like that."
"And that drove him crazy?"

More disapproval.  The hint of personal interest was gone.  Delia
didn't answer.

"I'd have thought that somebody in your line of work would know how
dangerous it is to take up with just anyone, especially in this town,"
he said.

Delia was beginning to get exasperated with his judgments.  She
reminded herself that this was only playacting on her part.  She had to
stick to the script.  St'ill, she couldn't help trying to tee all if
he'd had this rigid side to his personality five years ago.

"He wasn't "just anybody,"" she said.  "We were introduced by a mutual
acquaintance."

Nick took another sip of beer and shook his head, as if she hadn't
convinced him that her behavior was anything but foolish and
irresponsible.

"Do you have a picture of him?"

She was ready for that question, too.  "I only had one, and I got rid
of it after we stopped seeing each other."

"Just like you got rid of him?"

Delia was becoming more and more bothered by his tone.  Who was he to
put her down this way?  She had to remind herself yet again that this
was a charade and she shouldn't be reacting as if it were real.

"His name is Clyde Benno.  He lives on Long Island," she said,
supplying the details she'd concocted.  "I can write out a description
of him, but you don't have to hunt him down.  I would only be hiring
you to keep me safe."

He looked her over again, as if he might be judging whether or not she
was deserving of that safety.

"Will you take the assignment?"  she asked, forcing herself to keep
from showing her irritation with him.

Nick pushed his beer glass away from him a few inches across the bar.
"Sure," he said.  "Why not?  I've got nothing else going right now.  I
could use the gig."

Delia stifled the urge to upend the glass over his head and watch the
foamy liquid wash the smug expression from his face.

"Good," she said.  "When do I start?"  "You've already started."

Delia motioned for the bartender to bring the check.  "I'll get that,"
Nick said.

"No, you won't," she responded more quickly than was probably cool to
do, but she felt she had to establish the ground rules between them
right off.  "You're working for me.  I pay the bills."

"Yes, ma'am," Nick said with exaggerated defer The ground rules had
been established, but Delia would say they were getting off to anything
but a good start.

NICK COULD HARDLY believe the way she ticked him off.  He almost turned
her down for the job, but this was his intro to PEI.  He'd been hoping
to crack that particular professional nut for a long time now.  If that
meant putting up with Delia Marie Barry, he could handle it.  This
should be a test all the same, of how much he could take without
blowing his top.  He didn't let himself get too far out on the anger
scale very often.  Still, he had his limit like any man, and something
told him she was going to press him up against that limit eventually.

Speaking of pressing up against something, she was one sexy woman.
Tall, and rounded in the right places under that uptight suit she had
on.  Good legs, too, what he could see of them with her skirt down to
her knees.  He liked short hemlines himself, but he could tell she was
all business.  No thighs to be peered at for Delia.  On the other hand,
she must have shown some thigh and maybe more to this poor guy who was
on her tail.  Nick told himself he shouldn't be thinking of a stalker
as a poor guy, and ordinarily he never would.  Nick had to keep
straight about which side he was on here.  Still, he couldn't help
feeling a twinge of sympathy.  He didn't like women who got a guy
turned on to them then took a walk, as if nobody's feelings mattered
but their own.  He didn't care for men who did that to women, either.
Nick knew what it felt like to be out in the cold.

Maybe that's what had his back up about Delia.  She was one of those
women who changed her mind and gave some poor sap the brush-off.  He
wondered if she dropped out of this guy's life with no warning.
That's

how it had happened to Nick.  He'd done his best to keep from tumbling
for Rebecca Lester in the first place, but every time he'd turn around
there she was in his face till he couldn't think anymore, unless he was
thinking about her.  Then she was gone, with a murder rap hanging over
her and him left on the hot seat to answer the hard questions.  He
didn't think she'd done it, but sometimes he wished he could believe
she had.  It would be easier to consign her to the villain Column. 
That would put her beyond the pale even for his imagination.  He'd been
a cop once, back before Rebeeca's father had lured him into this
business.  A clean cop didn't get mixed up with a killer unless the cop
was pretty mixed up himself.  Nick had been a clean cop, and now he was
a clean ex-cop.  It still bothered him to remember how she hadn't
trusted him enough to let him help her.  She'd taken off without so
much as a word, which made her look guilty as hell.  They'd traced her
through the ght she took to Chicago, but couldn't turn her up after
that.  They'd scoured the club scene and anywhere else somebody like
her might have ended up in the Midwest, but nothing shook out.  She
could have taken a Greyhound bus anywhere, with no way to follows that
trail.  He figured Canada was her best bet, maybe Europe from there.
She had a stash to bankroll herself, nobody knew how much, but enough
to get her hidden where she wasn't likely to surface again.  Now, even
after five years, she was still under his skin like a piece of thorn
he'd never been able to work out all the way.  Meanwhile, he and Delia
had cab bed it downtown from Rockefeller Center to where she lived
across from Gramercy Park.  He wanted to cheek her security system.  As
it turned out, she'd taken a lot of precautions,

especially for a small apartment.  She'd installed two tamper-resistant
locks on the door to be opened from the outside and a police lock
inside.  Her windows were security gated, as well.

"I spend so much time talking to people who fear for their lives, some
of it must have rubbed off on me," she said, shrugging almost
sheepishly.

Nick was surprised to see a flash of something endearing in the way she
did that.

"Go ahead with whatever you'd normally be doing now," he said.  "I want
to case the place one more time on my own."

"Well."  She hesitated.  "Normally, I take a shower when !  get
home."

"Take a shower then."

She looked at him with obvious suspicion in her eyes.

"I promise not to case the bathroom while you're in there," he said.

"Okay," she said, and nodded.

The sheepishness hadn't entirely left her.  He wondered why she was
looking more attractive to him all of a sudden.  She'd been pretty all
along, no getting around that, but he didn't usually go for just looks.
He had to find more than that in a woman, coming from inside instead of
just what could be seen on the outside.  Heart was what he called it.
Even when he thought it was there he could he fooled, like with Rebecca
back in Colorado.  She'd been all toughness on the exterior, but he
would have sworn she was hiding a tender self underneath.  When she
took off the way she did, he suspected he'd been wrong about her and
she was as hard inside as out.  The same could be true of Ms.  Barry.
She came across as cactus on the outside.  She just might be cactus
through and through.

She'd gone on into the bedroom and the bathroom past that.  He could
hear the water running already.  He'd take a closer look at the rest of
the apartment now, in more detail than it was sometimes comfortable to
do with the client watching.  They got nervous about letting him inside
their private worlds, and he understood why.  He could learn a lot of
things about a person just by checking out their belongings.  He
wondered what he'd learn about her.

First of all, this room was softer than he'd expected of her.  The
walls were painted a creamy off-white.  Medium-level light from a
number of table lamps brought out the warm tones in the muted rose and
dusty blue of the thick cushioned couch and chair.  He would have
pegged her for a high-tech type, but there wasn't a hint of that
anywhere here.  He was drawn to a claw-looted table that looked like it
belonged in somebody's grandmother's house.  The oval oak top was
crowded with photographs in antique frames.  He figured they must be
pictures of her family--dark hair like hers, but solid
salt-of-the-earth faces.  She must be the beauty of the Barry clan.

The deep windowsill near the table was fitted with a tapestry cushion
seat.  Nick sat down there and looked out.  The park was across the
street, with a gate locked to anyone but neighborhood residents.  He
wondered if she had a key.  He examined the window guards--accordion
design, installed inside the window, fire department standard approved.
Good for urban situations.  The streetlight across the way glinted on
the exterior windowsill.  He put his face next to the glass to examine
the source of that reflection.  Grease--she'd covered the entire
surface of the outside sill with grease.

He'd heard of doing that to keep an intruder from getting either a foot
or handhold.  She appeared to have regreased the surface regularly,
too, because there were no gaps or smudges from wear or weather.  She
must really be scared of this guy who was following her.  Nick wondered
if she could be exaggerating.  Or was the danger as marked as she
obviously believed?  His job was to assume the latter.  From that
perspective, he approved of the greased windowsills and any other
extraordinary precautions she might take.

Nick sensed more than heard a movement behind him.  Guarding people for
ten years had made him so finely tuned to his environment that
sometimes he wished he could turn off his hyper awareness and be half
here, half not here like everybody else.  He snapped his head around to
establish the validity of his sensation, and there she was.  She was
standing in the doorway of the bedroom.  She hadn't put on something
provocative, as she might have if she were coming on to him, but she
was provocative all the same.  Her hair was damp, combed back off her
face and close to the scalp.  Her face was most pointedly visible that
way.  He hadn't noticed how big her eyes were before, or how clear and
pale her skin was.  She wasn't wearing makeup, and she didn't need any.
The shower had brought out a dewy flush on her cheeks.  Nick felt an
urge to reach out and touch the softness he could see there.  He
clenched his hand into a fist instead as he rose from the window
seat.

"You greased the sill," he said.  He motioned awkwardly toward the
window.  He could hear just as much awkwardness in the way his voice
rasped over his words.  He cleared his throat.  "I hope you did that in
all the rooms."

He knew how far that statement was from what was suddenly in his mind
to say to her.  He also knew that he'd been without a woman for a very
long time, and when he did get involved with one again it definitely
should not be her.

DELIA COULD HARDLY believe how fast Nick hot footed it out of her
apartment after she finished her shower.  She also could hardly believe
how much she hated to see him go.  She plopped down on the couch and
leaned back against the cushions, unconcerned about the mark her damp
hair was making there.  She was very tired all of a sudden.  Her limbs
ached as if she'd been running hard into a gale-force wind till she was
too exhausted to go on.  Her feelings about Nick seemed to have that
effect on her.

She'd asked for this.  She'd fantasized her reunion with him a thousand
tunes before tonight, and always there was upheaval involved.  She was
too realistic a person to expect otherwise.  It was one thing, however,
to anticipate an imagined experience and quite another to find herself
smack in the middle of the real-life version.

Of course, she could always call and leave a message with his exchange
saying she'd changed her mind and didn't think they could work together
because the chemistry was wrong.  That certainly rang true.  She could
get any number of other very competent pros to bodyguard for her. She'd
have fewer hassles to put up with that way for sure.  Delia actually
picked up the cordless phone from her coffee table.  She stared at the
buttons as if trying to remember what they were for. Then she lay the
phone down on her lap where she'd rocked her robe around her legs to
keep warm.  She stared at the ceiling with her head still at the center
of the damp mark, like a halo of shadow on the couch cushion.

Chapter Five

By morning, Delia had reconciled herself to keeping Nick around, for
practical safety reasons if nothing else.  He picked her up at her
apartment in the morning as they'd planned before he left last night.
He insisted they take a cab uptown.  He said she shouldn't risk the
subway for the tune being.  She reluctantly agreed, though she hated to
change her life for the sake of whoever was after her.  He'd have won
somehow then, even if he didn't manage to catch her and do something to
her.  She shuddered at the thought.

"Are you cold?"  Nick asked.

They were in her office where she'd been trying all morning to get some
work done.

"No," she said, then thought better of it.  "Actually, I think I might
have picked up a chill."

Nick looked concerned.  "Stress can make you sick.  That happens a lot
in these situations."

"Is that right?"  He didn't know the half of it.  "You have to keep
healthy."

"Why?  In case I need my strength to fight off an attacker?"  Or to
fight off my feelings for you?  she thought.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He'd been checking windows and sweeping the place for listening devices
for hours.  Anybody could buy surveillance equipment now, especially in
this city.  Delia stayed in the outer office to maintain the illusion
that she was only the office manager here.  L'fiy Tubman, Delia's
sometime clerical worker, wasn't in today.  Delia hired her on a
temporary basis to prevent her from knowing too much about the internal
operations of the business.  She'd work at PEI for a few months, then
Delia would send her back to the temp agency saying she wasn't needed
anymore.  Delia had gone through a few dozen office workers in five
years that way, and several agencies, too.  The transitions were more
and more unsettling each time they happened.  Delia especially didn't
want to lose Lily.  She was a good worker, and Delia liked her
personally.  Still, maintaining cover had to come first.

Speaking of cover, she'd spent the first two hours of her workday
checking the office for anything that might give Nick even the smallest
clue to her true identity.  She used the excuse of cleaning up for the
holidays.  Nick appeared to take very little notice of what she was
doing, anyway.  His attention was focused on making the place as secure
as possible.  Meanwhile, she didn't find anything that needed hiding.
She'd eradicated all trace of Becky Lester long ago.  Still, Delia
found the effort tiring, or maybe she hadn't rested up enough from last
night's exhaustion.  She hadn't slept well, either.  Aside from her
maddeningly conflicted feelings about Nick, she was very aware of being
targeted.  That's what being followed really meant.  She was the object
of somebody's special scrutiny.  She had no idea who that somebody
might be and could only guess at their motive.  The strain of trying to
sort out the particulars and decide how to respond to them was enough
to knock the energy out of anyone.

"I think I'm going to close up for the afternoon," she said, intending
to go home and rest.

"Can you do that?"

Delia almost said, "Why not?"  Then she remembered her charade, the
deception that was her life.

"I just have to make a couple of calls and put a message on the phone
service.  We have an assistant office manager who fills in when I need
her.  This is a slow week for us anyway with Christmas coming. 
Besides, I hardly ever take time off so nobody should begrudge my doing
it today."

She realized she was explaining too much and stopped talking.  She
didn't tell him that, in fact, she hadn't taken a single vacation or
sick day in five years.  That would sound too weird for somebody in a
mere lower middle management job.  Again, she had to keep her cover in
mind at all times.

They left the office and found a taxi.  Traffic was heavy on the way
downtown.

"We'll get out here," she said to the cabdriver when they were within
walking distance of Gramercy Park.

She thrust the fare through the opening in the safety slide betWeen the
front and back seat before Nick could protest.

"We were better off in the car than out here on the street," he said as
he hurried up onto the curb after her.  "And wait for me.  Don't go
running off on your own.  You ought to have this bodyguard routine down
pat by now."  "

"For other people, not for me."

The weather had turned cold overnight and was even colder now than when
they'd been out in it that morning Delia pulled her coat collar up
around her face.  She thought about putting on her hat, but she was
actually enjoying the chill in the air as it revived her from her
daylong torpor.

"You'd be less visible in that beret you had on last night," he said as
if he might have read her thoughts.  "Your hair makes you stand out too
much."

The winter sun was bright enough this afternoon to shine down past the
buildings onto East Twenty-first Street.  She imagined it must be
setting her reddish tresses aglow.

"I like to feel the wind," she said.

He'd been so preoccupied with watching the street in all directions
ever since they left the cab that she was surprised he'd had the
opportunity to notice her hair.

"You aren't going to make my job easy for me, are you?"

"You should keep me safe," she said, "but I still want to have a
life."

"Sometimes those two don't come in the same package."

Mention of packages turned her attention to the shopping bags so many
people were carrying as they hurried past.  Delia hadn't thought about
the holidays or how much she enjoyed them since she'd first spotted
that man behind her yesterday.  She needed something to get her out of
this fearful, downcast state of mind.  She broke into the chorus of a
Christmas song.

She had a fairly pleasant singing voice, trained in the high school
chorus and, when her father was alive, the church choir.  Nonetheless,
Nick looked at her as if she'd made the most outlandish sound he'd ever
heard.  He was still looking at her that way when she spotted the tree
vendor across the street on the edge of the park and took off toward
him.

"I told you to stick with me," said Nick as he caught up to her, his
breath making puffs of white when he spoke.

"Sorry," she said.  "I saw the trees and forgot."  The smell of
evergreen was so pungent with memories that Delia was afraid she'd
start weeping on the spot.

"Blue spruce," she said to get herself under control.  "Blue spruce is
my favorite."

The vendor was already pulling bundled evergreens out of the pile he'd
leaned against a black iron fence.  "How tall you want it?"  he
asked.

Delia couldn't think for a moment.  She was too overcome by the heady
scent of pine and the sound of carols tinkling from a portable tape
player the man had set up on a crate among his wares.

"How tall do you think?"  she asked Nick.

He was busy scanning the street with a disgruntled expression on his
face.  "Six feet," he said without looking at her.

"That's pretty big," she said.

"I hate those dinky little things that sit on a table.  You might as
well not bother with a tree at all if you're going to have one of
them."

Delia gave Nick a quizzical look.  He almost sounded like he was
getting some holiday spirit.  More likely he was going along with her
to move her through the tree purchase as rapidly as possible.

"You'll have to carry it."  Delia motioned toward the tree the vendor
had just pulled out of the stack.  "I'll take that one."

She barely had time to get the cash out of her purse when Nick grabbed
the tree.

"Help me hoist this onto my shoulder," he said to the mail.

Nick bent his knees but kept his back straight to take the weight of
the tree.  He grasped it around the thickest width with his left arm.

"You gotta hold onta it with" both hands," the vendor said.

Nick maintained his one handed grip.  Delia understood why.  He had to
keep his right-side, weapon hand free.

"I'll help," she said as she pressed the bills on the vendor.

"Then get in front of me," Nick said.  "Where I can see you."

She nodded and hurried to the top end of the tree, which had begun to
wobble in Nick's precarious grasp.  She latched on and called, "Ready,"
over her shoulder.

They began walking toward the next corner.  "We'll go around the park
to my place," she said.

"This has to be the most foolish thing anybody ever asked me to do on a
job," Nick grumbled.

Even more foolish were Delia's first attempts to match his gait.  The
tree tottered from side to side even though, unlike Nick, she was
holding it with both hands.

"Take shorter strides," she called over her shoulder again.  "You're
about to run me down."

"I want to get off this street and under cover," he growled.  Still, he
slowed his pace.  "What if that guy who's stalking you catches us out
here in the open wrestling with this damned tree?"

The image of Nick taking off after a desperado with the blue spruce in
tow made Delia want to laugh.  She swallowed the impulse and hurried
along as he directed.  She knew it was tension and tiredness rather
than true merriment that she was feeling.  All the same, she had to
bite back another urge to giggle.

NICK COULDN'T help smiling at himself.  Here he was hauling a gigantic
Christmas tree up the front steps to this woman's apartment house and
getting paid for his time while doing it.  He wouldn't find this duty
listed in the bodyguard's manual, even if there'd been such a
publication.  He had to smile at her, too, being followed all over town
by some nut and having the heart to think about putting up a Christmas
tree anyway.  Too bad Nick wasn't free to think like that himself.  He
was on the job.  He'd propped the tree against the outside stair rail
and entered the downstairs lobby ahead of Delia to make certain the
area was clear.  He did the same with each staircase and landing.
Delia's apartment was on the third floor.  He left her at the top of
the last stairway with the tree angled against the wall in a corner
while he checked the hallway leading to her door.  That's when he knew
something was wrong.  He signaled Delia to come ahead and join him.
What he'd seen indicated that she'd be better off inside the apartment.
"What about the tree?"  she called from the stairway.  Nick put his
finger to his lips to caution silence.  He waved his arms back and
forth, crossing them in front of him--meaning to nix the tree for
now--then beckoned her to come, all with what he hoped was an
expression of urgency on his face.  She moved down the landing toward
him as he pulled his gun from the back of his waistband out of her line
of vision.  With his empty hand he gestured for her to get away from
the banister and keep herself against the wall.  She did that without
hesitation.  This was the first time he'd seen her cooperate so
readily.  One look at her face told him why.  Her green eyes were wide
with fear.

She'd inched along the wall till she was next to him.  He could hear
her gasping breath.  He had the urge to reassure her, but he knew he
must fit The alertness her fear brought with it could keep her ready to
react quickly.  Meanwhile he saw the questions in her eyes.  He made
the silence motion with his finger to his lips again.  She mouthed,
"What's going on?"  He shook his head in response, to signal that he
couldn't answer her now.  He motioned downward then, for her to crouch
lower against the wall.  "Stay here," he mouthed, and she nodded.

Nick moved low and fast along the wall to the next stairway.  He held
his gun gripped in both hands and pointed upward directly in front of
his face.  He hesitated a moment, then leapt around the corner into a
crouch at the bottom of the stairwell with his gun bar-tel aimed at
what was, thank God, empty space.  He maintained the crouch and climbed
several steps with his back brushing the stairwell wall and his gun
pointed at the fourth-floor landing above.  Nothing up there, either.
The inside of the building looked secure.

He moved quickly back down to the third floor and along the wall to
Delia's door.  Her eyes were even wider now and focused on his gun as
if stuck there.  Her mouth had dropped open.  He already had his free
hand in his jeans pocket, clutching the three front door keys on a ring
that she'd given him last night.  He pulled out

the keys and turned one in the main lock, a second in the backup lock,
then a third in the police lock.  He motioned for her to stay where she
was till he went inside.  His guess was the intruder hadn't gotten in
here, but it would be best to double-check before bringing Delia along.
Nick made a circuit of the living room, bedroom and bath with his
firearm preceding him into each space.  All was clear.

He went back to the apartment door.

"You can come in now," he said.

She scurried through the doorway.  He took one last visual sweep up and
down the hall.  The bundled evergreen was still propped in the corner
at the top of the stairway from the second floor.  He'd go back and get
it later, after he made certain Delia was okay.  He shut the apartment
door.

"Be sure to triple-lock it," she said.

He could hear the tremor in her voice.  She'd been truly frightened.
Once again, he was glad she could let herself show her fear.  False
bravado had gotten more than one person killed in his experience.  He
snapped the locks shut and checked that they were secure.

"All set," he said in his most reassuring tone, "and the apartment is
all clear."

She was standing in the middle of the living room floor with her coat
and gloves still on.  Dampness filmed her forehead.  Old, steam-heated
buildings like this one could be too hot in the winter, especially on
the lower floors.  Even the hallway had been close to stifling.  "Let
me take your coat," he said.

Delia jerked away from his reach.  "Tell me what's going on here first.
Was all of that outside for real, or are you just trying to convince me
you're earning your pay?"

"It was real.  Somebody attempted to get into this apartment sometime
since we left this morning."

"What are you talking about?  I didn't see any sign of that."

"It's the oldest trick in the book," he said.  "I put a tiny strip of
paper in the door just below the latch when we were leaving this
morning.  When we got back, I could see that the paper had slipped down
the crack, as if somebody had been trying the knob and pulling at the
door.  And there are scrape marks around the keyholes that weren't
there before.  I'd say somebody tried to pick your locks.  I'd also say
it wasn't a pro."

"How do you know that?"

"A pro would have noticed the slip of paper trick and put it back where
he found it.  He also wouldn't have left scratches on the plate, and
he'd probably have gotten through that first tumbler lock, maybe the
second one, tOO."

"Great!"  she said sarcastically.  "That's really reassuring."

"He probably wouldn't have made it through the police lock."  This
wasn't entirely true and depended on what kind of equipment the B and E
artist had with him, but she didn't need to know that just now.  "Be
sides, like I said, it wasn't a pro."

"That's good to know."

She pulled off her gloves and began unbuttoning her coat.

"Why?  Would you expect this Benno guy to hire somebody to come after
you?"

She looked at Nick for a minute then looked away, as if she might be
deciding what to tell him.  He'd noticed her doing that a few other
times when he'd asked her about Benno.  Nick strongly suspected there
was some thing she hadn't told him.  He was running up against that
wall of client secrets again.  He hadn't expected such resistance from
her.  She was in the personal security business, after all.  She must
know that an important key to being effectively protected is full
disclosure.  What he knew was that direct questioning could push her
even further under wraps.  He'd bide his time for now and see what
surfaced on its own.

"I don't know what Clyde is capable of."  She slipped her coat off and
tossed it over the chair arm.  "It's hot in here," she said, maybe to
divert the subject, and moved in the direction of the closed windows.

"Don't do that!"

Nick jumped in front of her and grabbed the hand she'd extended to lift
the window latch.  She'd been in motion when he intercepted her.  Her
final step put her very close to him, almost flat against his chest,
with him still gripping her hand.  Her face was tilted upward toward
his.  Her eyes inquired yet again what was going on here.  Suddenly he
found himself very aware of her mouth, only inches from his, close
enough for him to see how the heat of the room had misted her upper
lip.  The urge to pull her into his arms came fierce and fast and
straight from his groin.  Her lips were full and slightly parted, as if
she might have felt the same surge of desire.  He pulled back from her
and dropped her hand like it was a hot coal.

"Stay away from the windows," he said in a huskier tone than was usual
for him, "especially these, since they overlook the front of the
building.  There's a clear line of vision into this apartment from the
park.  It would be best to keep the lights turned off in this part of
the room, too."

"Can we open the windows?"  she asked.  "It's way too hot in here."
"Yes, it is."  The temperature had vaulted even higher for him in the
last few minutes.  "I'll open them for you."  He was glad for the
opportunity to stop facing her and move toward the windows.  He checked
carefully around the blinds.  He didn't see anybody suspicious in the
park or the street so he reached through the bars of the window gate to
unlock the latch on the casing and ease the bottom half of the window
up from the sill.  He repeated the same cautious operation with the
second window.  "I'll check the bedroom windows, too," he said.  "What
about the blue spruce?"  "I'll bring it in as soon as I've checked the
rest of the windows."  "I can probably manage the tree by myself," she
said, and made a move toward the door.  He stepped in front of her but
was careful not to touch her this time.  "Delia, please," he said. 
"Let me do my job."  She looked into his eyes for a moment.  He was
tempted to turn away.  Her gaze threatened to get that fierce urge
started in his groin again.  Then she nodded and he was free to escape
into the bedroom, at least for a short while.  He heaved a sigh of
relief as soon as he was out of her sight.  He had to clamp a rein on
himself right now.  She was a beautiful woman, and it was natural for a
man to be turned on by her.  He, however, had a bottom line to attend
to. That bottom line had nothing to do with nature and everything to do
with business.  Nick cranked his head back and forth to ease the
tension in his neck and shoulders.  He needed to plant

his butt on that bottom line right now and keep it there for the
duration.

As a first step in fulfilling that resolve, he walked to the bedroom
window and pulled the cord to raise the blind just enough so he could
see the outside sill.  There he saw what he was looking for but had
hoped he wouldn't find.  This was the window onto the fire escape.  The
opening was gated on the inside like the rest but with a release
mechanism to allow for quick exit in case of a fire.  Nick wasn't
interested in that mechanism at the moment.  His attention was riveted
on the sill.

"Delia," he called loudly enough to be heard in the living room. "Could
you come in here, please?"

She didn't answer.  Instead she was at his side almost instantly.

"What is it?"  she asked, sounding anxious again, as she had when
they'd first entered the apartment from the hallway.

"Do you see what I see on the windowsill?"

Nick pointed toward the glass to show her where to look.  She examined
the spot he'd indicated.

"It's a handprint, isn't it?"  she asked.

The print was plainly visible in the sun's reflection off the greased
surface.

"Yes, and it wasn't there when I checked last night."

"That means somebody was on my fire escape since then, maybe even last
night while I was sleeping."

Nick nodded.  "Most likely this morning.  The same person who tried the
door."  He gestured toward the glass once more.  "Is there anything
else you notice about the print?"

"What do you mean?"  she asked after examining the sill again.

"The size of it," he said.  He'd moved around her toward the window so
he'd have a clear visual angle on her face.  "It's from a woman's hand.
A small woman.  What do you make of that?"

Delia didn't reply.  She didn't avoid his gaze, either.  She stared
back at him with her face such a blank canvas that he had to wonder
what she was erasing from his view.

Chapter Six

"This guy who's after you.  Is he married?"

Nick had dragged the tall evergreen into the apartment from the hallway
and used his pocketknife to cut the cords that bound the tree.  At the
moment he was holding it up straight while Delia twisted the screws of
the green metal stand into the base of the trunk.  She'd kept him busy
in the hope that he'd forget the question he'd asked in the bedroom
about the handprint on her windowsill.  She'd had no answer then.  The
print definitely couldn't belong to the man who'd followed her from the
office last night.  So, whose could it be?  What woman would climb
three flights up a cold, slippery fire escape to try Delia's window?
Nick had found more evidence-greasy fingerprints on the window itself.
The gates probably discouraged whoever it was from breaking the glass.
But, why a woman?  That was Delia's question as well as Nick's.  She
needed a real answer for herself and a cover story answer for him. He'd
just offered her the latter.

"Yes," she said.  "I'm afraid he is."

One problem with lies is that it takes a lot of thought and planning to
make sure you're telling the right one.  Otherwise you may have to live
with the consequences for a very long time.  Delia knew this better
than most people.  Her entire life was a made-up story, and there'd
been plenty of consequences to live with because of that.

""You sound relieved," Nick said.  "I suppose I am relieved."  "Why's
that?"

Delia's position at the base of the tree saved her from having to look
him in the face as she continued telling non truths half truths and
barely truths.

"It's always a relief to bring a guilty secret out into the open," she
said.

"I see."

Delia finished turning the screws--first one, then the next, then the
last--till they were each-equally anchored into the trunk to balance
the tree and hold it upright.  It occurred to her that she had to
maintain the same kind of precarious balance with her life of
deception.  Otherwise everything could come toppling down.  She got up
from the floor and brushed off the slacks she'd worn to work today in
case she needed to be more ready for action than a skirt allowed.  Blue
spruce nee-dies clung to the dark wool, especially at the knees and
below.  She didn't mind.  It was worth a stiff brushing to have the
tree here, scenting her little hideaway with reminders of deep, quiet
forests in a cleaner, simpler place.

"Then you do think it's wrong."

"What?"

Delia was still brushing her pants and musing about the tree.  The
significance of what he was saying eluded her for the moment.

"You said this was a guilty secret.  That must mean you think you were
doing something wrong."

She continued to stare at him with what she knew had to be a dumb look
on her face.  They were getting into a territory in which she had to be
careful what she said and even more careful what she lied.  She chose
to say nothing at all for the moment.

"Getting involved with a married man..."  Nick went on, though she
wished he'd drop the subject.  He was obviously intent upon prying a
response out of her and probably wouldn't quit till he did.  "You know
that's not a right thing to do."

She actually agreed with that statement, but some thing in his tone
suddenly shot her back up as straight as the trunk of the tree he was
still holding.

"I believe that issues of right and wrong have to be decided by each
person for him- or herself on a case-by-case basis depending on the
circumstances."  She knew that sounded like a line from either an
ethics textbook or a TV talk show, but she didn't care.

She hated the way he kept saying that.

"You see what?"  she snapped.

He let go of the tree trunk and pulled his hand out from among the
evergreen branches.  She'd made him put on gloves while holding the
tree so he wouldn't be scraped by the branches and needles.  He pulled
the gloves off slowly now and didn't speak till he'd walked over to his
suede jacket, which he'd left on the couch before starting with the
tree, and stuffed the gloves into one of the pockets.  With every
second of this slow, deliberate process on his part, Delia grew more
irritated.

"What I see," he said finally, turning toward her again, "is that
thinking the way you do about right and wrong amounts to changing the
rules according to what's convenient for you at the moment."

AliCe (Jr?"  of

"I didn't mean that at all."  "What did you mean then?"  He sounded
perfectly calm while she was getting more and more agitated.  "I meant
that what a person decides to do With her life is her personal
business, and she shouldn't have to be preached to by some pompous jerk
who thinks he knows all of the answers."  She saw the smile beginning
on his face and wished she could reach out and rip it off.  Where did
he get the nerve to smirk at her?  "I'm not very much in favor of
pompous jerks myself," he said in a suddenly softened tone that was
tailor-made to disarm.  "Especially when I'm being one myself."  The
heat of Delia's anger was ready to explode all over the room, the blue
spruce, and Nick Avery in particular.  His words threatened to deflate
that anger much more gradually and without damage.  Delia wasn't sure
she wanted that.  A good blowup might be just what the doctor ordered.
She could scream and yell, throw something at the wall.  She could let
out all the tension of these past two days, maybe even the past five
years, in one colossal eruption, then worry about the resulting
devastation later.  That might be preferable to pounding her pillow and
sobbing her heart out all by herself.  One or the other needed to
happen for her, and fairly soon.  "Let's start this conversation over
again," he was saying while she decided whether to stick a cork in her
temper or let it blow.  "Hey, Ms.  Barry, this is one really beautiful
tree you've got here.  Sheds a little."  He displayed his
needle-encrusted sweater sleeve for her to see.  "But then, none of us
is perfect."

He'd taken on a pointedly jocular tone, and the look in his eyes seemed
to be asking her for forgiveness.  Delia took a deep breath, held it a
moment, then sighed a long exhale.  It looked like she might have to
find some other outlet for those pent-up emotions of hers, after all.

"You may have to wait for hanging the tinsel on "er, though."  He went
on charming Delia out of her tantrum.  "These branches are frozen
harder than--"

"Harder than an angry woman's heart," she cut in.  At another moment
they might have laughed together.  Feelings had run too high for that
this time.  He only nodded and smiled as he picked needles from his
sweater.

"I don't have time for decorating now, anyway," Delia said, checking
her watch.  "I have an appointment to keep."

"Then I'll be keeping it with you," Nick said, back in his bodyguard
mode.  "Where are we going?"

"The Lower East Side."

"What kind of business could you have down there?"  He didn't sound
pleased, probably because she was talking about a pretty rough
neighborhood.

"It's not business this time.  I tutor at a literacy center in the
Hester Street Settlement House.  I'm down there once a week, sometimes
more."

"Could you call it off for a week or so, till we get this Clyde Benno
thing cleared up?"

"I can't do that."  Delia understood his concern, but she couldn't
bring herself to do what he was asking.  "These people I work with have
had too many disappointments in their lives already.  I can't let them
down, especially not at Christmastime."

He studied her face for a moment.  Then it was his turn to heave a
sigh.

"Okay.  The Lower East Side it is," he said, "but could we try to get
there in the daylight?"

"Sure.  We'll leave right now."  Delia didn't remind him of how early
it gets dark in late December.  He'd figure that out for himself soon
enough.

Nick pulled on his jacket.  "I don't want to start another argument,
but I do need to clarify something about that handprint on the
windowsill."

Delia stopped at the bedroom doorway on her way to make a quick change
into something more appropriate for Hester Street.

"What would you like to clarify?"

"Is it possible that the person you saw following you last night could
have been a woman?"

Delia paused to check her memory one more time.  "No," she said.  "It
was definitely a man."

He said that with concern in his voice this time.  Maybe that was why
Delia didn't think to be irritated.

"That means we're dealing with two people then," he said.

"Yes," she said.  "I know."

She went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.  She was
careful not to let herself look in the direction of the windowsill.

NICK INSISTED they take a cab yet again, this time to the settlement
house.  Delia tried to tell him that would only make them more
conspicuous, a violation of the invisibility rule for staying
undercover if she'd ever heard one.  Not many people took cabs on
Hester Street.  She certainly never had.  The subway came close
enough

with a brisk walk added on, but Nick wouldn't hear of it.  She
understood his concern.  He was only trying to do him job.  Right now,
that job was protecting her.  She did appreciate how conscientious he
was being about it, especially now that there might be two pursue's to
look out for instead of one.  She hadn't said anything to Nick yet, but
she suspected that her next encounter with whoever was after her could
be a violent one.  She wasn't sure why she anticipated that, more
intuition than anything concrete.  She hadn't mentioned these thoughts
to Nick simply because they were so unfounded.  Besides, he might start
asking more questions about her alleged ex-boyfriend.  Intuition again,
and common sense, told her the Clyde Benno story could wear thin with
too much use so she avoided the subject as much as possible.
Unfortunately, the true story here was a lot scarier than the one Delia
had made up.  The person or persons she was actually afraid of had
committed murder already, probably to get their hands on the money that
would have been hers on her twenty-fifth birthday had she still been
around to claim it.  In just two more years, the other heirs could have
her declared officially dead, as long as she didn't re-emerge as
Rebecca Lester in the meantime.  She didn't intend to do anything of
the kind, but they wouldn't know that.  Their interests would be best
served by having her out of the way permanently, as in dead, rather
than only underground somewhere.  If she'd been spotted by someone or
finally traced to her present location, as she'd always feared would
happen someday, then she was in even greater danger than Nick believed.
Delia would have preferred to take her chances with a psycho ex-lover,
with or without an embittered spouse, than to find herself at the mercy
of whoever had left poor Morty Lancer murdered in her bedroom five
years ago.

Consequently, she hadn't given Nick too much of a hard time about the
cab.  Still, she couldn't res' st a comment when he hopped out ahead of
her in front of the settlement house and wouldn't let her follow until
he'd thoroughly perused the street.

"Now everybody on the block thinks I'm either a felon being towed
around by a cop or an heiress with so many valuables she needs somebody
to check out the alleyways before she walks by."

"In that getup, you look more like the felon than the rich lady."

Nick was referring to her Hester Street outfit--ancient faded jeans
with rips at the knees backed by flannel patches and an I Luv NY
sweatshirt that had started out white until it got mixed up in a load
of dark laundry and turned an odd combo of several dingy colors.  Brown
leather hiking boots with heavy, tire-tread soles finished off her
ensemble along with a banged-up leather bomber jacket that had become
what they call "distressed" without any help from the manufacturer.
Usually, she jammed a navy blue knit watch cap over her head and pulled
it down over her ears.  She hadn't done that today despite the biting
weather.  She told herself she didn't need a hat to ride in a cab.  She
understood, all the same, that her choice of bareheaded-ness had more
to do with not looking like a stevedore in front of Nick than it did
with anything else.

Maybe that's why she responded to him by asking, somewhat defensively,
"What's wrong with my getup?"

He hustled her inside the door to the settlement house building before
answering.  "Not a thing, really."  He looked her over, and she could
feel her cheeks heat up

from more than just being indoors.  "You look very downtown," he
said.

"Is that good or bad?"

His at least twice-over glance stopped at her eyes.  "I imagine
anything would look good on you."

They were standing just inside the door.  There was plenty of activity
here as always--a kid bouncing a basketball down the hallway, a social
worker with an armload of manila folders talking with a police officer,
a variety of other characters old and young.  In an instant, all of
that came to a halt for Delia, like in a dream or a movie where the
background noise goes silent and the action becomes slow motion for a
while.  She hadn't expected Nick to answer her so directly or in such a
serious tone.  They'd been bantering up till then, on the way over here
in the cab and coming into the building.  Now he was standing there
looking down at her with something in his eyes that froze her in fear
and, at the same time, made her heart leap under her discolored
sweatshirt.  She was both relieved and disappointed when he broke the
spell.

"You said you had an appointment here.  Who's it with?"  he asked.

"Her name is Jaycee."  Delia was surprised to hear her voice work so
well over the lump of tangled emotions in her throat.  "She's probably
waiting for me now.  She never misses a lesson."

Delia took off down the hall in a hurry, both because she didn't want
to be late for her session with Jaycee and to put some distance between
herself and Nick.  Right now, she needed that buffer zone against the
way her body apparently couldn't stop responding to him at close
quarters.  Unfortunately he caught up and kept pace with her easily.
There was no way to get away from him, short of breaking into a run.
She wasn't about to resort to that, and he'd probably just start
running himself if she did.  She slowed her step to a speed more in
sync with this generally pretty-laid-back place.  They reached the room
where she did her tutoring, and she was about to ask him to wait for
her out here in the hallway when the door opened on Jaycee and her
lopsided grin.

Delia wasn't sure if Jaytee smiled that way because she might have a
stroke in her past medical history or from some kind of street injury
to her face.  She'd been no stranger to the violence that plagues those
who live by their wits without permanent shelter in the city.  Still,
Delia had never once met with Jaytee that she didn't have that crooked
smile on her face and a happy word to say.

"Hi, there, sugar.  I was wonderin" if you'd be making it down here
tonight, what with Christmas comin" and all."

"I wouldn't want to miss a lesson with you, Jaycee, and if I had to,
I'd make sure I got a message to you in advance."

"And I "predate that, too, honey.  I can't tell you how much.  Now tell
me, who's this handsome lad?"

Delia turned to see Nick eyeing Jaycee warily.  Delia might have
reacted similarly the first time she met Jaycee except that by then
Delia had been volunteering at Hester Street for quite some time and it
no longer even occurred to her to expect the people here to look like
they were turned out for a fashionable afternoon on Fifth Avenue.
Still, she could understand what Nick might be thinking now.

Jaycee's appearance was eccentric to say the least.  Her hair was wild,
gray frizz that could never be quite contained by any of the various
forms of headgear she chose to wear.  Today's chapeau was a rather
shabby Shriner's fez, complete with top tassel and Jaycee's own
personal modification, flaps of red fabric sewn onto the rim and long
enough to cover her ears.  The st of her costume generally consisted of
all or most of the garments in her possession, worn in differing order
from one of her meetings with Delia to the next.  Today a once-blue
denim drop-wasted dress was on top.  From beneath the long hem
protruded the boots Delia herself had scouted out at the big Salvation
Army store on West Forty-sixth Street.  She'd known better than to buy
new boots, however much she wanted to.  New boots would attract too
much envious attention among Jaycee's fellow street dwellers.

The most extraordinary thing about Jaycce's appearance was how clean
she was able to keep herself and her clothing, all the many layers of
it.  This was no mean feat for a woman with no bathroom to call her
own.  Delia respected Jaycee's privacy and didn't ask how she
accomplished that feat.  Public rest rooms, facilities here at the
settlement house, quarters not easily come by hoarded for the
coin-operated laundry.  Delia suspected that Jaycee took advantage of
all of these and any other opportunities to get to clean water and a
little soap, as long as it didn't involve going to a city shelter.
Jaycee had told Delia how dangerous those places were and vowed to stay
out of them at all costs.  Delia couldn't take Nick aside to tell him
these things now.  Instead she decided to have him sit in on the
reading lesson, after all.

For the next two hours he stayed at the back of the room and watched
while Jaycee struggled over one word after another but wouldn't let
Delia help her much.  Jaycee's determination to learn to read by her
own diligence was as strong as her determination to maintain her
personal hygiene and the dignity that went with it.  By the end of the
session, out of the corner of her eye, Delia could see Nick leaning
forward in his chair mouthing the words he had already figured out just
from listening, wanting to help Jaycee in her valiant struggle.  Maybe
Nick had learned a lesson of his own that day on Hester Street, Delia
thought as the three of them walked down the hall to the front door of
the settlement house at the end of the lesson.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Jaycee said as Delia and Nick were about to
leave.  "I got a prediction for you.  An important one."

"Jaycee is believed by many to have the power of future sight," Delia
said to Nick in response to his questioning look.  He nodded his head
but didn't say anything.  She could pretty much imagine his skeptical
thoughts, since she had some of those herself--though she never
mentioned them to Jaycee.

"What I see for you is two gifts," Jaycee said, "both comin" on
Christmas Eve.  One'll come from me.  The other's gonna be from
heaven."  Jaycee folded her arms across her many-layered bosom and
smiled crookedly.  "You jus" keep your heart true, honey, and my
sight's gonna prove true, too."

"Thanks, Jaycee.  I'll keep that in mind."

"You got a true hear ting you, whatever your secrets may be, sugar.  I
know that for a sure fact."

Delia was stopped short by that statement.  If Nick hadn't been there,
she would have asked Jaycee what secrets she was talking about, but
Delia didn't want him to hear the answer.  She didn't really believe in
second sight, psychic powers, that sort of thing.  But she didn't
entirely disbelieve, either.  She'd steer the subject in another
direction if Nick brought up the predictions.  Unfortunately, what he
actually wanted to talk about after they'd left the settlement house
was even touchier.

"Have you considered the possibility that your friend Jaycee could be
the one trying to break into your place?"  he asked.

"No, I haven't considered that."  Delia sounded even more belligerent
because she didn't want to believe that what he was suggesting could be
true.

"I guess you weren't watching when she was' pointing out the words she
was reading with her finger."

"What are you talking about?  Of course, I was watching."

"Then you should have noticed that Jaycee has very small hands."

Delia shrugged and turned toward the corner.  She had suggested they
walk to one of the wider thoroughfares where they'd he more likely to
find a cab to flag down.  They stepped off the curb in that direction.
Nick might have made his customary visual sweep of the vicinity; Delia
didn't notice.  She was too disturbed by his observation about the size
of Jaycce's hands and by the fact that it happened to be accurate.
Delia also didn't notice the late-model, dark-colored car suddenly
hurtling toward them until the last moment of possible safety.  Then it
was Nick's fast reaction and strong arms that saved her from being
mowed down.  He picked her up off her feet and spun backward to the
curb in a single motion that carried them both out of the path of death
just in the nick of tune.

After the dark sedan had sped off down the street, Delia clung to
Nick's jacket and gasped for each terrified breath with his arms around
her, and very welcome.  He didn't have to say that this wasn't likely
to have been an accident.  She didn't have to say that Jay-tee, the
homeless woman from the settlement house, wasn't likely to have been
the person behind the wheel.

Chapter Seven

Nick couldn't believe he didn't get the license plate number.  They
were under a streetlight when it happened, and he missed the tag.  He
didn't give chase, either.  Those things were usually second nature to
him, but not today.  When that car came bearing down on them out of
nowhere, there'd been nothing in his nature-or his mind and heart--but
Delia.  He could say he was doing his job, protecting the client, but
he knew that wasn't why he'd forgotten every lawman instinct he'd ever
had to pick her up in his arms and shield her with his body till the
danger had passed.  She'd huddled trembling against him while he'd
murmured comfort into the sweet scent of her hair.

Because of that, they had nothing to go on now when it came to proving
Benno, or his wife, tried to run Delia down.  The streetlight made
mistaken identity extremely unlikely.  The way the car veered to the
right from its direct path confirmed that this Was a deliberate attempt
to hit her.  Otherwise, Nick had no evidence and, of course, there'd
been no witnesses.  They were in a part of town where nobody sees
anything, especially when it involves strangers.  That meant no details
on the driver except a description of a dark sedan that could have been
any of a thousand cars.

As if all of that wasn't bad enough, he'd let Delia have her way when
she'd insisted they come straight home.  Agaiu, he hadn't been using
his cop's good judgment.  At the time, he could only think about taking
her where she'd feel safe.  Still, he knew very well that this
apartment, even with all of her security measures, was the last place
she should seek refuge.  Both Benno and his wife would expect her to
come here.  Nick had tried to tell Delia that, but she wasn't being
rational fight now.  He could understand how shaken and terrified she
had to be.  He'd been pretty scared for her himself, too scared to be
as cool and calculating as he usually was on a case.  All he could
focus on was keeping her in the shelter of his arms from that corner of
Hester Street back here to her apartment.  Even now that they were
inside, with the locks engaged and the heavy drapes pulled shut, he
didn't want to let her go.  He wished he could hold on to her forever.
The startling nature of that thought was what finally allowed him to
step away from her side.

"We need to get the police involved now," he said after he had her
settled on the couch with a cup of hot tea in her hand and a blanket
tucked around her.  "No police," she said.

She'd been saying that from the first time he'd suggested it in the Sea
Grill.  She was even more adamant now.

"He tried to run you over with his car," Nick insisted just as
emphatically while he paced her small living room.  "By the way, was
that his car?"

"What?"

She looked up at him with a vague expression on her face, like she was
still too knocked off kilter by what had happened to comprehend his
words.  Nick forced his cop sense to overrule the urge to run to her
side and fold her into his arms again.  He'd done enough of that
already.  It was time for other, more deliberately defensive action
now.

"I asked if you recognized Benno's car."

"I guess so."  She sounded vague, too.  "I couldn't really be sure.  It
was dark."

He wouldn't argue with her while she was in such a frazzled state, but
they'd been beneath the streetlight.  Still, he.  let it pass for the
moment.

"If we went to the police, they could check out the exact model of his
car so we'd know if it fits the general description of the one we'd
seen tonight.  You do know what he drives, don't you?"

"We're not going to the police.  How many times do I have to say
that?"

Her hands were shaking again, hard enough to make the teacup rattle in
its saucer.

"Okay, okay," Nick said.  He'd have to change his approach here.  "Then
let me go after Benno at his home.  You said he lives out on Long
Island.  Right?"

"You're not going to do that.  You're going to stick with me and be my
bodyguard.  That's what I hired you to do.  It isn't your job to play
detective, or strong-arm man, either."

She sounded like she was back in control, as if the effort to make
herself heard by him was bringing her to her normal self again.  But
that wasn't what captured Nick's attention most.  What came through to
him loud and clear was the rightness of what she'd said about the
nature of his job.  A bodyguard stuck with the client first and
foremost.  He didn't go running off to hunt down the perp.  Nick might
have been a cop a long time ago, but he wasn't one anymore and hadn't
been for almost ten years.  There was no excuse for forgetting that.
The client and the client's wishes had priority, and that included
going along with her if she wanted to keep the law out of her business.
Many people who hire personal protection do so for just that reason, to
avoid official intrusion and inquiries into their private concerns.
Delia had every right to want that, too.

"You win," he said, and halted his pacing to sit down next to her on
the couch.  He took the cup and saucer from her and put them on" the
end table.  She'd taken only a sip or two, and the tea had gone cold.
"We won't go to the police, and I won't go after Benno.  But I am going
to insist on some other aggressive precautions."  "What would those
precautions be?"

She sounded strong again, more like herself.  Still, Nick would have
loved to put his arms around her once more.

"First of all, I want you to move out of this place for a while."

"Where would I go?"

"Don't you have some family somewhere?"

"No family," she said, pulling the blanket closer around her.

"What about all of those people over there?"

Nick gestured toward the photographs on the claw-looted table by the
window.  Once again, she didn't seem to comprehend what he was saying
to her.  She was apparently still more shaken than he'd thought, which
would be natural for somebody who narrowly sc aped death only an hour
ago.

"They're all too far away," she said after a moment, averting her eyes
from the photos, as if she couldn't stand to be reminded of the long
distance she was from home.  "Besides, I have no intention of leaving e
city."

He could hear that she was refusing to let this guy run her out of
town.  Nick had to admire and respect the courage of that conviction.

"Then we'll move you somewhere else in Manhattan for a few days.  Benno
may cool down some in the meantime."

"What kind of move are you thinking of?"  "Someplace where there's good
security, like a ho Nick had lived in hotels himself for so long that
it was almost automatic for him to think of them as a residence
alternative.  Delia didn't say anything.  She looked like she might be
allowing the idea to settle in.  At least, she didn't start right off
with a negative response as she had with his other suggestions.  He
shut his mouth and let her think quietly.  She could be very stubborn.
He'd already found that out about her.  Now that the shock of Hester
Street was wearing off and she was returning to normal, that
characteristic stubbornness could pop up like a wall between them at
any moment.  If he pushed her too hard, he could make that happen,
which was the last thing he wanted.

Nick settled back against the couch cushions and watched her clasp and
unclasp her hands in her lap.  She had beautiful hands, pale-skinned
and tapered and rather delicate.  That thought caught in Nick's
investigative mind like a piece of silk on a snag.  Were her hands
about the same size as the prints on the windowsill?  Was there any
possibility she could have made those marks herself?  If so, why would
she do that?

Nick shook himself mentally.  Exactly.  Why would she do that?  She had
no reason.  His automatically suspicious mind, long trained to find
deception everywhere, was working overtime again.  This was a case of
unrequited love gone haywire, with a jealous mate thrown in for good
measure.  The stalking lover angle was something of a different wrinkle
on the theme but not by much.  Stalkers were getting to be as
commonplace as outraged spouses these days.  Nick had no reason to read
anything more than that into this case.  Besides, now that he thought
about it, Delia's fingers were longer than the ones in the prints on
the windowsill and window.  He let himself dwell for a moment on how
much he'd like to cover those hands with his own and what her reaction
might be if he did.  He was still thinking about that when she finally
spoke.

"A hotel might be a good idea," she said.  "One of the first-class ones
where they keep a large security staff and a tight safety net because
they have so many high-powered guests."

She seemed to be musing to herself as much as she was talking to him.
Nick spoke quietly so as not to in-tern apt her thoughtful and, at
last, calmer mood.

"Did you have someplace specific in mind?"  he asked.

"The Waldorf," she said with the finality of someone who has come upon
the perfect solution to a problem.

Nick was stunned into silence for a moment.  He'd expected something a
little less grand.

"Wouldn't that be a bit pricey?"  he asked.  She was only an office
manager, after all.  How much money could she make?

"Pricey?"  She seemed to come suddenly back from wherever her mind had
been off to.  "Oh, I belong to the Hilton Club.  They give you free
nights and special rates.  The Waldorf's a Hilton Hotel now."

She would know about hotels, of course.  Shehad to put clients up in
them some limes As for the Hilton Club, Nick knew about frequent
traveler plans.  He wondered where she'd traveled to get enough points
for free nights in a place like the Waldorf.  Most of all, he couldn't
help wondering who'd taken those trips with her.  Could it have been
this Benno character?  He takes off on what he tells his wife is a
business junket and sneaks his other woman along.  Nick grimaced to
himself at the thought.  So far, he'd been doing a pretty good job of
keeping himself from connecting Delia sexually with Benno.  He didn't
want to start making those connections now.

"The Waldorf it is," Nick said.

DEt.  KNEW she'd almost blown her cover with that question about the
Waldorf.  So much was going on that she'd forgotten for a moment to
watch out for the details of her daily life cover story.  She was
generally careful to keep her spending habits realistic for her alleged
salary level, which wasn't difficult for her.  She was content with a
small, simple apartment.  She no longer wore jewels like the ones she'd
taken with her when she'd fled Colorado.  She'd used those expensive
trinkets to set herself up in business and begin a modest investment
portfolio.  Not bad for Becky Lester, a flighty twenty-something who
wasn't supposed to have a brain in her head.  As Delia Barry, she'd
taught herself to manage those investments wisely to build a solid
financial foundation.  Most of all, Delia had worked.  The result was
that she could well afford the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

On the other hand, for Della Marie, office functionary, such
accommodations would be more than a pinch.  Considering that, she'd
resisted the impulse to take a two-bedroom suite and booked them into
two regular, but adjoining rooms.

"We're all set," she said as she dashed around her apartment, throwing
things into one duffel and a single suit bag.

"Good.  I want to get out of here tonight."

"What about your things?  Or do you travel with what you can carry on
your back?"  L'ike some ancient vagabond or Old West cowboy, she
couldn't help thinking.

"I'll stop back at my place later to pick up my kit."  Delia decided he
might be the modern day version of a high plains drifter after all,
which gave her even more reason to want him installed in that adjoining
room.  She needed a hired gun on her side right now.  More than she
would have admitted out loud to him or anyone else, she was afraid.

She remembered this kind of fear as a version of what she'd experienced
that morning five years ago.  Her breath came high in the back of her
throat, and she could barely swallow over the dryness there.  At some
moments the fear would rev itself up to panic pitch, as if she were in
the middle of a nightmare not knowing which way to run since every
direction led to disaster.  All of her will and determination had to be
pressed into service to wrestle that frenzy back under control.
Otherwise chaos could break through onto the surface.  Then she was
actually likely to go darting off, this way and that, and back again.
Even with all of her control instincts engaged, she could feel her
breath high and shallow, as if she'd been doing that furtive dashing
about in more than just her imagination.

Nonetheless, she hated leaving her apartment, being chased out of the
home she'd made for hear self She'd felt safe there till now, tucked up
in her cozy nest of three warm rooms.  Unfortunately she wasn't safe
there any longer.  She understood that even more clearly than Nick did.
Whoever was after her had strong reasons for wanting her dead.  A pile
of money was at stake, multiples of her tidy investment portfolio and
PEI's profit margin combined.  Working for rich clients these past five
years made her very aware of how far some people will go to get their
hands on that kind of money and what lengths they will take to keep
from losing it.  She had no doubt at all that her pursuers, as soon as
they wangled a clear opportunity to do so, would kill her, and maybe
Nick, too.  Delia was not too proud to admit that thought terrified
her.

So she'd packed her bags to go into hiding, Her heart saddened as she
took one last look at the blue spruce still standing bare-branched in
her living room.  She'd so looked forward to arranging colored lights
and draping garland.  She'd also looked forward to doing that with some
company this year.  She could see Nick, in her mind's eye at least,
disentangling the light strings while she unpacked glass Christmas
balls from their tissue storage wrappings.  She imagined his chiseled
silhouette in the halo of twinkling tree lights and could most hear the
carols she played each Christmas Eve.  She'd played those carols all by
herself for several seasons now.  In the last twenty-four hours she'd
come to remember what it was like not to be by herself any longer.
She'd been lonely these past five years, some- :

times desperately so.  No amount of hard work and keeping busy could
cover up that reality.  Before yesterday, she might have been able to
tell herself she was settled into her hem it life and resigned to
staying there.  Tonight, she understood how untrue that was.  Thus,
trimming the tree had taken on even more importance for her than
usual.

FORTUNATELY, the Waldorf had gone out of its way to make the season
bright..  The grand chandelier in the foyer sparkled with light.  This
already majestic cascade of twinkling glass prisms had been left free
of holiday festoonery, but the rest.  of the foyer made up for that one
concession to simplicity.  SculptS.  shrubs in pots were wound around
with burgundy velvet and gold net sashing.  A tableau in motion
depicted an eighteenth-century street scene, circa the era of the
original Waldorf-Astoria.  Huge poinsettia plants in brass tureens
lined the railing above the marble entrance stairs.  Delia stopped for
a moment and turned almost full circle in the middle of the famous
Wheel of Life mosaic.  There it was--up on the balcony near the lobby
piano lounge--a lovely tree so tall it barely cleared the ceiling.  The
tree had been draped in more velvet sash, hung with large gilded
pinecones, then twined the full length in woven vines of winter
brown.

"Isn't it all so very beautiful," she breathed, hardly aware that at
the moment she sounded about eight years old.

"Yes, it is," Nick answered.

The stillness of his tone prompted her to complete her circling in his
direction.  He wasn't extolling the splendor of the foyer.  He was
looking directly at her, and she suspected he'd been doing so all
along.  Delia dropped

her glance and felt her cheeks warm in a blush that would have suited
the bonne ted young lady in the nearby Victorian tableau.  Delia had
noticed Nick admiring her before but never so openly as now.  Her long
winter overcoat was suddenly too warm beneath his gaze.  She fumbled to
undo the buttons as she walked toward the main lobby with more haste
than might have been usual for a place as genteel as the Waldorf.  The
events of the past twenty-four hours had consumed her mind so
completely that she'd had little time for pondering the present much
less the past.  Even in their few tranquil moments she'd kept herself
from thinking much about the fact that she'd once been infatuated
enough with Nick to want him for her lover.  Now she had to stifle an
impulse toward panic, as she realized how difficult it might be to
continue suppressing that past desire with the two of them staying in
the same hotel together, only a door's width apart.

Chapter Eight

All the time.  the bellman was fussing about to get Delia settled, she
couldn't take her eyes off the door to the adjoining room.  She let the
bellman open her bag and hang up her clothes.  She always did that kind
of thing for herself, but the longer he stayed here, the longer it
would be before she had to deal with that door and the man on the other
side of it.  In the confined space of the elevator on the way up to
this floor, she'd found Nick more attractive than ever against the rich
glow of mahogany and polished brass.  She'd reacted exactly this same
way to him five years ago.  She'd hoped she would have outgrown that by
now, especially since she prided herself on being an in-control person
these days.  Yet, there she was in that elevator, in such an intense
state of agitation she had to step backward out of his visual range in
case her discomfort might show.  She'd greeted the arrival of their
floor with profound relief.  Now, being in the same room with that
adjoining door promised to make the elevator ride seem like child's
play.

A tune danced through her head.  "I've been lonely too long."  Not
exactly a holiday carol, but apropos to the moment to be sure.

Meanwhile, the bellman had finished hanging her clothes from the suit
bag and was unzipping her duffel.  "That's okay," she said.  I'll1 take
care of those."  She couldn't have a stranger unpacking her underwear,
no matter how much she needed thee company.  She went to the bed where
she'd left her shoulder bag and fumbled for her wallet and a tip big
enough to guarantee good service during her stay here but not so big as
to appear ostentatious.  Where had she learned to make that
distinction?  Her hand froze on the smooth leather of her wallet.  Her
father taught her that.  "Are you all right, miss?"  The bellman's
concerned tone brought Delia back to the present scene.  She could all
but see herself, freeze-framed still as a statue, staring into space
with her hand stuck in her bag.  "Fine," she said, though that
definitely was not true.  She pulled a bill from her wallet and handed
it to the bellman.  "Thanks for your help."  She tried her best to
arrange her face into what would be considered an ap-pro priam
expression.  Unfortunately at the moment she couldn't quite recall what
that appropriate expression might be.  The bellman glanced
surreptitiously down at his palm and said, "Thankyou."  His tone made
Delia wonder about the size of the bill she'd given him.  At least Nick
Avery had managed to make one person happy today.  As for herself, Nick
appeared to be turning her into an airhead more decidedly by the
minute.  In direct contradiction to what she'd been thinking only
moments ago, she was now relieVed when the bellman walked out the door
and left her -by- herself.  It occurred to her that she'd handled Nick
s presence better when they were about to be run down by a car.  When
they were in peril, she was out on the edge of her nerve endings
without time or inclination to think about what the rest of her psyche,
not to mention her hormones, was doing.  The mistake was to allow
herself to feel relatively safe as she did now.  That put her in a
different kind of danger.

First of all, she was being assaulted by the past, by pieces of the
personal history she'd taught herself to keep under wraps so she
wouldn't have to feel the pain.  Her father was one of those painful
memories she kept carefully compartmentalized.  That way, she didn't
have to think about how much she'd loved him and what a joy it would be
to have him with her now as she felt her own strength wobble beneath
her like legs after a sea voyage.  He'd been the rock the sea smashed
against but never budged.  He would know what to do in this situation.
That thought stopped Delia in her tracks yet again.  What would he have
told her to do here?  what did she remember him telling her to do, time
and time again from when she was barely tall enough to see over his
knee till the day his helicopter made its final takeoff?

"Lead with the truth, and you'll walk a straight path," he would say.

The past five years had hardly been a straight path for her, dodging
off at a tangent into the shadows whenever anyone came too close,
giving crooked answers to what for other people were simple, forthright
questions.  Now she was hip-deep in a lie to Nick.  She needed his help
desperately.  Yet she couldn't be truthful with him about why she
needed his help.  Even more frustrating, was the impossibility of
letting him know how she really felt about him.  Most women had to
worry about wearing their hearts on their sleeves for fear the

men in their lives might run for the hills.  Delia's fear was that, if
Nick knew the truth about who she was, he might run to the police.
Nonetheless, all of a sudden she was struck by the impulse to charge
over to that adjoining door, knock on it until he appeared, then tell
him the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  To her credit, she
still had just enough brain cells functioning to know what a bad move
that kind of full disclosure would be.  She headed for the exit into
the hallway instead and almost made it there.

If Delia had been less upset by the presence of the door into Nick's
room, she probably wouldn't have jumped and screamed when it opened
just as she was passing.  Unfortunately, for the status of her dignity
at least, jump and scream was precisely what she did.  Even more
unfortunately, she jumped straight into Nick's arms.  Then, as if she
must be totally intent upon making herself look like an utter fool, she
began struggling like mad to escape his grasp.  He'd clasped her by the
shoulders, maybe to keep her from knocking him down when she leapt upon
him.  She twisted her body furiously back and forth, as if trying to
extricate herself from a tight place.  The harder she twisted, the
harder he gripped.

"Delia, it's me," he said.

If he meant that to be reassuring he was having the opposite effect,

"Let go of me," she said, and struggled on.  "Delia, it's Nick."

The awareness was dawning that he thought she'd mistaken him for the
alleged psycho boyfriend or his outraged wife and believed she was
being accosted.  She might have corrected that misapprehension, but he
didn't give her the chance.  He clamped his arms around her, pulled her
close to his chest and began stroking her hair.

"Call down," he said.  "You're safe here with me."  He obviously
intended to soothe her with those words and his ministrations to her
hair.  Even she understood how bewildered he had to be when she reacted
as she did.

"Get your hands off me.  I know who you are, and I want your hands off
me."

Between that vehement cry and his releasing her, a few seconds lapsed
during which he was most likely attempting to figure out what
particular bee she might have in her bonnet now.  Then he let her go
and stepped back, almost into the door that was still ajar to the next
room.  He lifted his palms at arm's length between them, either as a
placating gesture or to protect himself against what must have seemed
to him the unaccountable fury that had her trembling visibly in front
of him.

"See?"  he said, spreading his extended arms wider.  "My hands are off.
Will you call down now and tell me what has you so rattled?  Did
something happen?"

The confusion in his eyes was probably what brought Delia back to terra
firma.  He hadn't a clue what was going on here.  Not a breath of an
intimation of a hint of what she was feeling about him had entered his
mind, which made her want to laugh.  If she hadn't bitten her lip at
that very moment, so hard she could almost taste her own blood, she
would in fact have broken into peals of hilarity on the spot.  Thank
heaven she had her wits sufficiently about her to understand that there
would have been more hysteria in that laughter than she wanted Nick, or
even herself, to hear.  Also, at the same instant, she was being moved
toward tears.  If he hadn't guessed how attracted she was to him a good
deal of the reason could be because he felt no such attraction to her,
which made her want to cry.

"I'm not rattled," she said in a defiant tone, all the time knowing
this to be one of the most absurd statements she'd ever made.

There he was' seeing everything again, when she knew for an absolutely
incontrovertible truth that he saw nothing.  Her fury threatened to
reignite, If she permitted that to happen, she'd be in danger of coming
off as a complete crazy woman.

"I need to get out of this room," she said.  She was forcing herself to
appear calm, which, for some unfathomable reason, made her voice come
out in what most closely resembled a squeak.

"Where did you have in mind to go?"

He was still watching her carefully, but his expression had gravitated
from bewilderment to wariness.

"Go?"  she squeaked as if that might be the most ridiculous question
she'd ever heard.  She cleared her throat before speaking again and
managed to bring her pitch down half an octave or so.  "I had no
specific destination in mind.  I thought maybe I'd just wander around
the hotel for a while."

"To get your bearings and scout the premises?"  "Exactly."

She was grateful that he'd come up with such a rational explanation.
Despite her father's sage advice, she'd have been hard-pressed to tell
the truth fight now.  How could she admit that, in point of fact, the
mere sight of a door had sent her plummeting headlong in the opposite
direction from rationality.  Such a confession was definitely not the
way to go in her quest to knit together the remaining threads of her
dignity.

"Fine," he said, "but I have to go with you."  "You do?"  She wished
she couldn't hear how silly that sounded.  "I'm your bodyguard.
Remember?  A bodyguard covers the body."  Delia managed only a nod in
response to that as she headed the rest of the way to the hail way
door, wishing he hadn't chosen quite those words.

NICK X NO idea what could be wrong with Delia.  He only knew he
shouldn't leave her alone.  When she took off down the hall out of her
room, he followed.  She was walking so fast he had to hustle to keep
up.  Luckily for them, the corridor was empty or she would definitely
have attracted more attention than was wie to do.  They were here to
hide, after all, not to be noticed.  Their outfits might have gotten
them more attention than he preferred even without Delia darting off
down the hall as if she had the devil on her tail.  They certainly
didn't look like they belonged at the Waldorf.  He would have changed
clothes if he'd had the chance to stop back at his hotel.  There'd been
no time for that so he still had on his jeans and dark sweater.  He'd
left his jacket in his room.  At least, Delia'd taken off those
hobnailed boots she'd worn to Hester Street.  The pair she was wearing
now were made of soft, black leather that hugged her narrow foot and
had a short, square heel.  She'd gotten rid of the sweatshirt and
patched jeans, too, which was probably a good idea, though he missed
how endearing she'd looked in them.  Before leaving her apartment,
she'd put on a sweater, also soft and also black and very well made. 
He guessed it was cashmere.  The red in her hair shone against the dark
wool as she hurried toward the elevators.

He wanted to tell her to slow down and think through what she was doing
and where she was going, but he could see she was still very agitated.
She clutched her arms around herself and stared impatiently at the
floor indicator as they waited for the elevator.  She shifted from one
foot to the other and bit her lip.  She was obviously not in a frame of
mind to be reasoned with right now.  He didn't have to be an expert on
human nature to figure that out.  Nick kept his mouth shut and followed
her into the elevator when it finally arrived.

They weren't alone.  A thirty-something couple stood at the back of the
car.  Nick smiled to reassure them that they weren't suddenly in the
company of Bonnie and Clyde.  The couple had their coats on as if they
planned to go outside.  They looked like they were from out of town.
The woman had on too much jewelry for the casual outfit she was
wearing, and especially for the streets of Manhattan.  Most men might
not notice such things.  Careful observation was part of Nick'S
training and his job, as was making judgments and deductions about the
people he and his clients encountered.

He was tempted to tell this woman to go back to her room, take off some
of that jewelry and make the rest less conspicuous if she was going out
onto the street.  He resisted the, impulse.  He was here to take care
of Delia and nobody else, which was proving to be a very full-time
assignment.  Besides, this woman probably wouldn't appreciate his
advice anyway.  She most likely wouldn't listen, either.  She'd just
finished looking Delia's simple, understated outfit up and down with
obvious distaste.  The woman shifted her gaze to Nick.  He saw a flash
of approval in her eyes as she checked him out from his boots on up.
Still, he suspected she wouldn't consider either himself or Della a
reliable fashion consultant.

They rode down to the lobby level in silence.  Nick took note that
Della had managed to calm the more blatant signals of her agitated
state, probably for the benefit of the couple in the elevator.  She
stepped briskly out of the car after the doors slid open.  Nick waited
to see which way she'd go--to the left and the foyer at the front of
the hotel or to the right and the main reception area.  There were
cocktail lounges in both directions and restaurants, too.  Nick was
definitely hungry.  He hoped one of those restaurants was on Delia's
itinerary.  He was about to take a chance on reigniting her frenzy.  by
suggesting they get something to eat, when she began behaving in what
he considered a bizarre manner once more.

She'd stepped to the side of the elevator do r and put her thumb on the
call button, apparently to keep the car from moving, as if she were a
hotel employee in charge of making sure the door stayed open while
guests

Red.  She stood like that, almost patiently, as the tourist couple
walked out.  The woman glanced back as they continued toward the front
foyer.  She leaned toward the man she was with to say something, and he
glanced back, too.  They turned away again, both shaking their heads.
Nick could all but hear them pegging Delia and himself as New York
weirdos who were way out of their element at the Waldorf.

Meanwhile, Delia was doing something that made even Nick think that the
tourist couple might be right in their judgment, at least of her.
Instead of walking in one direction or another along the lobby, she'd
stepped back into the elevator.  The door began to close, probably
because she now had her finger on the button to make it do that.  Nick
slipped through the narrowing opening just in time to keep from being
either crushed between the doors or left in the lobby.  She pushed a
floor button.  He looked at the panel.  Number four was lighted.  He
wondered if she had a specific destination in mind.  He didn't ask.
He'd decided that the best approach was to let her calm down all the
way.  Movement, wherever it might lead them, could have that calming
effect.  Being interrogated would not.

She'd already cooled down some.  The pinkish heat of excitement that
had colored her throat and reddened her cheeks was subsiding.  Nick
found himself unable to turn his gaze away from the place where her
black sweater met the white skin of her neck.  He thought at first that
the beauty of the contrast had him mesmerized, but there was something
more.  He couldn't quite put his finger on what this particular sight
stirred in him.  He pressed his memory for the connection, but the
elevator stopped at the fourth floor before he had an answer.

Delia was out the door almost instantly at a furious pace, maybe in
pursuit of whatever peace of mind she hoped these opulent corridors
might have to offer.  Nick understood that impulse.  She wanted her
life back.  When some crazy was after you, that's what it" felt
like--as if your life had been, not just invaded, but stolen from you.
Nick had heard other clients talk about having such feelings, and the
rage and frustration that went with them.  He suspected Delia might be
feeling the same thing right now.  If that sent her charging through
hotel hallways like she'd been shot from a cannon, he was willing to
trail along.  Still, he was relieved when she slowed a few yards beyond
the elevator door and allowed him to catch up.

"You may be wondering why I've gathered us together here this evening,"
she said when he joined her.

Her voice was surprisingly unemotional considering her behavior since
they'd left her room.  She wasn't smiling so Nick didn't recognize
right away that she was making a joke.  He stared at her for a moment,
wondering what she could be talking about.  Then he got the picture.

"Yes," he said.  "I was wondering that very thing."  "I'll bet you
were."

She still wasn't smiling, but she had definitely calmed down, even
rediscovered her sense of humor.  Nick allowed himself to relax just a
little.  Then she did something even more unexpected than her previous
dashing around.  She linked her arm through his and began walking down
the hall at a normal pace.

"We're a nice couple from somewhere sane, like Tennessee or Texas or
Idaho," she was saying.  "We've come to New York City for the holidays,
and right now we're exploring this fancy hotel we've checked into."

Nick understood that she was defining their cover--what they should try
to look like to other people.  He could also hear the nostalgia in her
tone, as if she might be wishing their circumstances really were so
innocent and uncomplicated.  They passed a wide mirror on the corridor
wall and he stole a glance into it.  They certainly did look like they
could be that nice couple she described.  He was only a little
surprised to hear his own thoughts whisper a wish as nostalgic as she
sounded.  Nick allowed himself only an instant of that.  He had to keep
alert to the present, and that also didn't mean thinking about how he
could feel the soft warmth of her breast brush against his upper arm as
they walked along.

He turned himself determinedly away from that sensation, and that was
when he sensed something very different.  He suddenly had the feeling
they were being followed.  He turned around and looked behind them.  He
didn't let go of her arm.  Luckily, she was on his left side, which
kept his weapon hand free.  The gun in his back waistband was within
easy reach.  He was ready to go for it if he had to, but his backward
glance revealed no need for such drastic action.  The corridor was
empty, just as it had been when they passed through it.  Doorways led
off to one side.  He'd already figured out that this must be the
conference room level of the hotel.  Those double doorways had all been
closed when he and Delia walked by, and there was no sound coming from
beyond any of them.  The only noise he could hear was in the other
direction, the way they were headed but far off and not threatening.

"Is something wrong?"  Delia asked.

His survey of the corridor behind them had disturbed their strolling
pace.  He felt her body begin to tense again beneath his arm.  He
didn't want that.  Maybe the bodyguard manual would say it was good for
a client to be scared onto her toes when she was a mark, but Delia'd
been on her toes for so long now she was about ready to topple over.

"Just checking out the neighborhood.  All's clear," he said, and hoped
that was true.

Chapter Nine

Delia had been walking hallways and turning corners blindly ever since
they left the elevator.  She hoped Nick had some idea where they were
now because she dlcin't.  She'd have asked him about that, but she was
afraid her voice would break.  She didn't intend to let Nick know how
shaken just being in the same corridor with him made her feel.
Squeaking like a boy at puberty was sum to reveal exactly that, so she
kept her mouth shut and silently hoped his compass was working better
than hers at the moment.

Delia's agitation really began back at her apartment when he asked
about the people in the photos on her window table.  He naturally
assumed they were her family.  She'd wished she could blurt out the
whole pathetic story of how she'd found those pictures in a box of old,
framed photographs at a secondhand store and bought them for a dollar
or two apiece.  She hadn't known why she was doing that at the time, at
least not consciously.  When she got them home, she'd washed the glass
and polished the brass frames till they gleamed.  She'd set them up on
that table with the window light behind them.  She knew they weren't
her actual family, of course, but it was easier to look at their

faces than to remember the read ones and how much pain went along with
those memories.  She recognized now, more than she'd let herself
before, how pitiful such a story would sound, especially to a man like
Nick.  Maybe that's why, when she heard music cOming from down the
hotel corridor ahead of them she took off, all but running toward the
distraction.

A short flight of st aim brought them closer to the sound.  She caught
a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the stairs then looked quickly
away.  Her cheeks were too flushed, and her eyes were too bright.  She
had the appearance of being just a little crazed, but that wasn't what
made her turn her glance away.  Nick was only a couple of steps behind
her.  She saw concern in his eyes, and that made her feel more unhinged
than ever.

At the bottom of the stairs and to the left was a ballroom with the
double doom opened wide.  A holiday party was in full swing inside. The
massive crystal chandelier that hung from the center of the frescoed
ceding had been targeted by rotating red and green gel lights in the
corners of the room.  The chandelier facets twinkled as if they'd been
set dancing in the colors of the season.  A garland of live greenery
bordered the doorway with clutches of red velvet and gold glass balls
at each angle and in the center.  Delia looked up to find herself
directly beneath a spray of mistletoe.

"That's a dangerous place to stand, young lady," a male voice said.

By the time Delia realized it wasn't Nick speaking, she had already
leapt into the ballroom, out of range of those sprigs of green leaves
and white berries and what they represented.  She was much too
unsettled by Nick to take a chance on mistletoe.

"Come on in," the man said.

That brought Delia back to her senses enough to tell her she had just
crashed a private party.  "Sorry," she stammered.  "I just heard the
music, and--" "There's nothing to be sorry about," the man interrupted,
smiling broadly.  "The more, the merrier.  Please, join us."  "Oh, we
couldn't do that.  This is a private party, and we-- " " "You can do
anything I say," he interrupted again.  "This is a company party, and I
own the company."  He was a portly gentleman in his late fifties or
sixties.  From the cut of the expensive suit he was wearing, he
certainly could be who he said he was.  He took Delia's arm and turned
back toward Nick who was standing in the doorway looking as if he might
be wondering what to do next.  "Please, come along, too, young man,"
their self-appointed host called out to Nick.  "You and your lovely
companion are most welcome."  Nick hesitated.  His glance moved from
the man's jovial smile to Delia's face.  She wasn't quite smiling, but
she hoped her eyes told him how much she wanted to accept the
invitation and pretend to be a normal person doing normal things, if
only for a little while.  "I suppose there's no harm in it," Nick said
as he took a step over the threshold.  "No harm in it?"  their host
exclaimed.  "It's the best thing possible.  There's nothing like a
party to put you in the spirit of the season."  He took Delia's hand
and held it out to Nick.  "You two have a good time.  That's an order.
I must be off now to take care of a few things.  You help yourselves to
the buffet while I'm gone."

He gestured toward the tables on either side of the doorway, laden with
chafing dishes and platters brimming with food.  In that instant Delia
was suddenly aware of how long it had been since she'd eaten.  She
would have thought she was too upset to be hungry.  Her stomach growled
in denial of that assumption.  She was ravenous.  Nick must be, too,
maybe even more so.  A man his size needed to fortify himself
regularly, but she'd kept him running so fast there'd been no
opportunity to stop for a meal.  She grabbed his hand even before he
could take hers and began leading him toward the nearest buffet
table.

"Thank you," she said, remembering her manners.  Delia turned toward
their generous host, but he was scurrying off out of the double doors
into the chandelier-lit foyer.  He stopped and whispered something to a
younger man outside the doorway who glanced back toward Delia and Nick
then nodded and started toward them.  Maybe this was some kind of joke
or mistake and they were about to be tossed out into the gleaming
parquet foyer on their ears.  Delia halted her beeline for the food and
wondered what should be her next move as the young man bore down on
them from the doorway.  Nick must have been apprehensive, as well,
because he stepped between Delia and the approaching stranger but
didn't let go of her hand.

"Hi, there," the young man said with such obvious good cheer that Delia
couldn't help but relax.  "The boss says you're his special guests and
that you're under strict orders to eat, drink and be merry."

He held out his hand for Nick to shake.  Delia saw Nick hesitate and
sensed what must be going on in his head.  Then he took the young man's
hand and shook it firmly.

"My name's Rudy," the young man said.  "Let me know if you need
anything.  There's no arguing with the boss, so you'd better have
fun."

"Thanks a lot," Nick said.  "We will."

Delia couldn't tell if he meant that or was just being polite.  Rudy
seemed to interpret it as a cue that his job was done here.  He smiled
and nodded before taking off into the foyer after his boss.  Delia
looked up at Nick.  He was still holding her hand.  His grip was light
and warm with no insistence in it.  Still, she knew she couldn't have
let go no matter how hard she tried.

"I say we should take Rudy at his word," Nick said.  "I could clear
both of those buffet tables all by myself and have room left over for
dessert."

"Me, too," Delia said.

This time, he was in the lead toward the food.  She followed, wondering
how she might fill her plate and still keep on holding his hand.

NICK COULDN'T remember when he'd ever been so hungry, but that wasn't
why he'd decided to let them stay.  Everything he knew about being a
bodyguard told him they should get out of here.  This was a roomful of
strangers with more strangers wandering in and out at will.  He'd tried
to keep track of the entrance, but he didn't really know who he was
watching for.  Delia had described this Clyde Benno character.
According to her, he was tall and blondish and pretty big.  Aside from
that, Nick's only clue to Benno's identity would be any suspicious
behavior, such as somebody checking the room out too closely or a guy
who didn't seem to belong.  Of course, nobody filled that description
better than Nick himself.  His jeans and sweater stood out like a neon
sign in this suited-up crowd.  He fit here about as comfortably as a
right hand in a left glove, though it was just the opposite with Delia.
She'd put these dressed-to-kill women to shame any day no matter what
she had on.

Delia was the reason Nick had made the risky decision to let them stick
around here for a while.  She'd been under so much strain these past
couple of days that he was amazed she hadn't collapsed into exhaustion
hours ago.  Instead she forged on, maybe too much so.  The way she'd
gone darting off a while back, up and down.  hotel corridors, had him
worried.  She reminded him of a spring wound too tight and well on the
road to snapping.  She needed the release of being here at this party
for a while.  He'd have to watch her back every minute, but seeing her
almost relaxed for a change was worth it.  He didn't have much real
choice in the matter anyway.  She'd looked" up at him with her eyes
shining so bright they cast the crystal chandelier overhead into
shadow.  At that moment Nick would have done anything, gone anywhere,
for her, All she had to do was ask.

Besides, he was starved.  The thought of going back upstairs and
waiting even half an hour for room service would be his idea of agony
right now.  He'd often marveled at how some women can go what seems
like forever without eating and not show a sign of hunger.  Delia'd
been doing that all night, unless she had a snack stashed away in her
pocket, and those jeans of hers fit a little too tight to hide much of
anything.  Even the jolly old guy who'd pulled them in here had noticed
that.  He'd checked her out up and down once at least, though without
making it obvious.  In fact, just about every man in this room had
given her the once over.  Most beautiful women lived for that kind of
attention and just about glowed when they got it.  Delia had a
different kind of light inside her.  That was how Nick would describe
it, anyway, and she was all the more lovely because she didn't seem to
know it was there.

He told himself he shouldn't be thinking about her this way, but he
couldn't stop such thoughts of her from popping into his head every
time he looked at her.  He reminded himself that her direction wasn't
where he should be watching.  He scanned the room again.  Nothing had
changed.  On the raised center of the floor, couples were dancing to
the music spun by a DJ set up in a corner of the room.  More couples
and singles talked and laughed at the tables surrounding the dance
floor.  Nick and Delia were among the few still eating.  The rest of
the gathering had moved past the supper stage and were getting down to
just plain enjoying themselves.  Now that Nick had finished a plate of
food, he could also feel the party vibes in the air.  He gave himself
one more reminder that he was here to do a job, not to have a good
time.  Sitting beside Delia made him far too susceptible to forgetting
that.

"Let's dance," she said suddenly.

Nick stared at her, as if she might have been speaking an unfamiliar
language.

"You know," she said.  "Dancing.  That's where two people get out on
the floor and move around in time to the music."

The teasing tone of her voice tickled the edge of his memory, like
something he'd heard before but made himself forget.

"Dance with me," she said, tugging his arm.

The teasing tone was gone, replaced by her usual insistent one.
Whatever association had jogged his mere ory for a moment was gone now
as she did her best to drag him out of his chair and he did his best to
resist.  "I'm really not much of a dancer," he protested.

"Come on now.  You have to be an old hand at parties like this. They're
part of your job description."

"That's true."  He was forever shadowing some rich client to one social
event or another.  "But I'm there as a watchdog, not a participant."

"Tonight's different," she said, and kept on tug It sure is, Nick
thought to himself.  He couldn't take his eyes off the pink of her
cheeks, against the ivory delicacy of the rest of her face.  She was
radiant.  He had no will to do anything but follow that radiance up out
of his chair and onto the dance floor.  He was glad they were playing a
fast song.  He didn't trust himself to touch her fight now.  Chubby
Checker shouted from the speakers for them to do the twist.  Nick
managed an approximation of that while he surveyed the other dancers on
the floor and the people still at the tables.  He didn't see anything
unusual.  He was registering that with some relief and thinking that
they shouldn't stay at this party much longer, when he glanced at
Delia.  What he saw had him all but mesmerized in an instant.

She was dancing, but not to an amateur's stab at the beat like he was.
Her hips swiveled exactly as they were supposed to for this dance, but
her way of swiveling was more exotic than any version of the twist he'd
ever seen.  In his mind, he could hardly put together Delia Made Barry,
marching along in an uptight business' suit with the woman in front of
him who moved as if the music was coming out of her bones instead of
the speakers.  Nick felt himself suddenly almost not breathing as her
body swayed dangerously close to his.  His hands itched to grab her
twisting hips and pull them against him.  He'd know how to twist to the
music then, when he could feel her body grinding into his the way he
could already feel her moving in his blood.

He was almost at the point of reaching out and doing exactly what he
fantasised when the music subsided just enough to let him hear the
small voice niggling at the edge of his brain.  That voice said he was
way out of line here, and Nick knew it was true.  He tore his gaze from
her body, though he needed all of his willpower to do it.  The image of
her breasts, round and firm beneath her sweater, remained in his vision
even after he stopped looking at them.  The picture faded only because
of what he was finally able to register in her face.

Her expression was as absorbed by the music as her body.  She looked
what he could only describe as transported.  Her eyes had drifted half
shut as if she were gazing somewhere deep inside herself and wasn't
really in this place at this moment.  Her lips were parted in a way
that struck Nick like a lightning bolt, straight to the stomach then
downward.  Her face was even more tan-talL zing than her body, but he
wasn't thinking about looking away this time.  He was remembering. He'd
known only one woman who danced this way, only one other woman sensual
enough to feel music in the very center of herself and be transported
by it, and she had been little more than a girl at the time.

"Merry Christmasl Ho, ho, ho!  Merry Christmas!"  The big, jolly voice
boomed from the doorway and shot like a cannonball through Nick's
tormented thoughts.  Santa Claus had just burst into the ballroom with
a green-clad, oversize elf in his wake.  Nick commanded one hundred
percent of his attention back to the present, and gradually his senses
obeyed.  Nothing activated his natural suspiciousness like people in
costumes.  He stepped in front of Delia as the crowd parted to make way
for Santa and his helper to get to the center of the room.  Santa was
carrying a very large sack.  He could have anything in there, up to and
including an AK-47.  Nick reached behind him and grabbed Delia's arm so
he could pull her closer and know exactly where she was.  The music had
changed from rock and roll to "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town," but Nick
wasn't really listening.  He was too busy trying to watch Santa and the
rest of the people in the room while sidling himself and Delia away
from the center of the crowd around the fat man in the red suit.

"It's him," Delia exclaimed as she pulled against

Nick and back toward the center of the dance floor.  "Where?"

Nick's free hand went automatically to the back of his waistband.  His
first thought was that she'd spotted Clyde Benno.  Nick never drew his
gun in a crowded place if he could help it, but he was ready all the
same.

"Right there," she said.  She didn't sound scared, only excited. "Santa
Claus is the man who said he owned this company, and Rudy's playing his
elf."  She laughed in a peal that sounded like holiday bells.  "Look,
Nick."  She tugged his arm.  "Rudy's painted his nose red.  Get it? 
Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer?  Except he's Rudy the Red-Nosed Elf."

Nick stared at Santa, then at his elf, then at Delia who had pulled out
from behind him.  She had a smile on her face as wide and full of joy
as a kid on Christmas morning.  Nick did get it then.  He heaved a sigh
of relief and let himself relax a little, though he still kept a sharp
watch as Rudy held the bag open and Santa pulled out packages.  Gifts
wrapped in red went to the men, and the ones wrapped in gold were for
the women.  Nick tried to hold Delia back, then gave up and went along
as she followed the throng toward Santa who was ho-hoing up a storm and
obviously enjoying his role.

"Merry Christmas, young lady," he chortled merrily as he handed Delia
her gold package.

"Thank you, Santa," she piped as she planted a kiss on his ruddy
cheek.

Santa colored even ruddier.  "Thank you, my dear," he said, and pressed
a red-wrapped parcel into Nick's hand without really looking at him.

She even captivates Saint Nick, he thought, suddenly aware that he had
the same name as this chubby old figure.  Delia was opening her gift in
the meantime, as if she could hardly wait to see what Santa had left
under the tree.  Nick felt her childlike eagerness with a pang that
caught in his throat.  Suddenly he understood something about her that
hadn't come clear till this moment.  She was lonely.  At the same
instant he admitted something about himself, as well, more pointedly
than he'd ever done.  He was lonely, too.  Out of that awareness his
heart reached for hers.

He would have taken her in his arms right then, but she had stepped
away from him.  The gold ribbon and wrapping were off her package now,
floating forgotten to the dance floor as she stared at what she was
holding in her hand--a gold pasteboard box with the top removed.  All
Nick could make out was the fringe of white tissue paper she had pulled
aside to reveal the box's contents.  He was pushing past people to get
to her side when he heard the sound she made, somewhere between a cry
and a moan.  Then she was running toward

the double doors.  As Nick headed after her, someone took his arm.

"Is something wrong?"  Rudy asked, looking concerned.

"I don't know."

Nick moved to pull away, but Rudy didn't let go.  "Is she sick?  Should
I call the house doctor?"  Rudy was obviously in charge of putting
things right in Santa's kingdom, and he was persistent at doing his
job.  Nick shook his arm off all the same.

"She had to go to the ladies" room," he said for want of a better
excuse.  He had to be after Delia before she could get very far away.
Still, he didn't want Rudy to follow them.  Delia was a client first
and foremost.  That meant Nick's job was to shield her from prying
eyes, no matter how well intentioned they might be.  "We have to be
leaving now.  Thanks for everything."

Nick forced himself to stay calm and avoid attracting further attention
as he moved purposefully toward the door.  He barely heard the "Ho, ho,
ho," still booming from the center of the ballroom.

Chapter Ten

Delia clutched the small, gold box to her chest and kept her tears from
falling.  All she could think of was getting to her room where she
could be alone and let the feelings come tumbling out.  She didn't dare
look again at the contents of the box.  She didn't dare even think
about those contents.  If she did that, she'd be lost.  The tears and
the memories would be unleashed and stopping them would no longer be
possible.  She must make it to the sanctuary of her room before she
could allow that to happen.

Fortunately, there was nobody in the foyer to see her scrambling exit
from the ballroom.  They were all back inside, clustered around Santa
or opening their gifts.  Even Nick hadn't yet followed her out of
there.  She knew she should wait for him to catch up, but she simply
had to make her escape.

She glanced up at the parade of chandeliers on the ceiling of the wide'
corridor leading away from the ballroom.  Potted palms lined the
mirrored walls.  The ceiling was high, arched and vaulted, with
paintings like those in the ballroom.  The black and white squares of
tiled floor reflected the glittering chandeliers.  This was one of the
most elegant places Delia had ever seen, more of a showcase than a
place to hide.

She turned right, back up the stairway that had first led her and Nick
to the party in the ballroom.  Those stairs felt steeper and appeared
to be at least twice as numerous as they had when she was hurrying down
them toward sounds of holiday merriment.  She could hardly wait to get
away from that merriment now.  She was climbing so hastily her foot
slipped on the carpeted step and she had to grab the handrail to steady
herself.  She kept a tight grip on that rail as she continued to climb.
Otherwise she might have lost her balance straight off when the man
lunged at her.

She hadn't noticed him coming up the stairs behind her.  She'd been too
deeply immersed in the welter of her thoughts to notice much of
anything.  Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, he was bearing down on her.
She recognized him instantly as the same man who'd chased her through
Rockefeller Plaza the other night.  She'd seen his face more clearly
than she realized at the time.  The face looming over her was
unmistakably the same, except for the eyes that were far more
frightening than could have been detected at a distance.  He'd seemed
ordinary in appearance then, though taller than average.  She could see
now that his eyes were also anything but average.  They were wide open
and round and staring with something not quite sane at their center.
She knew for certain that she'd never seen him before the other night,
and that made him even more terrifying somehow.

"You won't get away this time," he said.

His voice was pitched low, but he couldn't have been more menacing.  if
he'd shouted.  The corners of his mouth turned up in a parody of a
smile.  That, along with the eyes, gave him a maniacal look that made
Delia want to turn and run back down the stairs.  Unfortunately she
couldn't manage that without letting go of the handrail.  Instinct told
her he was hoping she'd do just that.  Then he'd push her backward,
down onto the hard parquet floor at the bottom of the stairs.  She held
her ground and her grip on the rail.  She didn't let go of the gold
box, either.  She wouldn't relinquish her precious gift without.  a
fight.  Instead she lifted the box in a menacing movement of her own.

"Get out of my way," she said.

She was surprised by the strength of her voice considering" that she
could feel her legs trembling beneath her.  His lunatic stare moved
from her face to her raised hand and lingered there a moment, as if he
couldn't believe she was nervy enough to try threatening him with a
flimsy, pasteboard box.

"I told you to get out of my way," she repeated even more firmly.

He returned his glance to her face and chuckled.  He didn't move away
as she'd commanded.  He leaned closer and unwittingly gave her the
opportunity she needed.  At this angle he was slightly off balance. She
saw that and launched her attack.  The open box sc ended It might have
appeared a futile missile except that she knew what was inside, still
exposed between the sheaves of tissue paper she hadn't taken time to fe
wrap when she'd hurried from the ballroom.

The edge of the object in the box caught him, as she'd hoped it would,
just below the temple.  The red blood was so quick to appear there that
Delia was startled by it, but not sufficiently startled to miss her
chance.  He teetered on the stair just long enough for her to let go of
the rail and push, hard as she could at his chest.  He had one hand up
to touch the wound on his forehead.  Maybe that was what kept him from
maintaining his stance.  He staggered toward the opposite wall of the
stairwell.

She brushed past him, retrieved the box and bolted up the stairs, fully
expecting him to grab her arm or even her ankle at any moment.  She'd
let go of the handrail.  Hanging on would have slowed her down so she
took the risk of letting go.  The Smooth soles of her boots slid
precariously over the carpeting.  She pushed on, leaning forward both
to propel herself in that direction and to keep from falling backward
down the stairs.  With each step, she was certain he would overtake her
and was astonished that he didn't.  Then she heard the reason why--the
sounds of muttered oaths and scuffling.

Delia reached the top of the stairs.  She turned to see the man and
Nick grappling halfway up the flight.  She hesitated just as Nick
glanced in her direction.  "Run," he shouted in a tone so urgent and
demanding she almost didn't recognize it as his.  That tone plus her
own common sense told her she should obey.  She did exactly that.  She
ran down the corridor away from the stairs and didn't look back.

WIJN }ms^w the guy after Delia, Nick just about went out of his head.
He sprinted up the stairs two at a time and grabbed the guy by the
shoulders.  She'd already done some damage.  Blood ran down his
forehead into his eyebrow.  Nick was proud of her for that.  She knew
how to stand up for herself.  Now he'd finish the job.  He shoved the
guy so hard up against the wall the mirrors rattled above them.

"Leave her alone," Nick growled.  "Stop following her around."

He punctuated his words by slamming the guy against the wall again.  He
grunted in reply.  He was a weaselly looking character.  Nick couldn't
imagine beautiful, accomplished Delia with somebody like this.  She
really had him go' rag all right.  His eyes blazed out of his face.
Still, Nick didn't feel sympathy for this guy any longer.  No matter
what she'd done to him, he had no right to make her life miserable.  He
especially didn't have a right to try to hurt her.  Nick slammed him
again, and the guy's head lolled on his neck like a rag doll.

"You come near her again, and I'll kill you."

Nick was shocked by how strongly he meant those words.  He wasn't a
killer by nature.

"No, buddy," the guy said in a cracked voice, his eyes glittering like
burning coals.  "I'll kill you."

Nick sensed the gun before he saw or felt it.  This guy might have eyes
that were on fire, but Nick had some rage of his own to vent right now.
This creep was try-Lug to hurt Delia, and Nick wasn't about to stand
for that.  His reaction was lightning swift, faster even than a trigger
finger and far less expected.  He raised his arm and drove his elbow
into the guy's throat in a single, powerful motion.  The blazing eyes
went blank for an instant.  In that flash, Nick grabbed the guy's gun
arm and twisted till the weapon dropped free.  Nick yanked him away
from the wall, turned him toward the descending stairwell and pushed.
The man toppled backward, arms flailing, down the stairs, grunting and
cur sLug till he hit the parquet floor where he lay crumpled and quiet.
Nick followed down the stairs.  The guy was knocked out but still
breathing.  Nick knew he didn't have to shove the guy down the stairs
like that,

but he'd needed a lesson he wouldn't forget.  Now, Nick had to make
himself scarce before security showed up and brought this mess back to
Delia's doorstep in a way she wouldn't like.

The gun had bounced down the stairs and was lying next to its owner.
Nick picked it up.  The thought that this creep came here after Delia
with a gun on him had Nick white-hot again until he looked down at the
weapon in his hand.  It was a 9mm Beretta.  Something about that very
serious weapon and the look of the guy in general clicked a recognition
switch in Nick's head.  He'd been too angry to put it together before.
His cop's instinct was usually with him every minute, but he'd let
himself get emotionally involved here.  That could screw anybody up.
His instinct was back on course now, and it was telling him something
very disturbing.  This guy on the floor wasn't just some flake from
Long Island.  He was a pro.

Nick would have liked to toss the guy's pockets right here, but he
didn't have time.  Somebody was bound to come out of the ballroom any
minute.  There'd be trouble for sure then, and that wouldn't be good
for Delia.  If all they found was this guy passed out on the floor,
they'd figure he drank too much and fell.  If what Nick suspected about
this guy was true, he'd most likely go along with that story.  He
wouldn't want hotel security in on this any more than Nick did.  On the
other hand, if somebody came out here and found Nick standing over this
dude, there'd be alarm bells going off all over the place.

Nick pocketed the Beretta and headed back up the stairs.  He picked up
the gift package he'd dropped before grabbing the guy.  No need to
leave any traces behind.  Nick pulled absently at the red wrapping
paper as he hurried down the hallway toward the corridor that would
take him out of sight of the stairwell and in the direction of the
elevators.  Alarm bells of his own were clanging in his brain to beat
the band.  Had Delia been stupid enough to let herself get mixed up
with a professional gunman?  Everything Nick had ever learned in this
business told him that didn't ring true.

Loose ends of her story that he hadn't paid enough attention to before
were suddenly dangling right in front of him.  There was definitely
something off-line with what she'd told him.  He could see that now
plain as day.  He was used to being lied to.  Clients lied all the
time, even when their lies made it more difficult to keep them
protected.  He'd expected more than that from Delia, and not just
because she was in the business herself and should know better.  He'd
expected more because of what he'd started feeling for her.  "Fxnotions
cloud judgment."  If that bodyguard manual of his had a first-of-all
rule, this was it.  He'd forgotten his own first rule.  Nick told
himself he wouldn't forget it again.

By the tune he reached the elevators, he'd torn the wrap pang off the
gift box and opened it without even realizing what he was doing.  He
glanced down at the box while he waited impatiently for an up arrow to
flash red above one of the elevator doors.  The tissue paper had been
pushed aside to reveal a necktie in very proper regimental striped
design except for the Santa face in the center.  Nick pulled the tie
out and put the box down beside a vase of flowers on a table next to
the elevator hank.  He ran the length of silky fabric between his
fingers.  He couldn't help wondering who should be strangled with this
thing--the professional hitter back there laid out on the floor or
Nick's own lying client.

Nick spent the rest of the trip to his room calming himself down and
doing some thinking.  When he raised his fist to knock on the adjoining
door to Delia's room, he had more than one big question on his mind. It
took a couple of knocks to get an answer.

"Who is it?"  she asked from the other side of the door.

"It's Nick," he said, subdued a little by what sounded like fear in her
voice.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, though he could hear that wasn't true.  "But I'm
not up to talking right now."

Nick could feel the tremor in her voice melting his resolve.  Tremor or
not, there was one thing he had to find out.  He leaned close to the
door "panel so he wouldn't have to talk loud.

"How did that guy know we were here?"

She was silent for a moment before she answered.  "I

did something very dumb."

"What was that?"

Another pause.  "I left the hotel phone number with my office answering
service.  I always let them know where I'm going to be.  He must have
called and found out where I was, then waited down in the lobby till we
showed up."

Nick sighed and shook his head.

"Can we please talk about this later?"

She was pleading now.  That, plus the thought of her being so
conscientious about her job that she put her-serf in danger, deflated
his anger faster than he would have guessed was possible.

"Sure," he said.  "Get some sleep.  We'll talk tomorrow."

"Thanks," she said, her voice smaller than ever.  "Good night."

"Good night."

Nick stared at her door for a moment longer.  He had yet another
question.  Wasn't she just a little too devoted to that job of hers? Or
was he just being overly suspicious to make up for not being suspicious
enough before?  Whatever his reasons, he was determined to get the
answers to all of his questions in the morning.  He could use some
sleep himself.  But, with the way he had the Santa necktie clutched
into a tight ball in his fist, he wasn't likely to find much sleep on
his agenda tonight.

DELIA WAS DREAMING when the sound began, trying to get her feet off the
ground to fly.  Then the jangling started and the dream dissolved. What
was going on?  What was this noise, and where was she, anyway?

The last answer came first.  She was in a hotel.  That's why she didn't
know where anything was.  She groped off the side of the bed where the
table lamp should be and found empty space.  The darkness in the room
was total.  She'd drawn the blackout drapes before going to bed.  Now
she wished she'd left them open for the light from the street to come
through.  She'd be able to get her bearings if she could see something.
Her hand hit the smooth, china surface of what had to be the hotel
bedside lamp.  She felt upward over the curved surface but found no
switch.  She ran her hand back down to the bottom of the lamp and
around the circular metal base, still feeling for a switch.

Meanwhile the sound continued, more of a buzz than the jangling it had
first seemed to be.  She'd figured out that the buzz must be from an
alarm clock.  She was trying to piece together why she'd set the alarm
when her fingers hit the light switch.  She twisted it, and the room
filled with light.  All she saw was the clock radio on the other side
of the lamp.  She grabbed it and poked the buttons on top till the
buzzing stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Two hours had passed since she'd drifted into an tin-easy sleep.  She
wasn't yet entirely awake.  She was still caught at the edge of
dreaming when another real world sound reached her ears, softer and
less jarring than the alarm buzzer had been.  Delia drifted up from the
bed and followed the knocking sound to the door between her room and
Nick Avery's.  This time she would open that door.

Chapter Eleven

Nick heard Delia disengage the lock on her side of the door.  He'd
recognized the alarm clock sound and wondered why she would have set it
for the middle of the night.  As her bodyguard, he needed to know the
answer to that, especially if she planned to leave her room on her own
for any reason with that tall, blond guy from last night still on the
loose.  Besides, Nick had been sleeping only fitfully himself.

There was silence after the door clicked.  "Delia'?"  Nick called. 
"Are you there?"

The silence continued for a moment before she answered.

"I'm here, Nick."  Her voice was faint but unmistakable.

"Are you all right?"  he asked.

No answer again.  Maybe something was wrong.  Could the tall man have
gotten to her somehow?  Could she be his prisoner?  If that was true,
he'd be using her as a shield.  Nick slipped to his bed stand grabbed
his gun and checked the clip before returning to the doorway.  He took
hold of the doorknob just as it was turning in his hand.  That made him
think caution, but he moved rapidly like a spring suddenly released. In
a lightning-quick snap he had yanked the door open and stood at an
angle in the opening.  What he saw made him relax in one way and tense
further in another.

Her eyes looked almost as if she might still be asleep.  They were
heavy-lidded, gazing at him with a curious expression, as if she
couldn't quite remember who he might be.  She wasn't entirely awake,
though she'd put on a robe.  That must have been what kept her from
opening the door right away.  Her nightgown was visible underneath her
partly opened robe.  The gown was made of white cotton and hung long
enough to touch the floor beneath the hem of her robe.  The garments
were loose rather than formfitting.  They might as well have been
slinky, transparent and halfway up her thighs.  Nick saw her as
maddeningly sexy, anyway.

He had just about enough sense left to note that there was nobody but
her in the room.  The louvered closet door was open across from him,
and he could tell no one was hiding inside.  They were alone.  He
should have made one more visual survey of the room--checked under the
bed and in the bathroom--but her face told him everything the
professional part of him needed to know.  If somebody had broken in
here and surprised her while she was sleeping, her eyes would be
startled, not dreamy.  He could see just a hint of apprehension there,
but instinct told him that wasn't because someone was lurking in the
bathroom.

Every guideline of businesslike behavior, including the ones in his own
head, insisted Nick should turn directly around right now and go back
to his own room.  Instead he pulled the connecting door closed behind
him and flipped the latch to locked position.  The flicker of
apprehension in her eyes intensified a little then, but she didn't
move.  She held her ground with her full lips slightly parted as if she
might be about to say something.  He could hear her soft breath coming
faster than before.

Nick couldn't stand it any longer.  He whispered her name.  Then he was
across the space between them and she was in his arms, pressed against
him where he so very much needed her to be.  He'd been sleeping in just
a T-shirt when the sound from this room awakened him.  He'd pulled on
his jeans, and he could feel her now through the denim.  She was warm
even though the room had cooled from its earlier temperature.  Or was
that his own heat he was feeling?

He knew he was hard as a rock inside his jeans.  He'd been that way
from the first instant he saw her.  He pressed that hardness against
her.  He wanted her to feel how much he wanted her.  She moaned softly.
She'd felt it, and she wasn't moving away.  She wanted him, too.  He
didn't let himself think that maybe it wasn't really him she wanted,
maybe she was just lonely.  He didn't let himself think about anything.
In fact, the last thing his sensible mind registered was that he still
had his gun in his hand, and he didn't want it to be there.

He was looking for a place to lay his weapon down when Delia slid her
hand down his arm behind her back and took hold of the gun.  He
maintained his grip for a moment.  That much instinct was left in his
besotted brain--to resist having his weapon taken from him, but not for
long.  His fingers loosened, and he let her ease the pistol from his
grasp.  She stepped back out of his arms and held the gun in both hands
for a moment.  She seemed to be caressing it, or maybe Nick just.  saw
it that way.  He felt that caress as if her hands were on the most
intimate part of his body.  He wouldn't have thought he could get any
harder there, but he did now.

He heard her put the gun down on top of the credenza next to the ice
bucket and glasses, yet he only half realized her hands were empty
again as he lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the bed.
Suddenly she was clasping him around the neck and had buried her head
against his shoulder.  Her hair brushed his face.  The sweet scent of
those sleek locks was overwhelming.  He might have staggered, but he
was too intent upon getting her to the bed to lose even a second from
faltering along the way.

He lay her down gently on the rumpled sheet with her head on the
pillow.  He straightened to almost his full height and looked down at
her.  His own lips were parted now, and he could hear his ragged
breathing.  He had never seen anything anywhere near as beautiful as
her hair, fallen against the white pillowcase.  He longed to leap on
top of her and crush her to the bed with his body, but he also longed
to make the exquisite ache of looking at her last.

Nick's gaze traveled slowly over her, pausing to take in the most
breathtaking details.  Her lips were so full and reddened, they begged
to be kissed.  He hadn't kissed her yet, other than a thousand times in
imagination.  He would kiss her soon now.  That thou made him pull his
T-shirt over his head and toss it onto the floor.  His gaze moved along
her creamy throat to the soft heaving of her breasts.  He opened the
button at the waistband of his jeans and took hold of the metal tab.
His gaze moved downward over her as his fingers pushed his zipper in
the same direction.  The zipper sis ted moving over the hard mound
beneath, but her body didn't resist his eyes.  She moved--just a
little--a slight roll of her hips toward him.  There could have been no
more sultry invitation as far as Nick was concerned.  His breath turned
rapid as well as ragged.

She pulled the tie loose on her robe and let it fall open.  The
delicate cotton of her gown molded her body and was nearly transparent
in the soft light.  His gaze rested on a shadow of darkness between her
thighs.  She wasn't wearing panties.  She was totally nude beneath her
gown, and waiting for him.  Nick shoved his zipper the rest of the way
down.  He wasn't wearing underwear, either.  He pushed his jeans down
over his hips and felt himself spring free--harder and longer and maybe
even more menacing than the barrel of his gun had been.  But he didn't
plan to use this or any other part of himself as a weapon, only as an
instrument of plea sure.

He saw her gaze travel down his body.  Her eyes widened when they
reached his loins.  Her full lips moved lazily into a smile.  Her hips
rolled again, even more obviously inviting this time.  Nick swallowed
but couldn't really catch his breath.  He slid his jeans down more and
pulled his right leg free of them.  He was almost crazily overjoyed
that he hadn't put on socks or shoes.  He pulled the other leg out of
his jeans without taking his eyes off of her, but he didn't stumble.
His rational mind might be on another planet, but the rest of him was
right here and steady on course toward taking this woman as he had
never taken a woman before.

Her hand had been at her side.  She drew it across her body, letting
her fingers barely touch herself, over the gentle rise of her belly,
upward to her breast and over the swelling there, very slowly, to her
nipple, which was visibly taut beneath the delicate doth.  Her lips
were still parted, and her breath was still in what he could hear was
the rhythm of desire.  She was tantalizing him, and she was tantalizing
herself at the same time.  She had picked up on his determination to
take this at a certain pace, to torture every delicious moment till
they both felt about to explode.  Then to go on and do the same thing
with the next moment.

Her fingers trailed around her nipple in a circle that nearly killed
him as surely as if she had shot at him with his gun.  He could see the
point of her tongue just behind her parted lips, beckoning him to put
his own tongue there, just as her circling fingers were beckoning him
to her breast.  His mesmerized senses flashed on an image of another
part of her, as pink and moist as the tip of her tongue.  His own
fingers and tongue and then the hard evidence of his wanting her, now
thrusting straight out from his body, would claim that part of her,
too.

Her fingers left their circling path and continued up to the lacy strap
of her gown where the robe had slipped from her silky shoulder.  She
was about to push that strap aside, but Nick said, "No.  Let me do
that.  Let me do everything."  And she did.

IT WAS HOt mS later before they finally slept.  In the morning, Delia
awoke first.  This time she had no doubt about where she was or about
the difference between reality and dream.  Last night, her reality had
been a dream.  She could feel the man at the center of that dream still
asleep at her side.  His warmth added to her own beneath the sheet and
blanket, like a cozy nest against the winter cold.  She could hear him,
too.  The soft cadence of his breathing was proof to her that their
lovemaking actually had happened, no matter how impossible its beauty
might seem.  No gift could be more precious than that, and she thanked
her Christmas angel for it.

That thought made her reach toward the bedside table.  Last night,
after hurrying back from the.  ghastly scene on the ballroom stairway,
she'd left the gold gift box on the table.  She touched the edges of
the object still nestled among its tissue wrappings--a crystal angel
with a golden cord suspended from its halo for hanging in a window or
from a tree limb.  This little angel had been more than a decoration
last night.  This angel had been her guardian in a crystal clear way,
literally arming her to ward off danger, just as years ago her father
had said a very similar glass angel would protect her from harm.  It
was that special gift she'd remembered when she'd first opened this bx.
A single glimpse inside brought with it a shock of memory that had sent
her running from the ballroom.  She'd left that other glass angel
behind five years ago in her haste to escape Colorado.  She'd regretted
its loss ever since.  This new angel felt like a test oration of some
of that loss, all tied together in her heart with the man who lay next
to her now.

Suddenly, feeling and hearing him were not enough.  Delia needed to see
him, too.  She rolled slowly toward her edge of the bed, be' rag
careful not to pull the covers from his body.  She didn't want him to
wake up just yet.  She sat up on the side of the bed and listened.  His
breathing remained steady, undisturbed.  She slid from beneath the
covers and stood.  The cooler air of the room chilled her skin, but she
didn't search for her robe.  Moving around to do that would be too
likely to make noise.  She tiptoed naked to the window instead and felt
for the edge of the blackout curtain.  She pushed the opaque drapery
back from first one side of the window then the other, taking care to
slide them silently along the track above.

She was shivering as she crept to the bed.  She would have liked to
dive under the covers to get to their warmth as fast as she could.  She
restrained herself from that and slipped slowly between the sheets. Her
attentiveness was rewarded by the unbroken rhythm of Nick's breathing. 
He was still asleep.  She longed to burrow her icy toes beneath the
toasty shelter of his body, but that would surely wake him and not
gently, either.  Delia pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin and
turned her face toward his on the pillow.  His arm was flung across his
eyes while the morning light fell lovingly on the rest of his face. 
She knew it might not sound manly as a description, but to her in that
moment he was entirely beautiful.  In that moment, also, she knew what
she must do.  She must tell Nick the whole truth, no matter what the
consequences.

NICK felt her there even before he opened his eyes--not her exactly,
but the soft brush of her hair against his chest.  In any other
circumstance he would have bolted straight up off the pillow the
instant someone touched him in his sleep.  He'd probably also make that
move with a weapon in his hand, but he wasn't about to do that now.
First of all, for once, he'd gone to sleep without a firearm under his
pillow.  He'd had things other than guns on his mind last night.  For
once, he'd allowed himself to be a man ahead of being a professional.
Of course, he'd noticed the safety lock was on the door when he came
into Delia's room.  He wasn't about to put her in danger, after all.
Still, he'd come to bed without packing iron so he had no weapon to
brandish now, even if he'd wanted to.

And he did not need one.  His immediate immersion in Delia's presence
let him know that, all the way to the very center of himself.  His
first waking awareness was of her being with him.  The scent of her
enveloped him like the fragrant breath of soft wings fluttering.  He
could feel the coolness of her skin even without touching her.  The
impression of her face was on the inside of his eyelids long before
they eased open to that same face, lovelier still than in his
imaginings.  At first he didn't think to wonder why she wasn't smiling,
why her extraordinary eyes held such a Srious expression.  He needed a
full waking moment before that question could form in his mind.

" "Good morning," she said.

The melody of her voice might have banished all notion of questioning
anything about her if it hadn't been for the melancholy edge to that
melody.  Something was wrong.  He could hear it.  He could see it.
Still, he wanted it not to be true.  In that moment he wished with his
entire heart to be mistaken and for everything to remain perfect--as it
had been last night and should be now.

"Nick," she said.  "I have something to tell you."  Here it comes, he
thought.  His first impulse was to clamp his hands over his ears, or
maybe over her sweet mouth, before the words that he sensed would
sharer everything could be spoken.

"Do we have to talk now?  Can't it wait?"  he asked.  Nick ordinarily
prided himself in meeting every challenge straight- n, whatever it
might be.  Nevertheless, fight now he didn't fault himself for his
squeamishness.  Other qualities than boldness were important here.
Delia only shook her head in answer, but with that small movement she
sealed their fate.  Nick was sure of it.  He might even have an inkling
of what she was about to say--a premonition, or maybe even a sure
knowledge, hidden by a mist just above the surface of his thoughts.  He
had the feeling that all he would have to do was press a little harder
at his memory and he would know her crucial news on his own.  She spoke
before he could apply that effort.

"My name isn't really Delia Marie Barry," she said.  "At least, that's
not the name I was born with,"

Nick's mouth opened, as if to finish what she was saying, though his
conscious mind had no idea how he would do that.

"We've known each other before," she continued.  A tear had formed in
the corner of each of her lovely eyes.  "My real name is Becky
Lester."

Nick gasped, but it came out sounding more like a groan.  One of her
trembling tears fell onto his chest before she could duck her head and
hide her face.  He would have liked to lift her chin and wipe the tears
from her eyes.  He would have liked to tell her she didn't need to cry
because everything would be all right.  He couldn't do that because it
wouldn't be the truth.  "Rebecca," he breathed.

It never occurred to Nick to doubt her words.  The instant she spoke
them, he'd felt things slide together like the pieces of a puzzle.
Dangling elements--things she'd told him, things she hadn't told him,
hints of a connection he hadn't quite grasped her ore--wove themselves
into a discernable pattern at last.

"Why?"  he asked.  It was all he could do to think clearly enough to
talk.

She continued to hang her head, shaking it every moment or so as if in
a daze.

"I had to tell you the truth," she said, her words muffled by the haft
screening her face.

She'd answered another question that would have come later, but not the
one he was asking now."

"Why did you lie to me?"  he asked.  "Why didn't you tell me the whole
story from the start?"

Nick had to fight to keep his voice from quavering, like her tears,
which were dropping, sad seconds apart, from her averted eyes.

"I didn't dare tell you the truth," she said.

"Why not?"  He did take her chin and lift her face now.  He SWallowed
against the heartache he saw there.  He mustn't weaken before he had
his answer.  "Why couldn't you tell me?"

She sighed so deeply he could feel the tremor of it across the space
between theft bodies.

"I wasn't sure I could trust you," she said.

"What did you think I'd do?"  He was still holding her chin so she
couldn't look away.

"You might have called the police "She trailed off into another sigh.

"You believe I could have done that?"

"I

couldn't be altogether sure.  What happened five years ago taught me
not to be sure of anybody."  The way she said that--all defiance gone
now, only a near-sob left--reminded him of back in the ballroom, when
he'd recognized how lonely she was.  Nothing could be lonelier than
living without trust, afraid to let anyone close enough to become a
threat.  He could imagine the poignancy of that life because he'd lived
some of it himself, though never as completely or with the degree of
desolation that had been

her fate.  Nick's anger melted away, maybe not forever but for now. He
reached out and folded her--Delia, Becky, Rebecca, whoever she might
be--into the comfort of his arms.

Chapter Twelve

Delia clung to Nick for what felt like a very long time but not nearly
long enough.  She would have wanted to make love again.  Making love
with Nick was being swept away on a wave of emotion deeper and wider
than anything she'd ever known.  She could let that wave take her.  She
could give up thinking about what was going to happen next and what she
should do about it and simply be borne away, higher and farther than
anyone's touch had ever taken her before.  She could use that kind of
release right now.  She longed for it.  She even sensed that Nick might
feel the same, but neither of them made a move.  They'd been through so
much in these past hours together, they needed to be still for a while.
His arms cradled her body.  Her arms circled his neck.  They were safe
here for the moment in the silence.  Delia knew that couldn't last.
Unfortunately, there was more to be talked about.  When the next
question came, she'd already told herself she had to be ready for it.

"What about Clyde Benno?"  Nick asked.  "Have you told me the whole
story on him?"

Nick kept his arms around her.  There was no anger or bitterness in his
voice.  Still, she could feel the chill

wind of the inevitable in his words, and that made her sigh.

"There is no Clyde Benno.  I made him up."

She was amazed at how easy it was to let that cat finally out of the
bag and at how relieved she was to watch it scamper away, beyond her
control.  In the meantime, Nick only nodded and continued to hold her.
"You don't seem surprised," she said.

"I spotted that guy last night for a professional.  I didn't think
you'd have a thug for a boyfriend, not even one who knows how to pass
as respectable.  I didn't think an angry ex-boyfriend would hire a guy
like that, either.  Usually, angry ex-boyfriends prefer to do the dirty
work themselves.  They get more satisfaction that way."  "

It was Delia's turn to nod.  "That sounds right to me," " she said.

"The thing that almost threw roe off was his eyes.  That part of him
looked like he could be the psycho boyfriend after all."

Delia remembered those eyes much too clearly.  She doubted she'd ever
forget them.  She shivered, and Nick folded her closer to the broad,
hard safety of his chest.  She nestled there gladly.

"Those eyes could be the key to tracking him down," Nick said.  "Either
he really is crazy or he's taking something that makes him look that
way.  My guess is one or the other's got him noticed.  Maybe if I ask
the right people the right questions, I could find out who he is.  That
would put us closer to finding out who hired him."

"I know who hired him."

"You do?"

Nick thrust her away from him when he asked that, so he could look into
her face.  She nearly sighed again.  She was being pushed out of the
warm circle of his arms.  It might be a long time before she nestled
there again.

"I don't know the specific identity of the person who did the hiring,"
she said, resigning herself to getting back to business.  "But I'm
almost a hundred percent sure what they're after."

"What are they after?"

"The Lester money, and they have to make sure I'm out of the way for
real and for good to get it, just like they got rid of poor Morty
Lancer."

Delia pulled her robe from the bottom of the bed and put it on.  She
was all the way out of his arms now.  She felt a lonely pang of
regret.

"Have you ruled out other possibilities, like somebody connected with
PEI?  The company could have angered a lot of people over the years,
and you're the most visible target."

I'm the only target, she thought.  I'm the company.

She wasn't ready to tell him that part yet.  One major revelation at a
time was all she could manage right now.

"I know this hasn't got anything to do with the company," she said.

"How do you know that?"

By the angle of the hair standing up on the back of my neck, was what
she almost answered.  She decided to be less abrupt than that She
knotted the tie of her robe then turned fully toward him.

"I've been living with running away for a long time," she said.  She
made sure her voice didn't plead for sympathy.  She just wanted to
explain how it was for her.  "I've developed a kind of added sense that
most people don't have.  That sense lets me know who I should watch out
for and why.  Right now it's letting me know my past has finally caught
up with me."

This time his saying that didn't bother her "I imagine you do.  You
must have your own radar for trouble to be as good as you are at what
you do."

"That's how I knew that guy last night was somebody more than just
Clyde Benno from Long Island."

"I'm sorry about lying to you," she said.  "I've been living a lie for
so long now.  Sometimes I think it's more natural for me to make up
things than to tell the truth."  "You're good at it.  I can vouch for
that."  Delia felt herself blush.

"I want to be nothing but honest with you from now on," she said.

"Then tell me why you left Colorado the way you did."

"The cards were stacked against me, that's why.  I'd have been charged
with Morty's murder for sure, and very possibly convicted of it,
too."

"I would have helped you."

"Oh, Nick," she sighed.  "What could you have done?  Other than maybe
destroy some of the evidence against me.  I knew you were too
straightforward for that."  She touched his cheek gently.  "I want to
be just as straight with you from this moment on."

Nick put his fingers gently against her lips.  "There'll be time for
promises later," he said.

Delia nodded.  "Okay."

She prayed he was right.  With somebody out to kill her, and maybe
Nick, too, there might not be a "later" for them, after all.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT me to call you?"  Nick asked.  "Delia or Becky?"

They'd decided to leave the Waldorf.  The pro who was after them might
not have their room numbers yet, but it was only a matter of time till
he did.  Nick had told Delia to throw her few belongings back in her
bag, and they'd left the five-star life behind by the back entrance
taxi port.  Nick kept himself from thinking about how much he'd rather
stay holed up in that hotel room making love to her forever.  That was
just one of the thoughts about her he couldn't get into, at least not
till she was out of danger.

"Call me Delia," she said after a long moment when she must have been
considering her answer carefully.  "Becky was five years ago.  Delia is
now.  They're not the same woman."

Nick looked across the cab seat at her, while memory overlapped what he
saw.  She was right.  Delia and Becky were very different from one
another.  He wondered how deep those differences ran and what they
meant to what had happened in Delia's bed last night.  That was
something else he couldn't let himself be sidetracked into thinking
about right now.  He forced himself to stop looking at her and turned
toward the window.  Her beautiful face and how much it was coming to
mean to him was the biggest distraction of all.  He had trouble keeping
his head clear when he was looking at her.  His head needed to be clear
as glass if he was going to keep her safe.  He resolved to make that
kind of clarity his first and foremost priority.  They rode the rest of
the few blocks from the Waldorf to the Lincoln Building in silence.

EMPLOYING a private mail service was another one of Delia's hedges
against detection.  Not even the company letterhead carried the actual
address of her Rockefeller Center office.  All mail went to her mail
service in the Lincoln Building on 42rid Street.  She left Nick in the
cab, behind the Lincoln on 41st, while she went to the eleventh floor.
He'd wanted to come with her, but she insisted she'd be only a moment
and hopped out into the street.  She'd disappeared around the corner
before he could have time enough to pay the fare and follow.  She
trusted him for the most part.  After last night, maybe she even
trusted him altogether.  Still, she went to the mail service office by
herself.  This same company handled her telephone messages as well as
her mail, and she wanted to explain her present confused situation in
person.  They could forward calls to her Rock Center number or take
messages.  She'd call in regularly for those messages, but they
wouldn't be able to contact her directly except at her office.  The
pleasant woman in the back office wrote down Delia's instructions but
asked no questions.  They were discreet, which was part of the reason
Delia used their services.

She left the eleventh floor office with a plastic bagful of what looked
like mostly bills and junk mail, except for one piece.  It was square
and sturdy, as if whatever might be inside was made of card stock
rather than regular stationery-weight paper.  Delia examined that
envelope warily.  This was the season for sending and receiving holiday
cards.  Most people would not have taken so much notice of such an
envelope.  Most people would have lots of friends and relatives sending
them greetings of the seasons.  Delia, on the other hand, had no such
circle of acquaintance.  She hadn't received a Christmas card, other
than corporate greetings from business associates, in five years.  This
envelope was handwritten and didn't look like a corporate mailing.

Delia thrust her trembling index finger under the envelope flap and
tore it open, leaving a ragged edge.  She'd been fight.  There was a
card in the envelope, on green card stock with a snow-covered country
scene on the front.  She flipped the card open and let her eyes slide
past the printed greeting to the signature.  She didn't gasp.  She
simply stopped breathing and stood, still and transfixed as that
snow-covered scene, just around the corner from the elevator bank, in
the middle of the beige marble hallway on the eleventh floor of the
Lincoln Building.  There were three words handwritten on the bottom of
the inside flap of the otherwise ordinary Christmas acknowledgment she
held in her shaking hand.  Those three words made this card about as
out of the ordinary as it could be.

Those three words were, "Merry Christmas, Topsy."  Delia's mouth had
dropped open.  Fortunately, the hallway was deserted.  She would surely
have attracted attention if there was anyone around to see her,
standing so obviously aghast as she was.  The last thing Delia wanted
fight now was attention.  She would have liked to sit down, but the
hallway was as empty of furniture as it was of people.  Her legs were
unsteady under her.  If they became any more so, she might have to sit
on the floor before she fell there.  Still, she made no effort to
compose herself.  She had neither will nor presence of mind to make
such an attempt right now.  She was too riveted on those three
scribbled words and beyond them to the associations they made for her.
Only one person in her entire life had ever called her Topsy.  It was a
nickname that nobody else knew about.  That person was her father.

Delia shut her mouth and swallowed the sob that threatened to rise from
her throat.  She was oy barely conscious of the dryness of that swallow
as she forced herself to think once more.  She stared at the
handwriting on the card and tried to remember her father's penmanship,
but her mind moved slowly still.  She seemed to recall his handwriting
being close to a scrawl, like the writing on the card.  It had been so
long since she'd seen anything written by him.  Besides, she'd made a
point of putting the details of her former life as far from her present
thinking as she could push them, Now she found that retrieving those
details was difficult.  Still, one unforgettable truth remained.  Her
father had pledged never to reveal her secret nickname, and he never
had.  She was certain of it.  Or maybe she only wanted to be certain of
it because that would mean the most impossible of Christmas miracles
had come to pass and her father was still alive.

Delia's thoughts, so sluggish only an instant ago, began to race.  The
helicopter crash that had supposedly taken her father's life had been a
devastating one.  The chopper had plowed into the side of a mountain
and exploded during a snowstorm.  By the time the rescue party got to
the wreckage, there were few remains left to investigate.  The police
said there were two bodies, one of a man and the other of a woman, but
Delia had never seen either of them.  Some identifiable personal
effects had been recovered, but the bodies were too completely
destroyed to leave even dental evidence of identity behind.  Delia had
assumed, along with every body else, that the two people who died in
the crash were her father and stepmother.  Could that assumption have
been wrong?

Delia believed what the police had said about nobody be' rag able to
survive such a devastating crash.  But what if her father hadn't been
on that helicopter in the first place?  What if somebody else had been
with Cassandra?  But why would that be the case, and why wouldn't he
have gotten in touch with somebody since then?  Especially, why hadn't
he been in touch with her?  They were so close.  Delia pressed the
Christmas card to her breast and held it there while tears formed in
her eyes.  She'd missed her father terribly in the years between his
death and her escape from Colcrado.  She'd tried not to think about him
after that, but he came into her mind anyway, particularly at this time
of year.  He'd loved the holiday season.  He was the one who'd taught
her to love it, as well.

Delia began walking slowly toward the elevator, her feet placing
themselves automatically one in front of the other without her being
aware of the movement.  What if, by some miracle, her father hadn't
been on that helicopter?  What if he'd survived and gone into hiding
for some reason?  What if he had finally not been able to resist
getting in touch with her any longer?  It would be just like him to do
so with a Christmas card.  Maybe he knew something about whoever was
trying to get to her now, and he wanted to warn her.  But where was he?
Delia stopped just short of the elevator bank and looked down at the
envelope she was still holding.  There was no return address, and in
her haste to get at the card she

had torn through the corner where the postmark would be.  She pieced
the ragged edges together again.

There was no postmark.  She squinted at the envelope to make sure that
was true.  The corner was blank and empty--no postmark, no stamp.  That
ne ant the card might have been hand delivered to the mail service
office.  She could go back and ask if they remembered who'd brought it.
Delia understood how unlikely that was at this hectic time of the year
when deliveries of packages and cards and letters were arriving one
after another, but she could ask all the same.  Delia examined the rest
of the envelope--front, back, inside--but found no further clues to its
origin.  She looked at the card again, read the printed greeting
carefully through but found no clues there, either, only the standard
good wishes.  She turned the card over and stopped dead still again.
There was more handwriting on the back, in the same scrawl as inside.

"Come to South Street Seaport tonight," the scrawl instructed.  "I will
meet you at the end of Pearl Street under the FDR Drive at 8:00 p.m."

Delia read the message through several times.  She probably should have
gone back to the mail service of-lice then and asked if anybody
remembered this card, but she was sure they wouldn't.  Besides, the
part of her most closely governed by her heart wanted to believe the
card came from her father and that he'd be waiting for her tonight by
the East River as it said.  She might have been afraid the mail service
people would tell her otherwise.  Whatever the reason, she didn't turn
around and retrace her steps down the eleventh floor hallway.  She
hurried forward to the elevators instead, already calculating how she
would give Nick the slip so she could go to the Seaport on her own.
Maybe that wasn't a wise or sensible thing to do, but she wasn't
thinking wisely fight now.  She was thinking as Topsy, and Topsy was
only a child--a child with a very special and private relationship with
her father, too private a relationship to share, even with Nick.

Chapter Thirteen

The snow had begun at around noon, while they were still at the
Waldorf--large, fluffy dumps of flakes tumbling lazily down.  By the
time Delia exited the Lincoln Building, that picturesque snowfall was
blowing itself into a blizzard.  She stepped back into the shelter of
the entrance long enough to pull her watch cap from her pocket.  She
shoved the hat down onto her head and poked her hair up underneath it.
She kept hold of the precious card all the time she was doing that,
even though having something else in her hand made the process of
covering her head much more difficult.  It occurred to her then that
the snow might smear the handwritten message, which was even more
precious to her than the card.  Reluctantly, she opened her coat and
slid the card carefully into the inside pocket.  One of the reasons she
wore a man's style overcoat like this one was because of that special
inside pocket for stashing things away.  She ducked her head as she
emerged from the doorway onto Madison Avenue.  The wind hit her with a
barrage of icy snow that stung her cheeks like flying needles.  She
tucked her chin into her neck and pulled up her collar as she hurried
toward Forty-first Street where Nick was waiting with the cab.

At least, he was supposed to be waiting there.  Delia rounded the
corner to find the cab gone and Nick with it.  She tried not to be too
obvious about scanning the street.  By now, she'd forced herself back
to her usual sensible self, attentive once again to remaining
inconspicuous.  Granted, it was hard to believe anybody would be
lurking at ambush for her in weather like this, but sore experience had
taught her she was wise to be cautious in all circumstances--even a
storm packing what felt like gale force winds.  If not for those
precautions, she would have begun to shout Nick's name right here and
now.

They'd left the Waldorf at going on three o'clock.  She told Nick that
her traveler's club gaye her late checkout privileges.  Actually, while
he was in the bathroom, she'd called the desk and paid for the extra
time.  It was after three now, but the heavy snow and hovering clouds
had turned the sky dark as dusk.  Still, it was too early for the
street lamps to be on, which added to the gloom.  Delia gave the street
one more sweeping glance.  She couldn't hang around here much longer.
She was too easy a target standing in one place like this.  Besides, if
she stayed here on this corner she was bound to be buried beneath a
snowdrift before long.

What could have happened to Nick?  Maybe they hadn't evaded notice
leaving the Waldorf after all.  Maybe whoever attacked her in the
stairway last night was after them again today.  He could have crept up
on Nick as he waited in the cab.  Fearful images darted one after the
other through Delia's thoughts.  The last thing she wanted in all the
world was for Nick to be hurt, especially on her account.  Until that
moment, she hadn't considered the danger he could be in because he was
protecting her.  Before last night and their lovemaking,

he'd been the bodyguard and she'd been the client.  Exposing himself to
danger on her behalf was his job.  Now all of that had changed, and she
could only think of how much she wanted him to be safe.  That was why,
when she heard his voice behind her, she spun around and all but jumped
into his arms.

"Delia" was what he'd said before she made that impulsive leap.

NICK HAD WAITED in the cab as long as he could.  He'd have preferred to
be with Delia, but she'd insisted on going into the Lincoln Building
alone.  What could be so damned private about a stop at her answering
service anyway?  He understood that she'd spent years being secretive.
Keeping herself and the details of her life under wraps was second
nature to her by now.  Still, her suspiciousness, however ingrained it
might be, wasn't making his job any easier.

On the other hand, maybe a few minutes on his own wasn't a bad idea.
After all, he'd had the second biggest shock of his life only a couple
of hours ago.  The first biggest was five years past and delivered by
the same woman.  Nick looked out the cab window at the fast-swirling
snow.  Weather like this reminded him of Colorado.  Before today, he'd
have stopped himself from making that connection.  Suddenly, Colorado,
the I. esters and Rebecca were no longer off limits to his memory. That
was something of a shock in itself.

Pieces had been popping into place in his head ever since Delia told
him who she really was--like why PEI had never hired him to do a job
for them before.  She couldn't take the chance he'd recognize her. Nick
was amazed by how much she had changed.  He was essentially the same
guy he'd always been.  Meanwhile, Rebecca had made herself into almost
a whole new woman.  He figured women in general were better at that
kind of thing than men.  Still, he found it pretty amazing.  His mind
was lost in that wonder, swirling like the snowfall, when the
cabdriver's voice interrupted the reverie.

"Hey, buddy.  I can't sit here no longer.  I got a cop on my tail."

Sure enough.  Nick looked out the window to find a blue and white
police car with the officer in the window motioning for the cabbie to
move on.

"Maybe they wanna bring a snowplow through," said the cabdriver.  "So,
if your lady ain't comin" down the street right this minute, I gotta
take off.  You can come with me and we'll circle the block, but I can't
guarantee how long that'll take."

Nick had rolled down the street-side window.  The snow blew so hard
into his face that he'd had to squint to see.  He'd strained to make
out the figures coming around the corner from Madison Avenue.  Delia
wasn't among them.

"That's okay," he said, counting out money for the fare.  "I'll get out
and wait here."

"Sorry, buddy," the driver said as Nick handed over the bills.  "I hate
to leave ya out in the cold like this, but when the boys in blue give a
guy the word, he's smart to take it."

"No problem," Nick said, climbing out of the cab.  He hoped he was
right about that as he trudged through the snow to the curb, all the
time watching for Delia to return.

The wind was sharp and frigid.  Nick shoved his hands deep into his
pockets.  His fingers folded around the grip of the Beretta he'd stuck
in his right pocket for fast accessibility.  His own gun was still in
the back of his waistband as usual.  He was glad he had on gloves.  The
cold steel of the Beretta wouldn't feel very good to the touch right
now.

Somebody was coming around the corner from Madison Avenue, hunched over
against the snow and wind.  Nick strained to make out the figure, then
shrugged so hard that snow shook off his arms.  It wasn't Delia, just a
man in a cap and a long coat, not the right size to be the guy from the
Waldorf, either.  Nick looked back toward the corner again.

He'd moved into the shadow of the doorway so he wouldn't be conspicuous
from the street.  His wristwatch read almost 4:00 p.m."  but the sky
was already dark as evening from the storm.  Darkness came early at
this time of year, anyway.  The guy in the w ol cap and long coat had
come up even with Nick's hideaway in the shadows The guy stopped and
looked around.  Even through the blizzard and gloom, Nick recognized
the profile that was becoming more and more dear to his heart.

"Delia," he called out.

In an instant she was in his arms and he was whispering words that were
stolen by the wind almost before they could be spoken.

"LEt's c-o to my hotel," Nick said.  "We can hole up there while we
figure out what to do next."

"All right ."

Delia knew she had to find some way to get away from him before she
went to the Seaport.  At least his hotel was closer to that destination
than where they were now.  Unfortunately, there were no free cabs to be
found, either around the Lincoln Building or down Forty-first or
Forty-second streets.

"Nick, why don't we take the subway?"  They'd walked all the way to
Lexington Avenue by then.  "That would be much faster.  See what I
mean?"  She pointed to the snarl of aboveground traffic.

The sidewalks were overflowing with people leaving work early because
of the storm.  They swarmed toward Grand Central Station, many of them
huddled beneath umbrellas distorted into ungainly shapes by the wind.
Delia and Nick had to be careful where they walked to keep from being
mowed down.

"A cab is safer," he shouted against the wind before running out into
the street for the half-dozenth time in a vain attempt to flag down a
taxi.

Delia grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the crosswalk at Lexington
Avenue.

"I'll get the next one that comes along," he protested.

Delia paid no attention and tugged on.  Finally he relented and
followed her, probably because they were attracting attention, with her
out in front laboring to pull him across the street like a reindeer
hauling Santa's sleigh.  She kept her grip on his arm and hurried
toward the side entrance to Grand Central.  Otherwise they might have
been separated by the relentless advance of the crowd.  She could see
Nick glancing furtively this way and that, no doubt on the lookout for
the man who was after her.  She thought about telling Nick that long
experience with making herself anonymous in this city had taught her
well the art of getting lost in the crowd.

"I don't like this at all," Nick said while keeping up his frenzied
surveillance.

Delia didn't answer.  She conceded only to the rapid pace he insisted
upon, until speedy progress proved impossible along the congested
underground walkway to the downtown platform for the R-line train. They
simply had to let themselves be carded along b3 the momentum of the
mass and concentrate on keeping hold of each other as they went. Delia
remembered being panicked by situations like this when she'd first come
to New York City.  Ordinarily, she still didn't care for the feeling of
being controlled by the movements of the crowd.  Right now, however,
with Nick's arm linked firmly through hers, Delia was at ease with
letting herself he swept along.

Part of that ease could be credited to the fact that she'd figured out
what she was going to do to get away from him later on and keep her
appointment on the waterfront.  The timing of that plan was one reason
she'd insisted they take the subway.  Usually, the trip on the R-train
from Grand Central to Prince Street in Soho would take twenty minutes
tops.  Unfortunately that timetable didn't take into account an
extra-hectic rush hour and waiting for a second train because the first
was too jammed to force their way into.  Delia could tell how crazy
this situation was making Nick.  He might as well have had his head on
a swivel the way he was trying to keep watch in every direction at
once.  As for attracting attention, under any other circumstances, his
behavior would definitely have made them the object of considerable
curiosity.  But this was Manhattan at rush hour in the middle of a
blizzard.  Everybody around them was intent upon getting home, and
vigilance was required for them to accomplish that under these
conditions.  Nick would have to do something a lot more bizarre than
swivel his head around to attract much notice here.

Delia wasn't really concerned about that anyway.  She had her plan and
her timetable to make her more worried by the minute.  When they
finally made it to Prince Street and piled out of the train and up the
stairs to street level, her watch told her it was past five o'clock.
"We'll stop at the deli for sandwiches," Nick said.  Delia had to bite
her lip to keep from crying out in protest.  They hadn't eaten since
their room service breakfast at the Waldorf late that morning.  She had
to concede that Nick might be hungry again by now.  "Okay," she said.
"We'll order them to go."

Delia nodded.  At least, that was a relief.  On the other hand, the
line at the deli counter was long.  Working Manhattanites might just be
the world's leading devourers of takeout cuisine.  On a night like
this, when the effort simply to make it home used up even more stamina
than usual, lots of New Yorkers had little desire to cook supper. Delia
understood that reality, but understanding didn't make her patient. 
She was about ready to fidget out of her skin by the time they finally
got their sandwich order filled and had pushed through the crowd out of
the shop.

They made their way along narrow streets that were almost as congested
as the deli had been.  Sometimes traversing this city was more hassle
than just about anyone could bear.  This was one of those times for
Delia.  Meanwhile, Nick kept up his head-swiveling routine all the
wayout of the train, at the deli, along the street.  Delia didn't
bother to tell him how futile she believed that exercise to be.  She
definitely didn't mention how far her current concentration on her own
particular quest had carried her from sharing Nick's obsession with her
safety.  She was going to meet the person who sent her the Christmas
card invitation, no matter how much danger that journey might place her
in, and she had to get there on time.

Delia was very relieved to find that Nick's hotel was only a block and
a half from the subway stop and even closer to the deli.  The Hotel
Tivoli might not be in the same league as the Waldorf in the estimation
of travel guide writers, but Delia was as happy to arrive there as if
it had been the Taj Mahal.  On any other occasion, she would have
paused to take in the small, quaint lobby with its warm touches of old,
deep-grained mahogany and cozily worn Oriental carpet.  Tonight,
however, she had an agenda to keep moving.  She didn't even take time
to register the way her obvious hurrying of Nick toward the elevator
brought a quizzical expression to the desk clerk's face.

"I'm really hungry," Delia had said as her excuse for rushing Nick
along.

Of course, that meant she actually had to eat some of the very thick
ham and Swiss on rye, which had been her order at the deli.  The
sandwich was delicious and made her wish she had time to savor it.  She
also couldn't help thinking about how much she would enjoy taking full
advantage of yet again being in a hotel room alone with

Nick.  She caught him gazing at her, between bites of his corned beef,
with a look in his eyes that told her he might be pondering that same
advantage.  This was the signal for her to press forward with her plan.
She'd al ready rehearsed what she was going to say a dozen times in her
head.

"Nick, I'm afraid I have a very big favor to ask of you," she began.

"What's that?"  he asked, wiping his mouth with one of the coarse paper
napkins from the deli.

"I left something at my apartment, something I can't get along
without."  She rushed on before she could lose her nerve.  She'd told
many untruths since going into hiding.  It was much more difficult to
lie to him now, especially since just this morning she'd pledged to be
truthful with him from now on.  "I take medication," she said.  "For my
stomach."  "I didn't know that."  He looked skeptical.  "I don't like
to talk about it," she said, "but if I don't get my pills I'll be very
sick.  I'd go get them myself, but--" "No," he interrupted, raising his
hand as if to stop her.  I'll1 go.  You stay here and rest."  "I'd
actually like to take a bath," she said, not proud of herself for how
good she was at making her story even more believable.  Still, she had
to let him finish his sandwich.  She was subjected to further maddening
moments while he bundled his self into an extra sweater and wound a
long scarf around his neck in preparation for reentering the blizzard
that continued to rage outside.  Nick was on his way out the door at
last when he turned toward her.  "Don't let anybody in," he said.
"Absolutely nobody till I get back.  Will you promise me that?"  "I
promise," she said, feeling yet another lie stick in her throat.  He
pulled a gun from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.  She opened
her mouth to protest, then shut it again.  As much as she hated guns,
she'd be wise to go armed on the trip she had in store for herself
tonight.

Chapter Fourteen

Nick was gone at last.  Delia could hardly believe she'd finally gotten
him out the door.  Now she missed him.  The hotel room, though fairly
small, felt empty and echoing.  She bundled herself up quickly--extra
socks, a second sweater, her heavy boots--and left only ten minutes or
so behind Nick, but not by the front entrance.  He might have asked the
desk clerk to watch out for her.  Nick was definitely protective enough
to do that.  Delia wondered if he would hover over her quite so closely
if it wasn't his job to do so.

Ordinarily, she might have found such attentiveness suffocating.  Yet
Nick's attentions made her feel warm and peaceful, as if she'd been
tucked up inside a thick, soft blanket that kept her from bumping
against the hard edges and sharp corners of life.  She'd had enough
experience with such collisions to make a little swaddling very
welcome.  Unfortunately, for the moment she'd chosen to slip out from
beneath the blanket of Nick's protection.  She was on her own.

Delia crept down the narrow back stairs of the small hotel and let
herself out through the heavy, steel fire door that damped shut fast
and locked tight with a dick behind her.  The alleyway was dimly lit
and cold, with

snow sifting down from the strip of open sky between the buildings
several stories above her head.  Covered trash cans lined the scarred
brick walls and were already crowned by inches of white.  A single bulb
in a metal cage over the doorway did little to disperse the gloom.
Delia shivered, though the layers of clothing she was wearing didn't
really let in much cold.  She hastened down the alleyway, relieved that
there were no tracks other than her own in the snow.  She couldn't
imagine even the most enterprising street criminals out plying their
nefarious trade on a night like this, but there was no such thing as
being too cautious in New York City.

The thought reminded her that she was embarking 'upon a mission that
was anything but-cautious.  A woman alone traipsing around the
waterfront after dark could be a target for all kinds of danger no
matter what the weather.  She pulled her cap down around her face.  Any
signs of her femaleness were muffled under the bulk of sweaters and her
long, shapeless coat.  The cap plus a scarf wrapped around the lower
half of her face completed the camouflage.  Luckily, when she left the
alley for the thoroughfare, nobody was paying much attention to her
anyway as they trudged along through the storm.

Delia turned her thoughts and planning toward what came next--how she
would get from here to the Seaport.  Most seasoned New Yorkers were in
the habit of mapping out their mode of transportation before going
anywhere.  They would weigh one alternative against the other--taxi,
car service, bus, subway.  The decision often depended on the
destination and the relative safety and speed of the route traveled to
get there.  Tonight, Delia's decision would be determined by the
elements.  A taxi would be impossible to find.  Car service would take
too long getting here.  Besides, street level traffic had to be in a
state of nearly terminal gridlock as the snow piled up and the roadbed
became more and more slippery.  There was a bus straight down Broadway
to Lower Manhattan but no bus lane to facilitate progress through the
snarl of vehicles.  She was too far away to walk it, either.  Subway
was the inevitable solution.

Delia slogged toward the corner.  She'd have to consult the map below
ground on the wall next to the token booth.  She didn't travel this way
often enough to have memorized the train routes.  She knew buses better
because they were her preferred form of public transport.  Her years of
paranoia made her feel safer in a vehicle where she could see out the
windows into the surrounding world.  She also liked the fact that,
unlike on a subway, she could jump off a bus at any corner.  Still, the
underground had to be her choice tonight.  She shivered again at the
thought of how unfamiliar she was with her destination.  She knew very
well that the surest way to get yourself into trouble in the city was
to stop using your head.  Going into strange territory after dark was
definitely not a wise move.  For Delia, however, this evening's journey
was not about using her head as much as it was about following her
heart.  She hunched her face into the folds of her scarf and hurried
toward the subway entrance.

NICK DIDN'T LIKE leaving Delia alone, but he could tell she was trying
to get rid of him.  He guessed she needed some time on her own.  He
could understand why she might want to slow her world down for a while
right about now.  He would have preferred to hold her in his arms as
she slept or, better yet, to take that bath she'd mentioned with her.
The thought of water glistening across the perfect roundness of Delia's
breasts and her sleek thigh lifting out of a foam of bath bubbles made
him all but groan right here in the hallway outside her apartment door.
He'd have run out into the stormy night and searched the city up and
down for bubble bath if that would make this fantasy come true.

Nick cleared his throat and adjusted his jeans to accommodate the
sudden snugness in the area of his zipper.  He couldn't escape the
fantasies of her that flitted regularly across his mind.  She was even
more beautiful than five years ago, when she'd been on the skinny side,
lovely but spare in the flesh department.  She'd acquired just enough
of that flesh since then.  She was a provocative and appealing girl
five years ago.  Last night, when he slipped her nightgown from her
shoulders, he'd discovered a voluptuous woman.

He could see her now, and feel her, too, the way she moved in his arms.
Her hips rolled in a rhythm so sensuous he'd been lured along as her
partner in a dance of love.  Everywhere he touched her, she responded
like a rapturous instrument beneath his fingers, playing exquisite
music just for him.  He'd been attracted to her five years ago as
Rebecca Lester, though his code of professional ethics had kept him
from doing anything about it.  He'd wanted her then but with a much
paler passion than what had set him burning last night.  Delia was
fully a woman now.  She knew what a man needed and also what she needed
herself.  Yet he sensed she hadn't learned these things in the arms of
other men.  He sensed she'd been very alone for a very long time.  The
intensity of her hunger told him that.  He wished he could be
satisfying that hunger for both of them right now.

Nick did groan this time.  If he didn't stop tormenting himself with
such thoughts, he'd be running back to the Tivoli before he had a
chance to accomplish what he'd come here to do.  He reminded himself of
how much Delia said she needed those pills from her medicine cabinet
and did his best to return his attention to her apartment door.  The
slip of paper was still there, exactly where he'd left it.  That meant
no one had been here.  Nobody had pulled on the door, anyway.

Nick let himself in using the key Delia had given him and was
immediately assailed by the scent of evergreen.  He experienced a small
twinge in the area of his heart.  He might have switched on the lights
for a better view of the blue spruce, but he'd already decided to
maintain a low profile while he was here.  A flashlight would be the
best way to do that.  He had to content himself with a glance at the
tall, tapering silhouette against the glimmer of streetlight filtering
past the window blinds.  Even that brief glimpse made him think of
colored lights reflecting in the windowpane--colored lights dancing
over Delia's soft skin .... Nick shook himself hard enough to make
those lights wink off in his imagination.  He flicked on the flashlight
in his hand instead and trained the beam onto the floor and away from
the windows as he headed for" the bathroom.  He resolved to wrap a
tighter rein around his fantasies, but he doubted even his willpower
was that strong.

A few minutes later he was letting himself out of Delia's apartment
with her pill bottles tucked into his jacket pocket.  His mind was
still on those fantasies he'd been having only moments before.  He was
pondering what their power might be indicating about his feelings for
Delia and what he should do in response to those feelings.  Usually,
Nick didn't do a lot of pondering.  He was more of a straightforward,
action kind of guy.  These uncharacteristic, deeper thoughts took up
most of his attention as he bent to secure yet another small strip of
paper between the lower section of the door frame and the door.  All he
felt was the first edge of the blow.  Then everything went black.

DELIA WAS RUNNING late for her rendezvous on the waterfront.
Unfortunately, actually running was out of the question.  Otherwise
she'd have been racing down John Street as fast as her feet could carry
her.  Even on an ordinary night, this part of Lower Manhattan was all
but deserted after workday hours.  Tonigilt, the falling snow added to
the emptiness.  The buildings here were tall with gray stone facades,
and the street was narrow.  The streetlights were on, but mostly they
illuminated the halo of blowing snow immediately circling each lamp.
The rest of the street was as gray as the fronts of the buildings.  All
sound was muffled, including the whistle of the wind up from the
riverfront a few blocks ahead.  Delia could feel that wind, even if she
couldn't hear it, slapping against the narrow strip of her face that
remained exposed.  She pulled her scarf up higher till only her eyes
were visible and did her best to hurry on.

She thought she'd become accustomed to isolation in these five,
solitary years, but that was nothing compared with how alone she felt
right now.  She might have been a space explorer stranded on some
bleak, white moonscape with gray phantom shapes rising on either side.
She considered backtracking to Fulton Street, which might be less
deserted, but she was already past the hour when she was supposed to
meet

whoever had written her that card.  She couldn't allow herself to
think of that person as her father, though her heart ached to do so.
She wanted more than anything for her father to be alive.  She'd forced
herself to shut out the thought of him all these years.  Now it came
rushing back, springing tears to her eyes.  She dabbed at them with her
gloved hands, afraid they might freeze.  That would be all she needed
tonight, to have her eyes suddenly iced shut in addition to the rest of
what she had to deal with.  The absurdity of that image threatened to
drive a burst of hysterical laughter from her throat.  She gulped to
keep it there and slogged on.

The snow was deepening and drifted.  No shoveling had been done yet.
Offices in the vicinity had probably let their workers go home early.
The walkways would have been less buried then, no need to shovel till
the snow stopped or at least till very early the next morning, before
everything opened up again.  Delia pressed on, her body bent against
the chill of the wind, lifting her feet with each difficult step as if
she were walking through a knee-high desert of snow.  Actually, she was
doing exactly that.  Another image to add to the general creepiness of
this experience.  Thank heaven, she could finally see the comparative
breadth and brightness of Pearl Street just ahead.  She hurried toward
it, like a bedouin toward an oasis.

Delia had visited South Street Seaport several times in her solitary
explorations of the city.  On a normal evening this area east of the
cobbled gateway at the junction of Pearl and Fulton streets would have
been an exception to the general desertion of nighttime Lower
Manhattan.  The street would be occupied by diners from the
restaurants, revelers from the taverns and cocktail lounges, strollers
browsing the shops and gazing up at the spotlit masts of the Seaport
Museum's antique sailing ships moored along its piers.  Christmas was
an especially festive time in this part of town.  Carollers costumed in
memory of the nineteenth century Age of Sail performed on street
corners.  Father Christmas might even appear among them or the Ghost of
Christmas Past.  The shops were done up at their yul-tide best.
Brightly lit Christmas trees perched high up in the crow's nests of the
museum ships.  Delia had come down here last year at this time and
found it all delightful.

There were no carollers tonight, no revelers or strollers or browsers,
no Father Christmas, either, though she could readily imagine a ghost
of some kind or other materializing out of the gloom.  Still, there
were more lights here and the thoroughfare was wide, closed to traffic
had there been any.  Along this broad, open stretch, the snow had
drifted away from the center of the street and up against the buildings
on either side.  Delia found that more shallow center track and was
able to pick up her pace some.  She had no competition for her position
on the pathway.  The shops were all closed, and the restaurant windows
were empty.  Not even a stray, stalwart tourist was out here to brave
the wrath of winter.  Delia couldn't help suspecting more strongly than
ever that she was on a fool's errand.

She glanced up for reassurance toward the rigging of the Peking, the
crown jewel of the Seaport's permanently docked sailing fleet.  If the
lit-up trees were there, their sparkle was lost behind the blizzard,
which roiled even more thickly here at the edge of the East River where
it began to widen into New York Harbor and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Delia sighed.  She could have used that glimmer of holiday cheer fight
n was her heart threatened to waver from its determination to follow
the instructions on the Christmas card crumpled into the inside pocket
of her coat.  She'd turned left from Fulton onto South Street, and
there was still no one in sight, nobody up the block to Beckman or past
it, nobody under the FDR Drive, which vaulted on its massive steel
framework high above South Street.  Delia could see well enough even in
this dimmed light to know that she was alone here.

She might have pulled out the card and read it again, but that wasn't
necessary.  She'd committed its message to memory.  She was in the
right place, but she wasn't here at the right time.  Or maybe the
sender of the card had been put off by the weather, or thought Delia
would be, and decided not to come.  Whatever the reason, Delia appeared
to have made this trek for nothing.  Under other circumstances, she
might have stopped to note that she'd meanwhile had the unique
experience of snowbound Lower Manhattan and that what lay around her
right now really was a beautiful sight.  Unfortunately, she wasn't in
the proper frame of mind to be receptive to that beauty at the moment.
She was mostly frustrated and suddenly aware, with a growing
acute-hesS, of how cold she was becoming.

"Damn," she muttered, and stamped her foot, both to punctuate that
frustration and against the numbness creeping upward from her toes.

All of a sudden she remembered Nick.  She was almost shocked to realize
that she actually had not thought of him more than a few times since
she'd left the Tivoli and not at all since exiting the subway at the
World Trade Center.  Up to that point he'd been solidly planted in her
thoughts for what felt like an extremely long time.  Her fixation on
her waterfront destination and quest had driven even handsome,
fascinating, maddeningly compelling Nick Avery from her near-obsessed
mind.  He was very likely back at the Tivoli by now, or certainly close
to arriving there.  He'd be terribly worried to find her gone.

Delia peered through the snow searching for a pay phone and spotted one
near the corner of Beckman Street.  She hurried toward it, pulling off
a glove to rummage in her coat pocket for a quarter.  She was in the
habit of keeping phone change there along with a spare subway token or
two.  Her fingers had hum bed considerably.  They weren't as adept as
usual at telling the shape and size of one kind of coin from the other.
It took her the full distance to the phone to fish out the quarter she
needed.  She was intent upon not allowing her cold, clumsy fingers to
drop it when she spotted a Stooped figure emerging from the gloom
across South Street under the FDR Drive.  Whoever it was hesitated,
still too far away and obscured by the veil of falling snow for Delia
to make out anything other than that this person wasn't very tall.  Her
father hadn't been very tall, either.

Delia's heart skipped into her throat.  "Daddy," she cried out.  "It's
me.  Topsy.  I'm here."

The figure didn't move.  Delia was still holding the quarter in one
hand and the receiver in the other.  She dropped the coin and plopped
the receiver back into its carriage on the front of the phone box.  The
face of that box was covered in shiny chrome almost as reflective as a
mirror even in this subdued light.  In that instant, Delia registered
movement reflected across the chrome face.  Yet, she was standing
still.  Her long-honed, self-protective instincts leapt instantly into
place, and she spun around fast to catch the man behind her just enough
off guard that he stepped backward in surprise.

Delia had the impression that this was the man from the Waldorf
stairway nearly hidden now beneath almost as much clothing as she was
wearing.  She didn't take time or brain power to do more than let that
impression flit rapidly past.  She remembered the gun in her pocket.
Her hand was into her coat and out again, brandishing the pistol before
even she knew she was going to make that move.

"Get away from me or I'll shoot you dead right here," she screamed with
a vehemence she also hadn't anticipated.

He hesitated only a second, then turned and run back up Beekmart Street
into the camouflage of the storm and was gone.  Delia knew that she
could have held him here at gunpoint while she used the phone to call
Nick.  She also knew how long it would take him to get down here and
how difficult it would be to keep this man at bay till then.  She
couldn't call the police, of course.  Her fear of being arrested
herself precluded seeking official help.  She'd computed all of that in
the seconds it took to draw the gun and shout her warning.  She let her
would-be assailant escape and watched him go.  By the time she turned
back toward South Street, the small, stooped figure was gone, too.

Then, something very strange happened.  Like a film rolling backward,
Delia found herself seeing again what had happened just before she'd
registered movement in the chrome faceplate of the telephone.  In that
moment the figure across South Street had started suddenly forward with
one arm raised and head lifted.  Maybe this person was trying to warn
Delia against the danger behind her.  She suspected this might be so,
but that wasn't

what made her gasp as the scene flashed back to her now.  In that
fleeting instant she'd seen the face of the person scrambling toward
her across South Street.  She'd seen the face, and she knew who it
was.

Chapter Fifteen

Nick heard the the sirens before he actually knew what they were.  The
sound jangled through his brain, but it was only noise to him at first,
and far off, too.  Noise and identification hadn't yet come together.
His head hurt, and that caught his immediate attention.  He'd been hit.
Maybe he couldn't connect things up because he had amnesia or brain
damage.  It occurred to him, first through a fog and then more sharply,
that if he could make this observation about amnesia or brain damage,
he probably didn't have either.  At that instant he also knew that the
noise was a police siren, and he could guess the most likely reason he
was hearing it.  Somebody in this building must have seen or heard what
happened to Nick, maybe the thud of him falling to the floor after
being zapped from behind.  Maybe he'd cried out.  He couldn't remember.
Very possibly, the witness hadn't even opened his or her apartment door
to look out.  They just called 9-1-1 right off.  New Yorkers were like
that.  They'd be cautious about putting themselves in danger while
trying to help all the same.

The cops were just about here, and Nick had to disappear fast.  Part of
him might have opted for some official help with whatever was happening
to Delia, but asking for that help wasn't in the job description,
especially not now that he knew who Delia really was.  She'd still be
among the FBI Wanteds for the Denver case.  There's no statute of
limitations on murder.  Nick shrugged off the thought, shook his head
clear and pulled himself the rest of the way up off the floor.  He
wasn't yet feeling a hundred percent, but he had to make tracks out of
here, anyway.

He took longer getting back downtown than he had coming up After
slipping down the rear stairs and out of the fire door at Delia's
building, he employed a standard diversionary tactic--ducking into a
building, watching to see if he was being followed, then ducking out
another entrance.  Ordinarily he'd have taken several cabs in winding
directions, but the snow had slowed traffic too much to make that
workable.  Whoever clouted Nick from behind would have too little
trouble tailing him from one traffic jam to the next.  He traveled much
of the way on foot before darting into a subway for the remainder of
his trip to the Prince Street stop.

Having Delia out of sight worried him much more than the lump forming
behind his left ear, more even than finding out who'd given him that
lump.  It was bad business for a bodyguard to leave his client
untended.  He was feeling very uneasy about having done that even
before the desk clerk at the Tivoli called out as Nick hurried past.

"I don't think Your friend is upstairs," she said.  There was a hint of
indignation in the way she said that.  Her name was Mindy.  She'd let
Nick know on several occasions, in both subtle and not so subtle ways,
that she found him interesting.  He'd only noticed that because she had
a punky look about her that reminded him a little of Rebecca, the way
she'd been five years ago.  Tonight he barely noticed Mindy or her
petulant manner at all.  He had Rebecca, in the flesh as Delia, to
concern himself with now.

"You said to keep an eye out for her.  Right?"  "Yes, that's right."

Nick had mentioned his concern for Delia on the way out earlier.
Mindy's resentful tone suggested maybe that hadn't been too smart a
move on his part.

"I live to please," she gibed, "so I called your room a while ago and
guess what?"

"What?"  Nick couldn't help his impatience.  "Well."  She dragged out
the word and dangled the pencil she was holding from her fingers.
"You're not going to like it."

And you're not going to like the way I jump over that desk and throttle
you if you don't get to the point, Nick almost said out loud.

"Come on, Mindy.  What gives?"  he managed instead.  "You wouldn't want
to get me in trouble with my client, would you?"

"Is that what she is?  Your client?"

"Yes.  She's my client."  Nick had pulled his gloves off on his way
into the lobby.  He clenched his fists and dug his fingernails into his
palms now to keep himself from doing that jumping and throttling he'd
been thinking about a moment ago.  Cajoling rather than bullying was
the way to go here, no matter how maddening it might be.

"Then you just may be in trouble after all," Mindy said, "because she
took off."

That was exactly what Nick didn't want to hear.  "Did you see her
leave?  Which way did she go?"

"I didn't see a thing.  All I know is nobody answered when I rang your
room, and I rang two or three times."

Nick barely remembered to mutter, "Thanks," as he bolted for the
stairway, which was a faster route than waiting for the Tivoli's
antiquated elevator.  There was still hope that Mindy could be wrong.
Delia might have slept through the phone ringing or maybe she was still
in the bathtub at the time.  Unfortunately, the race of his pulse and
the dryness in his throat were telling Nick that neither of those was
the case.  Sure enough, when he got to his room, nobody was there.

His first thought was that something could have gone wrong at PEI.  The
way Delia was so dedicated to that job of hers she'd have gone running
back there to take care of things despite the weather or the danger. 
He grabbed the phone, pressed nine for an outside line and punched in
the PEI number.  He clutched the receiver altogether too hard through
three long rings till the connection was made.  His heart leapt when he
heard,

"Hello."  It was Delia's voice.

"Delia?"

"You have reached the office of Protective Enterprises Incorporated,"
her voice said.

"Damn it."

Nick pounded his thigh once, hard, with his balled-up fist, as the
voice on the telephone droned on.  He'd reached the PEi answering
machine.  He'd hoped against hope that at least Lily, the temporary
worker, would be there, but "of course she would have closed up and
gone home by now, especially with this storm going on.  Still, maybe
Delia was there in the office and monitoring phone messages.  That
would explain why she didn't have the service picking up instead of the
machine.  He snatched at this very slender possibility as if it had
some real chance of proving true.

"Delia," he said as soon as the voice message ended and the answer
recording began.  "Are you there?  It's Nick.  Pick up if you're
there."

He listened desperately for her to do what he asked but heard only
silence in return.

"Delia, are you there?"  he asked again while his pleading tone was
recorded for posterity.

Still no answer came until finally the connection clicked off and a
second later the dial tone began.  Nick slammed the phone down.  Where
the hell was she?  He paced the short distance from phone table to
window.  Outside, snow swirled and blew in the dim remnants of
illumination that made their way up through the storm from the
streetlights below.  She was out in this, but he had no idea where.  He
also had no idea why, and that was driving him craziest of all.  He'd
told her to stay put.  Why hadn't she done that?  What could be
important enough to take her out of this room into danger?

Another possibility crossed his mind and made his heart pound faster
than ever.  What if she'd been taken out of here by somebody else?  He
measured the likelihood of that.  There were two ways into the Tivoli
at ground level.  The rear entrance was guarded by a heavy, metal,
safety-locked door.  Nobody could come through that without a tank or
at least an automatic weapon and a lot of noise.  The only other entry
was straight into the lobby, and Mindy wouldn't have missed that.  She
didn't miss much.  She also wouldn't let anybody past her she didn't
know.  She might be resentful of Nick having a woman in his room, but
Mindy would do her job all the same.

What about the fire escape?  There was one from the street to Nick's
window, just like every room in the hotel.  Fire regulations said it
had to be that way.  Nick re, roe inhered the handprint on the greasy
surface of Delia's bedroom windowsill.  He leaned closer to his window
and peered out at the sill.  No marks there, and none on the fire
escape platform, either.  No hand-prints on the sill, no footprints on
the fire escape.  The snow was coming down hard and could have covered
prints over.  Still, Nick reasoned, there would have been at least
indentations or some sign left behind, wet marks on the carpet inside
the room or something like that.  He made a quick inspection but found
nothing.  He was almost certain nobody had come in this way.

All that remained was the outside chance someone could have slip peA by
Mindy downstairs.  No matter how unlikely Nick figured that to be, he
had to check it out for sure.  He could have called down to the front
desk, but he tore out of his room and headed for the stairway instead.
He had to do something that required movement.  If he was forced to
stand passively on the end of a telephone line one more time, he just
might jump straight out of his skin.  He was that agitated, and a good
deal of that agitation was because he knew he'd fallen down on the job.
He'd left Delia alone.  If he wasn't so hell-bent to get down to the
lobby as fast as he could, he might have stopped and kicked himself
very hard in the behind.

DELIA ROUNDED the corner onto Mercer Street with her head down.  That
seemed to be the best way to keep snow crystals from bombarding her
face.  The snowfall hadn't slowed any in its intensity and now had
taken on an icy edge that prickled her cheeks then melted there in a
frigid sheen.  If she hadn't been hustling along as fast as she could
go, she would have been quite cold even in her heavy overcoat, which
was now frosted white all over.

Delia trained her eyes just far enough ahead on the sidewalk to keep
from running into anybody, though she was pretty much alone on this
narrow street.  She looked up fully just once to see the entrance to
the Tivoli a couple of buildings away, then ducked her face back into
her scarf while she scurried even faster and imagined how bright and
warm the lobby would be.  Consequently, Delia was pretty much barreling
along when she plowed straight into somebody moving equally fast out of
the hotel entrance.  That somebody was Nick.

"Delia, where the hell have you been?"  were the first words out of his
mouth in almost the same tone of voice she'd heard him use against the
creep who'd attacked her on the stairway at the Waldorf.  Delia's
imaginings of her longed-for arrival at the Tivoli had not included an
angry greeting.

"You don't need to shout at me, and you can stop dragging me around,
too."

He'd taken her by the arm and was pulling her back into the hotel
lobby.  The young woman at the reception desk watched them with
considerable interest.  Fortunately, no one else was present to see the
scene Nick was making.  Delia shook herself free of his grasp.

"I came back here, and you were gone," he said only a little less
loudly and through gritted teeth.  "I want to know where you went."

"I had some business to take care of."  Shaking herself had dislodged a
cloud of snow that settled in a wet ring around her on the lobby
floor.

"I don't believe you.  I called your office, and you weren't there."

"You don't believe me?"  Delia's voice hit a louder register now.  Five
years of constant attention to keeping a low profile in public flew out
the doorway into the snow.  "Where do you get the nerve to accuse me of
lying?"

She was lying of course, but at the moment that seemed beside the
point.

"Look, for once I just want the straight truth out of you.

From the sound of that, Nick's anger was losing some of its heat while
Delia's did the opposite.

"I told you I had business to attend to.  Whether that business was in
my office or not is none of your concern."

Her cheeks were flaming and not just from being stung by icy snow.  She
tore at her scarf to get it away from her face.

"what you dos my concern.  It's also my job."  She could hear the
attempt at reconciliation in his tone, but she wasn't interested in
reconciliation at the moment.  For days now, she'd been angry at having
her life invaded.  Nick was catching the brunt of that accumulating
rage.

"Your job is to do what I tell you."  She didn't care how mean or surly
that sounded.  "You seem to be forgetting you work for me."

She expected that to get his masculine dander up.  Maybe she even
wanted it to happen so there'd be a cathartic confrontation and she
could vent the entire depth of her frustration right here in this hotel
lobby.  If that was her intention, Nick wasn't cooperating.  Instead of
blasting back at her, he shrugged his broad shoulders then reached his
arms around her and pulled her close to his chest.  He didn't seem to
notice how she was dampening his clothing with melting snow.

"I'm not forgetting anything about you.  I haven't been able to forget
anything about you for the past five years."

Delia took a long breath as if to inhale those words deep into herself.
In that instant, more about her was melting than the snow on their
clothing.  When she let her breath free again, her angry tension gushed
out with it.  She sunk against him and might have crumpled to the floor
if his strong arms hadn't held her firmly upright.  All of a sudden she
felt as if she might start crying.  She would sob and sob till the
bands of loss and fear and regret clamped for five years, maybe more,
around her" heart finally loosened their hold.  She'd be free from
sorrow at last, a liberation she hadn't let herself even hope for.  She
caught her breath in sharply before that sobbing could begin.
Otherwise, she feared, the deluge of tears might go on forever.

"Let's go somewhere and talk," Nick whispered softly against her soggy
knit cap.  Delia felt his head turn in the direction of the reception
desk.  He must also be aware of the public spectacle they had become.
He was probably embarrassed.  He did live in this place part of the
time, after all, and wouldn't want to make a scene here.

"Okay," she managed to croak as she clung to his closeness just a
moment longer.

"There's a cafe in the next block where we can get something to eat,"
he said.

His words brought Delia's stomach suddenly back into focus for her, as
if it hadn't been part of her anatomy till now.  She tried to remember
when she'd eaten.  Oh, yes, a couple of bites of a deli sandwich back
in Nick's room what felt like a very long time ago.  "Are you hungry?"
he asked.

Delia hesitated no more than an instant before pulling away from him
far enough to look up into his face.

"Yes, I am," she said, and she wasn't just referring to the gnawing in
her stomach.  She knew right then that she was hungry for him--his
company, his protection and, later on, his body.

"Let's go," he said, taking her arm.

Nick glanced back briefly toward the reception desk, and Delia did the
same.  The young woman there was scowling at them openly.  She looked
like she was really upset to have them carrying on so emotionally in
her lobby.  Delia could understand that.  Still, he couldn't help
thinking how, at the Waldorf, the staff would act as if they hadn't
seen a thing.

"By the way," Nick said as he opened the door to guide Delia through,
"I got your pills.  Do you need to take one now?"

Delia had to think for a moment what he was talking about.  She'd all
but forgotten the ruse she'd used for sending him off on his wild-goose
chase so she could get away from him on her own.

"No," she said after the details came clear again.  "I'm fine."

If Nick was taken aback by how much that differed from her earlier
insistence on the urgency of his errand, he didn't let it show. Instead
he turned her toward him before they left the shelter of the Tivoli
entryway and wound her scarf back around her neck to shield her from
the storm.

"Good," he said.  "That's what I want--for you to be fine."

The deep timbre of his voice pulsed through her like warm, vibrating
sunlight.  That sensation remained with her for a long moment.  Not
till it had worn off did she think to ask if he'd had any trouble
finding the pills at her apartment.  They were heading down the block
by then.  As they hurried on, Nick told her what had happened to him.
She was still exclaiming with concern when they reached the cafe.  The
first thing she did after they'd ducked inside was to pull off first
her glove, then the baseball cap he was wearing and start feeling
behind his left ear where he said he'd been struck.

Her fingers touched the lump and circled it carefully.  She was so
intent on checking for any break in the skin or sign of blood and so
relieved to find none that she didn't notice right away how tenderly he
was smiling down at her.  His dark hair was tousled from her pulling
his cap off, and a thick lock had fallen across his forehead.  Her
fingers moved from behind his ear to lift that lock and smooth it
gently back into place.  He smiled more tenderly still, and she felt
herself drifting into the spell of that smile.

"Welcome to Kavehaz," a friendly voice said from just beyond the soft
cloud of Delia's reverie.  "May I take your things?"

She turned slowly toward the young man in black who stood smiling
expectantly next to them.  What things could he be talking about, and
why would he want to take them?  Fortunately, Nick was apparently less
entranced than she.  He'd already begun unwinding her scarf.  Delia
came back to her senses enough to help out by removing her other glove,
stuffing it into her pocket and unbuttoning her coat.  Her cap was the
last to come off.  She'd had her hair tucked up underneath.  It tumbled
free now, dampened into wavy strands around her face, oblivious to how
hard she'd worked over the years to tame it straight and smooth.  Nick
was still beaming down at her.  He'd taken off his own gloves by now
and reached up to touch her cheek.

"You are absolutely beautiful," he said.

Delia forgot all about the waiter then and gazed up into Nick's ruddy,
handsome face and glowing eyes.  "So are you," she whispered.

The waiter cleared his throat, but when Delia recalled his presence
enough to glance his way he didn't look the least bit impatient.  He
was still smiling.  She glanced around the restaurant, as well.  Nobody
was watching, and if they had been, Delia suspected they'd he smiling,
too.  This was Soho, after all, perhaps more amenable than places
farther uptown to unorthodox behavior, such as lovers lost in gazing
into each other's eyes even before they'd taken off theft coats.  Delia
liked this place already, even before she looked around farther and saw
how pleasant it was.

What caught her attention first was the art on the walls, paintings and
photographs so well executed and interesting that she was tempted to
walk over and look at the an more closely.  However, Nick had taken her
arm and was guiding her along in the waiter's wake. Comfortable-looking
couches faced each other across a long coffee table in the front of the
room.  A young woman with blond, straight hair down her back sat on one
of the couches sketching on a large pad, a glass of wine on the coffee
table in front of her.  Delia was fascinated.  She would have liked to
peek to see what the artist was working on, but the waiter had already
led them beyond the couches to a cozy, marble-topped table near the
wall.

After being seated, Delia took a moment to settle into the charm of the
place--soft lighting over the bar, other grouping of couches toward the
back of where several people, all fashionably dressed in keyed downtown
style, chatted among White pin lights here and there were a subtle but
ful reminder of the holiday season.  Delia self to relax for what felt
like the first time in forever.  She almost forgot about being a a
former life, and about being stalked.  She even forgot what she'd been
so eager to tell Nick they'd collided in front of the Tivoli.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed.  "You'll never happened."

She was only partly aware of gushing somewhat ishly or of how
incongruous that was with to say.  Meanwhile, Nick was still smiling at
her the candlelit table.

"I think I know who put that guy on my night," she continued.  "I just
saw her down Seaport."

Chapter Sixteen

Nick stared at her across the narrow table.  He'd put out of his mind
for a while how mad she'd made him by slipping off on her own.  Now
that tight, hot feeling was right under his surface again.  He vowed to
keep it there.

"The Seaport?  Are you talking about South Street Seaport?  What were
you doing down there on a night like this?  The place must have been
completely deserted."

"It was.  The snow made it look like a white desert on a riverbank."

Nick ignored the poetic description.  "Delia, you know better than
this.  A deserted spot is the most dangerous place of all for you to
be."

"I know that, and I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to make you worry."

Worry was too small a word for what she'd put him through.  And, once
again, he found himself doubting her words.  She knew exactly how he'd
react to knowing she was off somewhere in the night by herself.  She
knew that would drive him crazy, and he had a hard time believing she
hadn't meant it to happen.  He wondered, as he had too many times
before, just how much truth there was in some of the things she said to
him.

"So, what were you doing down there?  Thinking about taking a boat tour
of the harbor?"  He couldn't help the sarcasm.

She looked at him in that studying way she had.  She was doing it
again, he could tell, deciding how much of the real story she wanted to
tell him.  He sighed and let his exasperation be tempered by how
beautiful she was with her hair a halo of candlelight and her cheeks
still rosy from her trek through the snow.  She looked up then at the
waiter hovering nearby.  Nick had been gazing directly into her eyes.
He was relieved to have the spell of that gaze broken for a moment.  He
found it difficult to think sensibly around her too much of the time,
and sensible thinking had to be top priority here.  "Let's order," he
said, picking up the menu.  Whatever she was or wasn't going to tell
him wouldn't change in the few minutes it took to satisfy -the waiter
and send him on his way.  Besides, Nick was hungry.  He was a hearty
eater most of the time, and meals had been few and far between since he
hooked up with Delia.  He was surprised at how little that had bothered
him.  He must have been living on something else besides food.  He
wasn't yet ready to think about exactly what that something might be.

"The cooking's good here," he said.

She nodded as she read through the menu one item at a time.

"I feel like I'm having my first meal after a long fast,

and I have to be very particular about what I choose,"

she said.

He didn't answer though he felt a little of that himself.  He guessed
her real priority was to divert his attention from the Seaport question
for as long as possible.  He ordered fast as a signal he wasn't about
to be taken in by that tactic.  I'll1 take the grilled chicken," he
said.  The waiters here usually spic led off a list of specials at
about this time, including just about every ingredient used in
preparing each dish.  Something in Nick's attitude must have alerted
their waiter against doing that, because he simply jotted down Nick's
order on a pad then turned toward Delia.  "What's on the pfit plate?"
she asked.  Nick sat on his impatience the best he could while the
waiter described the mixed salad, special mustard and whatever else
came with the damned pfit.  Why would she want to eat liver on a night
like this, anyway?  "That sounds fine," she said at last.  "I'll have
the pfit plate She handed her menu to the waiter then turned back to
Nick.  Her smile seemed to brighten the candlelight and almost threw
him off course in his determination to get this conversation back on
track.  "I wanted to order something I don't often have because this
feels like such a special night."  Her smile beamed even brighter.
She's good, Nick thought.  She has the makings of a first-class con
artist.  Of course, that's pretty much what she'd been these past five
years.  He didn't like to admit to himself what pretending on a
full-time basis could have done to her basic sense of honesty.
Unfortunately, he had to remain aware of exactly that and not forget it
for a minute.  Keeping her alive could depend on figuring out the
difference between her truths and her not-so-truths.  Whatever else
about himself might be affected by

whether or not he could trust her was yet another area he wasn't ready
to get into.

"Do you come here much?"  she was asking.

Nick almost didn't answer.  He could cut her off instead.  The
abruptness of his response all but did that.

"Once in a while but not too often," he said.  "I go everywhere once in
a while but not too often."

"Is that your habit with relationships, too?"

He'd been about to snap her back to her Seaport story, but her question
and the sincere way she asked it took him totally by surprise.

"I don't have any relationships," he said before he could think if he
really wanted to be that candid, or sound that pathetic, either.

She reached across the table, past the bud vase of fresh flowers and
the glassware twinkling with reflections of candle flame.  She took his
hand, and Nick was lost.  His barrier of determination began to
dissolve as surely as sugar would dissolve in the Ceylon a she'd
ordered to go with her pate.  She didn't say anything for a while.  She
just sat there with her hand gently covering his.  She wasn't looking
at him, only into the candle flame.  Finally she spoke in a voice
barely loud enough for him to hear.

"I know you want to talk about where I went tonight and why I went
there.  I'm going to tell you all of that now."

Nick almost turned his hand over to grab hers, but he understood he
mustn't disturb the delicacy of this moment.  He also understood that
she'd made her decision.  He could only hope that decision was to trust
him.  As for himself, her closeness and the touch of her hand was
having such a profound effect on him that he had to concentrate on not
leaping up from his chair to take

her in his arms.  His heart was slamming so hard in his chest he
wondered if she could hear it.

"I received a message earlier, when I picked up my mail," she began.

Nick forced himself not to jump in with the many questions that came to
mind.

"It was an invitation to a meeting tonight at the Seaport.  It wasn't
signed."

And you went anyway?  Nick wanted to shout, but he didn't.

"I know it seems crazy for me to have run off down there by myself on
the strength of that alone," she said, as if she might have read his
mind.  "But the card in my mail referred to me by a nickname only my
father used.  A private name between just the two of us."

"But your father's dead."  The words popped out before Nick could stop
them.

"Not for me," she said even more quickly.  "In my heart, he's still
very much alive.  That's what I found out last night when I got the
glass angel as a gift.  It's so like one he gave me when I was a little
girl."

Again, Nick wanted to bolt out of his seat and brace away the sadness
that was so audible even in her very quiet voice.

"Don't be sad for me," she said, once more as if she'd divined his
thoughts.  "It's a good thing really, in a way.  I'd kept myself from
thinking about my father for so long that I'd all but lost him.  I feel
like I've got him back again."

Nick did turn his hand over now.  He closed her smaller hand gently
into his larger one, and she let him do so.  The candlelight glistened
in what might have been tears at the corners of her eyes.  He wished he
didn't have to press her further.

"But it wasn't your father at the Seaport, was it?"  he asked as
tenderly as he could.

" " No, it wasn't ."  "

"Then who was it?  You said you recognized somebody there."

Delia sighed and pulled her fingers away from his.  All of a sudden,
his hand had never felt so empty before.

"There were two people actually," she said, "but I only saw one of them
clearly.  The first was just a re-flection in the front of a telephone.
I'm only certain it was a man.  Maybe it was the guy from the Waldorf,
maybe not.  He ran away when he saw the other one coming across the
street toward us."  "What other one?"  " "The woman."  "

Nick couldn't help being impatient for the details.  What woman?  What
woman?  he wanted to shout.  Delia's subdued manner kept him from
speaking.  She'd been so bright and buoyant when they arrived here.
She'd lost that brightness now.  Nick wished he could carry her back to
those elated moments and rearrange the world so she could stay there.
Unfortunately, all he could do was listen and allow her to tell her
story at her own pace.

"The woman was Penelope Wren," Delia said next.  "Did you know her?"

"From Denver?"  Nick searched his memory.  The name did sound
familiar.

Delia nodded.  "She was Tobias Wren's wife."

"I remember now.  I dealt with Tobias, but I didn't have much to do
with her.  That's why I didn't recognize the name right off."

The Wrens had been the caretaker couple at the Lester estate.  As Nick
recalled, Tobias was in charge of the grounds, and his wife was in
charge of the house.  They'd taken charge of Rebecca, as well, after
her father and stepmother were killed.  Edward Lester's will provided
for the Wrens to do that.  "Are you sure it was her?"  Nick asked.
"Absolutely positive.  I saw her face very clearly.  She looked exactly
the same, and I have my reasons for not forgetting what she looked
like."  "What reasons?"  Nick had to wait for his answer till after the
waiter, who had just returned, set their plates down in front of them.
I'll1 never forget Penelope Wren or mistake somebody else for her,"
Delia said when they were alone again, "because I've always suspected
she and Tobias might have had something to do with framing me for Morty
Lancer's murder."  "Are you thinking the Wrens killed him?"  "Not on
their own, but they could have been paid by someone else to help out
somehow, especially with making it look like I was the killer.  The
Wrens had copies of all the keys and free access to the house, more so
than just about anybody else."  "I see."  That sounded a little more
possible to Nick.  As he remembered it, she was right about that
unlimited access.  "Didn't they have a kid with medical problems that
cost them a lot of money?"  He was already thinking in terms of motive.
Delia nodded with renewed vigor.  "Exactly.  And there's something else
I remember, too."  "What's that?"  "Penelope Wren is a small woman with
very small hands, just like the ones that left prints on my
windowsill."

"You're right.  She was very small."  Nick knew he had to be careful
not to jump to conclusions, but this was the first real lead they'd
had.

"Unfortunately, I have no idea how to go about finding her again,"
Delia said.

"Well, first of all, we can assume she chose the Seaport as a meeting
place because she-knows the vicinity."  This was Nick's area of
expertise.  Even though he was a bodyguard now, not a detective, he
still thought like one.  "She may live or work near there."

"That doesn't narrow it down much.  The Seaport is only blocks away
from the financial district and hundreds of companies she could be
working for."

"It's not very likely that she's a broker or a trader.  We could try to
track her down by way of what she might be instead, but before we do
that there's a much simpler place to begin.  Come with me?"

Nick got up from the table.  Delia hesitated before following while she
looked longingly at her dinner plate.

"We'll be right back," Nick said.  "We're only going to the
telephone."

She did follow him then, out of the table area, past the bar to an
alcove between the dining room and rest rooms.  There was a pay phone
on the wall.  Unfortunately, there was no phone book, as is so often
the case with New York City public telephones.  Nick picked up the
receiver.  When he heard the tone begin, he dialled 4-1-1 and waited
till the Information operator answered.

"Do you have a Penelope Wren in Manhattan, possibly in Lower Manhattan?
And if she isn't listed, could you please check for Tobias Wren?"

Nick spelled out the last name then said what amounted to a silent
prayer for the result they needed.

Maybe it was the prayer that did the trick because when the operator
came back on the line she said there was, in fact, a Penelope Wren
listed on Water Street.

"What street number would that be?"  he asked.  Sometimes Manhattan
operators got impatient with being used as an address service.
Sometimes they even refused to give out that information, but Nick's
prayer was apparently still in effect because this operator passed on
the number he needed without so much as a hint of exasperation in her
voice.  Nick committed the address to memory along with the phone
number that followed, from a recorded voice this time.

"Bingo," he said to Delia after he'd hung up the phone.  "We've got
her, and she does live in the Seaport neighborhood."

Delia smiled and nodded.  "So, can we eat first before we go after her?
I'm starved."

"We can definitely eat first," Nick said.

He was also thinking about some other things they could do first, when
they got back to his hotel room, though he knew he shouldn't be.  As he
watched the dance of candlelight in Delia's eyes, Nick wondered if the
search for Penelope Wren couldn't wait until tomorrow.  Delia's slow
smile made him wonder further if she might be feeling the same.

EVEN BEFORE they left the cafe, Delia had begun to think about how much
she wanted to touch him.  She ate much faster than was usually her
habit.  Of course, usually she'd be eating alone and did so slowly to
stretch out the time.  She did that to make each meal feel at least a
little like the social event it couldn't be.  Tonight was different.
She cut the pfit wedges with her fork and slipped them into her mouth
almost one after

the other.  She tasted their deep, interesting flavor only slightly.
She'd ordered this dish in an automatic throwback to times past, when
she'd try to eat something out of the ordinary at a meal marking a
special occasion, as if that would make the experience stand out even
more in her mind.  Tonight, however, her special delicacy turned out to
be nothing but an obstacle between herself and the delicacy she really
most wanted--a private place with Nick by her side.

Probably, they should be taking off after the Wrens fight now, but
Delia was tired of stalking and being stalked.  The cloak and dagger of
these past few days had left her longing for a bit of normal human life
if only for a few hours till the chase began again.  She suspected
Nick's diligence would make him try to convince her otherwise.  She
also suspected she could distract him from that resolve, at least for
tonight.  The truth about Tobias and Penelope Wren, whatever that might
be, would still be around for the uncovering tomorrow morning.

By the time they got back to Nick's hotel room, Delia was actually
feeling waves of warmth ebbing and rippling through her, like water
over parched earth.  She'd never been even remotely close to this
filled with desire, not even five years ago when she'd first met Nick
and found him so irresistible.  She'd been able to keep herself under
control then.  She had nothing like that control now.  In fact, she'd
decided that if Nick put up any resistance to making love with her
tonight, she'd force herself on him anyway.  Fortunately, she sensed
that wouldn't be necessary.

He'd matched his dining pace to hers back at the cafe, then snapped his
fingers impatiently for the waiter when they'd finished as much of the
meal as they could force themselves to eat.  After that, they'd both
fumbled quickly into their coats and braved the storm with mufflers
still unwound.  They'd hurried, down the street toward the Tivoli
despite the danger of possible slippery patches under the snow, with
Nick holding her firmly under the elbow against a fall.

Consequently, she wasn't surprised when Nick closed and locked the door
of his room then turned and swept her into his arms, all in a single
motion.  They kissed--his mouth over hers, her tongue seeking
his--oblivious to hats and scarves and the smell of wet wool until the
heat they were generating inside their cocoons of outerwear became
unbearable.  They began undressing each other then, unwrapping the
layers from each other's swaddled bodies with urgency, like children
pulling paper from Christmas packages to get to the treasure
underneath.

Nick had less on than Delia did.  Still, he was making better progress.
He had her coat open in no time, his fingers sliding from one button to
the next like a rapid fire.  Then the wet, oversize garment was off her
shoulders and sliding down her arms to the floor.  Almost instantly,
her sweater was lifted over her head, as well.  Then her turtleneck had
been pulled up across her breasts.  She could apply herself only
sporadically to her own task of undressing him.  He kept her hands and
arms too busy for that.  She welcomed what he was doing all the same,
and not only because the air of the room felt much cooler and more
soothing on her skin than the layers of humid clothing had.  Even more
welcome and wonderful was the way each graze of his fingers along her
flesh brought with it tingles and flashes that acted like firecrackers
and skyrockets in her blood, sending it crackling and surging to the
most private part of her.  She could barely breathe from the intensity
of the sensation.

While Nick moved on to the button at the top of her jeans, Delia pulled
down the zipper of his jacket.  She knew she could never have managed
buttons as fast as he had.  Her hands were trembling too much for that,
and her fingers were difficult to control, almost as if they belonged
to someone else.  Still she managed to force him to stop undressing her
while she pushed his jacket over his shoulders, gasping at their hard
round-ness, then down his arms where she could feel the taut sinews
even through his sweater.  She set immediately to removing that sweater
and the T-shirt underneath before Nick could get in her way by busying
himself with her jeans once more.

As she was doing all of that, he'd begun trailing kisses down her bared
and highly sensitized neck, beginning just behind her earlobe and
continuing in a maddening advance toward her shoulder.  She gasped at
that, too, and moaned deep in her throat, so low she might have thought
she imagined the sound if she hadn't felt its echo in her bones.  Until
his lips touched her shoulder blade and the hollow above it, Delia'd
never guessed she was capable of so much feeling there.  She couldn't
wait to be naked against him.  She reached behind her to unclasp her
bra and shrugged to help him ease the straps from her shoulders.  He
pulled away from her just long enough to peel the pale lace from her
breasts.

He might have stopped to touch her there, but that wasn't what she
wanted right now.  She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him
close, crushing her breasts against his chest and moving her body just
enough from side to side to feel the tantalizing torture of his dark
chest hair across her nipples.  Her breasts agonized for that friction,
that pleasure that was almost pain, as if they must have been longing
for him for years.  She pressed into him farther down, as well,
maneuvering her leg between his and rubbing against his groin.  He
raised his mouth from her throat and groaned.  Under other
circumstances Delia might have been taken aback, even frightened by the
animal quality of that sound.  Now, she reveled in its resonance with
her own low moaning.  She let herself go limp as Nick lifted her,
seemingly without effort, into his arms and carried her to the bed.

Chapter Seventeen

The morning dawned glorious both in- and outside Nick's cozy room at
the Tivoli.  Delia opened the curtains to a vista of pure white
rooftops sparkling in the sun.  The dinginess of the city had been
frosted clean overnight, and she felt the same.  How could she be happy
at a time like this with her life in peril and so many crucial
questions remaining, not to mention the threat of imprisonment or worse
forever looming?  Once again, just like yesterday morning at the
Waldorf, the answer lay on the bed where Nick still slept.  She'd truly
never met anyone like him.  She probably never would again.  Still she
knew such thoughts must wait until her future, if she had one, could be
made secure.  After all, some of those crucial questions were about
him.  He turned toward her then as if that skeptical thought of hers
might have startled him awake, or maybe it was only the sun brightening
through the window.

"Good morning," he said with a sleepy smile that nearly sent her
leaping across the room to him.

They'd made love several times last night.  Delia felt very well-loved
this morning, more so than ever before in her life.  His smile reminded
her of that, and all doubt about him disappeared, at least for the
moment.

"Are you coming over here, or do I have to leave this warm bed and
bring you back myself?"

Delia actually did a skipping step on her way across the floor.  Being
with him made her feel years younger, as if she hadn't lost the past
five years, after all.

"We have work to do today, you know," she said as she bounced into the
tumble of blankets next to him.

"We could do it later," he teased, running his finger slowly up the
inside of her thigh till she trembled.

She'd found one of his blue chambray shirts in the closet and put it
on.  The cuffs hung winsomely past her fingertips.  and the tails were
halfway to her knees.  She'd fastened only two buttons in front, and
the curve of her breasts was clearly visible almost to the nipples. She
knew it was a provocative pose.  She'd mant it to be, and she could
tell by the heated look in Nick's eyes that he was responding as she'd
hoped he would.  She also knew that if they started making love now,
they weren't likely to stop.  The passion was that strong between them.
He opened her body all the way to her soul.  Her hunger burned for more
of that now, but she knew she would have to wait.  She pulled the
chambray shirt closed with a sigh and moved her leg just in time to
keep his fingers from striking the point of no return.

"Okay," he said, sounding a little pouty.  "I get the message.  But--"
he raised himself up on one gorgeously muscled arm and swept her down
onto the bed with the other "--you're not getting away without a
kiss."

And what a kiss it was.  He rolled on top of her with his thighs
between hers so she could feel every inch of his magnificent, naked
body pressing into hers.  He lifted her against him with one arm,
crushing her breasts to his chest.  His other hand cradled her head and
held

her while his mouth captured hers and his tongue invaded her so
forcefully that she couldn't have resisted if she wanted to.  Of
course, she had no intention of resisting.  She threw her arms around
him and returned his almost savage kiss with equal hot, hard intensity.
When they finally pulled away from each other, Delia lay out of breath
in his arms.  If he hadn't been the one to get up finally and say
they'd better get going, she would have tossed her former resolve
straight out into the snow and loved this amazing man all day long.

NiCK HAD wanted to keep Delia in his room this morning just so he could
be alone with her, but there'd" been another reason, too.  He still
possessed a cop's instincts, and those instincts were telling him loud
and clear that she could be in great danger in the day ahead, even more
than she was now.  That's why he did his best to talk her into staying
at the Tivoli.  Unfortunately, he hadn't succeeded.

He could understand why she felt she had to come out here this morning,
why she couldn't hang out in bed with him instead.  She had a mystery
on her hands, a mystery that had just about consumed her life for
years.  If there was even a hint of a possibility she could unlock a
single one of the closed doors to the puzzle of her past, she had to
take that chance.  And he had to take it with her, even when this sixth
sense of his was telling him to grab her and run.  So they'd left the
Tivoli and plowed out into the snow, through sidewalks that were half
shoveled or not shoveled at all.  With each step they took, the warning
alarms buzzed louder in Nick's head.  Yet, now that they were here
outside the building on Water Street where Penelope Wren lived, all of
that noise inside Nick had fallen silent.  He felt nothing but dead
calm.  Developers had obviously been at work on this block.
Eighteenth-century row houses that had fallen into disrepair a decade
or so ago were fixed up now, with re-pointed and cleaned brick fronts.
Restored window casings sprouted planter boxes on the ledges, filled
with snow where flowers would be in a warmer season.  Christmas lights
were strung along the edges of some of the boxes and more in the
windows.  Nick looked up as they mounted the stoop and saw that the
Christmas lights in the third-floor windows were lit even in the
morning brightness.  Something told him those lights weren't on due to
the occupant's excess of holiday spirit the evening before.  Something
also told him that third-floor apartment belonged to Penelope Wren. The
marl-box in the entryway confirmed that intuition to be true. Delia
grabbed the front door handle and turned it in vain, then turned I
again.  Nick could tell how eager she was to get inside and on to
whatever revelation this building had in store, no matter how
unpleasant Nick might anticipate it to be.  He could protect her.  It
was his job to do that, and more than just his job now.  He could jump
in front of her and take danger and even destruction on himself so it
wouldn't strike her.  But he couldn't shield her from the truth.  He
might pick her up in his arms right now and carry her out of here as
fast as he could go, but he couldn't hold on to her like that forever.
Eventually she'd make her way back here spite any and all efforts of
his to prevent it.  Facing the reality of this building, including its
third floor, was inevitable for both of them.  "The door's locked," he
said, though that was also ready obvious.

He knew, of course, that Delia wasn't about to be stopped by something
as trivial as a lock.  She turned back to the row of mailboxes in the
entryway.  There was a door buzzer under each.  She hesitated a moment
before pushing one then another.  Checking the name plates and
apartment numbers for those two buttons, Nick could see what Delia was
trying to do.  She was hoping to ring the buzzers of apartments at the
rear of the building.  That way nobody would lean out the window to see
who was down here.  There was no response for a moment.  Then a voice
crackled through the intercom grill set into the same brass facing as
the row of mad boxes

"Who's there?"  The voice was hardly recognizable" as male or female.

When Delia didn't answer right away, Nick chimed in.  "Mailman," he
said.

He knew he was helping Delia do something he thought unwise, but he'd
already surrendered to the inevitability of the situation.  Still, he
held his breath, hoping the person attached to that crackling voice
would be savvy enough not to let somebody into his or her budding on
the strength of such a flimsy identification.  At the same time Nick
guessed that his mailman charade would work.  Too many people were too
eager to find out what was being delivered to resist that particular
temptation, especially at Christmastime.  A moment later the door
release buzzer sounded and he and Delia were inside.

"We'd better get upstairs fast before whoever that was opens their
door," Delia said.

She was already at the stairway to the first floor and climbing.  Nick
shrugged and followed.  They hot footed up to the first landing then
down a narrow hallway to the next staircase.  He kept close behind her
up the next flight of stairs and back down the third floor hallway
toward the front of the building again.  Not till he saw the doorway of
that front apartment did he grab Delia's arm and thrust her out of his
way so he could approach first.  She didn't resist, maybe because she'd
seen the same thing he had and understood his concern.  The door to the
third floor front apartment was ajar.  In New York City, an unlocked
and open door to a residential space like this one more often than not
signaled trouble.

Delia tapped Nick on the arm.  "Take this," she said.  He turned from
staring at the crack in the doorway just long enough to see that she
was handing him the gun he'd given her yesterday.  He shook his head
and took his own weapon from the back of his waistband.  She did
understand that there was danger, after all.

"You stay out here," he said' softly hoping in vain that she would
cooperate for once.

He raised his gun next to his face and slightly forward in
quick-response position, then pressed his left palm flat against the
apartment door and pushed.  He peered at the space revealed by the
gradually opening door, but could, see nothing unusual.  He pushed the
door open wider.  Still nothing.  Both the hallway into the apartment
and the room beyond were brightly illuminated, and that made him as
uneasy as the Christmas bulbs in the third-floor window had done.

He motioned for Delia to stay put while he darted across the space in
front of the open doorway to the opposite side.  He peered through into
the apartment from this new angle.  Again, he saw nothing suspicious.

"Are you going in?"  Delia whispered.

Nick signaled her to be silent, then nodded.  He was definitely going
in.  He had no choice.  He remembered experiences like this one back
when he was a cop.  This moment outside the door to possible danger was
the longest and scariest of all.  That was one reason for making the
entrance fast, like ripping off an adhesive bandage before you could
think too much about how much it was going to hurt.  Nick took a deep
breath and wished he didn't sense that Delia was right behind him.

DELIA WASN'T about to stay in the hallway.  She had to know what was
going on here.  She followed Nick as he crept along the hallway wall.
She couldn't help but be impressed by how formidable, even deadly, he
looked with that gun in his hand.  She could all but see every muscle
in his body, tense as steel and on the verge of a spring-to-action at
the slightest provocation.  If there was peril in one of these rooms,
Nick was obviously ready.  It occurred to her that he would have been a
real asset to PEI all these years she'd kept him off her roster of
operatives.  Maybe all of that could change now.  Yet she didn't feel
comfortable thinking in terms of the future where Nick was concerned.
She still had too many questions about him for that.

The question of the moment concerned why he was taking so many
precautions now.  The total silence suggested that there was nobody in
this apartment but the two of them.  As they passed one empty room
after another, his military-alert pose began to appear a little
dramatic.  Delia was tempted to rush on ahead of him to confirm her
suspicion that they were entirely alone here.  Then she could get down
to searching for anything she might find out about Penelope and Tobias
Wren--what they were doing in New York, how long they'd been here, what
their connection was to the events of these past few days.  In fact, a
search might turn up more such information than a face-to-face
interview with the Wrens ever could.  For that reason Delia was almost
glad to find the place empty.  Then they got to the bathroom.

The first sign of trouble was a smudge, so small Delia would later
wonder why she'd even noticed it right off like she did.  The mark was
on the edge of the door just abOVe the lock plate, and in the dimmed
light from the hallway she couldn't even see what color it was.  Her
heart started thumping anyway, even before Nick eased the door open and
they both saw what waited inside.  Penelope Wren was on the floor,
halfway in and halfway out of the bathtub, as if she might have been
trying to crawl in there to escape her terrible fate.

Suddenly, for Delia, it was five years ago and she had just awakened to
find poor Morty Lancer's body cold and dead next to her in her bed. All
she could think about was getting out of there.  She stepped away from
the bathroom door and slammed her back against the opposite wall so
hard one of the pictures was shaken from its hook and fell to the floor
with a shattering sound.  Delia didn't look at the picture or more than
peripherally register its fall.  She was riveted on Penelope and Nick
leaning over her body, taking her pulse, listening for her heartbeat. 
How useless all of that was.  There is nothing as still as the
stillness of death.  Delia had never had that thought before or even
realized it was true, but she did so now.  She didn't need to lift
Penelope's wrist or listen to her chest to know without the tiniest
shadow of a doubt that the woman would never stand up from that floor
on her own again.

"She's dead," Nick said.

Delia wanted to shout, I know.  I know.  You don't need to tell me.

She stood silent instead, pressed against the wall, wishing she could
dissolve into and through lt and be out of here.  The doorway beckoned
Down the hall, just a few yards and she'd be gone.  She'd clean out her
accounts and be on a plane leaving the country before even Nick could
catch up to her.  Maybe that's what she should have done five years
ago, left the country altogether.  Mexico, the Islands, maybe
Greece--didn't Greece have some kind of non extradition policy?  Of
course, that probably didn't include murder.  All of these thoughts and
more raced through her head in the" seconds it took for Nick to rise
from where he'd been crouched on one knee next to Penelope.

Delia knew that if he turned around and she saw his face, she'd be
lost.  She could never run away, with him watching her, and with all
she felt about him no matter how conflicted it might be, beckoning her
to stay.  She let her panicky thoughts of flight pass.  Maybe that was
a decision to stay and face whatever came next.  Maybe it was a failure
to make any decision at all.  Either way, when he turned toward her she
was still pressed against the wall.  She gazed up into his eyes and
sought sanctuary there, but he looked as stricken as she felt.

"We should get out of here," he said.  "There's nothing we can do for
her now, and I don't want you involved."

He was already checking out ways to cover any tracks they might be
leaving behind, wiping the doorknob and the edge of the door where he'd
put his hand.  She could tell he was being careful not to remove the
smudge.

"I don't want to leave just yet," she said.

"The police could be on their way here right now.,

Nick's tone was urgent, and he sounded determined.  Delia was
determined, too.

"I have to see what I can find," she said.  "Besides, it looks like
we're the first people to have been here since... it happened."

She turned away from the bathroom doorway and started toward the other
rooms of the apartment.  She didn't like to think about what "it" had
been.

"By the way," Nick said from close behind her, "I would say she died
sometime last evening."

Delia was almost to the archway that led into the living room when she
caught on to the significance of that.

"I saw Penelope last night," Delia said.  "Yes, I know you did."

Delia spun around to face him.  "I didn't kill her if that's what
you're implying."

Her voice was choked, and she was right on the edge of breaking down.
She held her body tense, as if to keep herself from toppling over that
edge.

"I've never killed anybody in my life," she said, still choking the
words out that had to be said, for last night and for five years ago.
"I know that."  "Do you?"

He didn't answer right away.  Something in his eyes, or maybe something
that wasn't in his eyes, told her what he'd said was almost true.  But
not entirely.  She turned and continued into the living room, moving
much faster than before.

"Delia, listen to me."

Nick was behind her with his hands on her shoulders.  There was
pleading in the way he'd asked her to listen.  She couldn't succumb to
that, not yet anyway.

"No," she said sharply, and jerked herself out of his grasp.  "I have
to search."

"For what?"

Delia was suddenly struck by h w hysterically funny a question that
was, so much so, she almost started laughing.  What did she have to
search for?  The meaning of her life?  The answers to death?  The
impossibility of her position made everything absurd somehow, and
eerie, too, like the flickering reflection of the Christmas lights
flashing off and on from the window.  What could she expect to find
here that would tear down the mountain of suspicions against her, the
lingering doubts in Nick's mind?  Now she'd be considered a prime
suspect in Penelope's murder as well as poor Morty's.  Delia had the
motive.  She'd had the opportunity, too, since she was only blocks from
this place last night.  This was beginning to feel very deja vu
indeed.

Delia set herself to searching, rummaging through drawers mostly,
hoping she'd know what she was looking for when she found it.  That
turned out to be exactly the case when she got to the lap drawer of the
desk near the window with the Christmas lights.  Delia found a letter
there from, of all people, her brother Samuel.  Before she'd even read
the contents, she knew this was about as important a clue to what had
been happening to her and around her as there could possibly be.

Chapter Eighteen

"What's that?"  Nick asked, nodding toward the envelope and two pages
of closely written stationery in her hand.  Delia couldn't answer just
yet.  She Was still too stunned.  She'd been astonished enough to find
a communication from the older brother who'd virtually disappeared from
their family years ago.  Then she saw the return address on the
envelope, and true shock set in.  According to this letter, Samuel was
living right here in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side near Riverside
Park.  Delia's first thought, when she was once again able to think,
was that Samuel might have been dumped up there in the kind of
institution bailout that had sent so many poor, stricken souls back to
the city streets whether they were mentally equipped to cope there or
not.  The Upper West Side had become a chief wandering zone for many
such unfortunates.  But why wouldn't the Lester money have shielded
Samuel from such a fate?  She'd been out of touch with the family too
long to know the answer to that.  "Delia, is something wrong?"  She
looked up at Nick as if she might have forgotten he was present, though
that was only partly true.

"It's a letter from my brother," she said.

"Samuel?"

"Yes."  It sometimes slipped her mind that Nick's history with her
family meant he knew a lot about them, even the sad story of Samuel.
"You would never have met him, but I'm sure you heard about him."

"I met him.  I knew him pretty well, in fact."

Delia was gazing at the letter, though she hadn't yet read beyond the
first sentence.  She was wondering if she could bring herself to read
farther when Nick's words jolted her attention back to him.

"That can't he true," she said.  "You couldn't have met him.  You must
be thinking of somebody else."

"It is true.  I used to take your father to see Samuel, once a week or
so."

Delia remembered her father's visits to Samuel all too well.  She'd
tried not to resent them when she was in her teens, but she couldn't
help it.  She didn't like to think of her beloved dad having such a
close relationship with someone who made no pretense of wishing her
nothing but harm.  Samuel had made it very clear that he hated her.
That was one of the reasons he'd been institutionalized when she was
still an infant.  He'd tried so many times to hurt her that he'd
finally had to be put away.  She understood how his addled mind saw her
as the enemy taking over his territory.  Unfortunately, understanding
that had never kept her from feeling the hurt of having a brother who
wished she'd never been born.

"Samuel and I even got to be friends," Nick was saying.  "As much as
that was possible for him, anyway."  '

"You liked him?"

Delia could feel some of that old resentment.  Here was another man in
her life professing affection for this person she'd grown up thinking
of as a scary monster.  If there was a single, consistent image in her
nightmares from those years, that image was of Samuel.

"Yes, I liked him.  He needed friends from outside the rest home.  Your
father felt strongly about that.  I was one of the few opportunities
Samuel had for a friendship like that to happen."

"It wasn't a rest home," Delia said, sounding more at ease with the
subject than she felt.  "That's a term the family used to cover up the
truth.  He was in a mental institution."

"Whatever."

Nick was watching her warily, as if he could hear what lay beneath her
surface calm, as if he might think she was about to explode.  She could
see that attitude in his eyes, and it made her more agitated than ever
and less able to keep that agitation under control.

"Whatever?"  she said.  "Whatever Samuel needed, it was not rest.  They
locked him up in that place, supposedly for life, so he wouldn't hurt
anybody when he flew into one of his violent rages.  Now--" she
brandished the letter in front of Nick's face "--now, he's out."

"I don't believe it."

"See for yourself."

Nick took the envelope out of her hand.  She watched as he looked it
over, including the return address.

"From this, what you say appears to be true," he said.

"It's true, all right.  He's out of that institution and living in
Manhattan.  What do you think about that?"

Nick.shook his head slowly.  He continued to examine the envelope until
she took it out of his hand.

"I asked what you think of my emotionally disturbed brother Samuel
being right here in Manhattan."

"I don't know exactly what to think.  I would have said he was too sick
to be released from the hospital, at least back when I knew him."

"Well, I'd say that his being here could explain a lot of things."

Nick studied her for a moment.  "What things?"

"Things like what's been happening to me these past few days."

"You mean the fact that someone's been stalking you and trying to run
you down?  You think Samuel could be the stalker?"

"No," she admitted.  "I've seen the color of that man's eyes, and I
know he's not Samuel.  But my brother is mentally disturbed,- isn't he?
He could have hired it done.  Unlike me, he has his share of his
inheritance, even if he has somebody managing it for him.  He must have
some access.  With even a fraction of the Lester money at his disposal,
he could afford to have anything done to anybody.  Not to mention the
fact that he's always hated me.  Did you know that?"

"I heard about it," Nick said in a guarded tone.  Delia wondered if
this was the way Nick used to talk to Samuel, as if he had to be
handled with kid gloves because he might go off the deep end
otherwise.

That possibility didn't please her at all.

"I heard a lot of things from Samuel," Nick was saying.  "He didn't
necessarily mean any of them."

"Did he mean the threats of the terrible things he'd do to me if he
ever had the chance?"

"I don't think so," Nick said, but he didn't sound altogether certain
of that.  He paused a moment.  "I

don't know,"" be amended more quietly.  "He was a troubled guy, and he
desperately didn't want to be.  He was angry with you for being
normal."

"That certainly wraps him up in a neat little package.  Meanwhile, I'm
the one who's being terrorized."

Nick looked at her for a moment without speaking.  "That's right," he
said finally.  "You are."  He sounded sad.  "You're the one being
terrorized, and Penelope Wren is the one who's dead."

Penelope had slipped from Delia's mind when Samuel's letter turned up.
She could hardly believe she'd stopped thinking about a woman who had
once taken care of her and was now a corpse on the bathroom floor. What
was this situation making Delia into?  She didn't know if she could
face the answer to that, at least not right now.

"Let's get out of here," she said, and headed for the door to the
outside hallway.

"Where are we going?"  Nick asked.

She waved the letter and envelope where he could see them.  "We're
going to follow up on this."

DELIA INSISTED on taking a cab uptown to the West Side.  It was a long
ride to make in total silence.  Nick's practice in the past had been to
keep himself at a distance from some of the more convoluted aspects of
the Lester family saga.  Samuel was an exception to that rule.  He was
maybe the most lonely person Nick had ever met in his life, shut away
in that gilded cage of a high-priced lockup and doomed to spend his
entire life there, or so it was supposedly planned.  Edward Lester
understood his son's sorrowful solitude and was heart-broken for him.
That had been painfully obvious in the many long, silent trips back
from those visits to Samuel Nick would drive while Mr.  Lester stared
out the window, lost in a sorrowful solitude of his own.  Tears rose in
his eyes more than once after his visits to his son.  Nick had seen
them there and respectfully glanced away.

Sorrowful or not, however, there was never any question that Samuel
belonged exactly where he was.  Without question, he was dangerous, but
contrary to his ravings and Delia's, fears, he had never in his life
hurt anyone other than himself.  Whatever the source might be of
Samuel's psychotic rage, he was the sole victim.  That was the primary
reason he needed constant custodial care.  That was the reason Edward
Lester could never bring his son home, no matter how much he longed to
do so.  Even medication only halted Samuel's self-destruction
temporarily.  Still, he'd never struck out at those around him, even
those whose job it was to restrain and imprison him.  That was why Nick
found it hard to believe Samuel was responsible for terrorizing Delia.
That was why the possibility of Samuel as her stalker had never entered
Nick's mind.  Besides, Nick had understood that Samuel had been locked
up with no chance of release.

But that wasn't what troubled Nick most and kept him staring out his
own side of the cab through this long ride made longer by streets
narrowed to single lanes bordered in banks of snow.  He wasn't even
most concerned with what might be waiting for them at the address on
the envelope Delia had waved in his face, then had torn away.  He was
most unsettled of all by Delia herself and the deep sadness he'd seen
in her eyes when she spoke of Samuel, deep sadness mixed with what he
guessed to be carefully controlled rage.  If he was right about that,
what could her repressed anger make her capable of if it suddenly
slipped its bonds?  Could she,

after all, have been the one who killed Mortimer Lancer?  Could she
have the cold heart of a murderer?  He knew she could be stubborn, but
he had never known her to be hard-hearted.  In fact, it was the very
softness of her heart, so obvious to him beneath the guard of her
defenses, that had drown him to her in the first place and continued to
draw him--until now.  Could he have been wrong about her all along? 
The possibility plagued him, block after block, all the way to
Ninety-first Street.

Riverside Park was a blanket of white, and Nick found himself reminded
of Denver yet again.  The buildings here were mostly What they call
prewar and often divided into much larger apartments than was otherwise
the case in Manhattan.  Nick had been in some of those apartments in
the course of his work.  They were pretty nice.  Maybe Samuel was
living well.  Still, Nick couldn't imagine Samuel on his own.  Maybe he
was being taken care of by a family in a private home situation, or
there could be a group hostel up here somewhere.  There was also always
the possibility of Samuel having undergone a miraculous cure, but
somehow Nick didn't think that was the case.

He wished he'd been able to read the letter Delia found.  She'd stuffed
it into her pocket before he could do much more than peruse the
envelope to see if the handwriting looked familiar.  He'd seen some
pages in Samuel's journal once, and the envelope could possibly be in
the same hand.  Nick couldn't be sure, and he didn't want to ask Delia
to let him examine it again.  He could feel her sadness, deeper even
than before, filling the cab.  He respected that sadness and her
silence and left her to herself.

Samuel's address turned out to be a building with a doorman.  He asked
their destination, and Delia gave the apartment number from Samuel's
letter.  When the doorman asked who he should say was calling, she
answered, "Penelope Wren," without so much as a flutter of her long
lashes.  Once again Nick was struck by how expertly she lied.  It
bothered him to see her do that even in a good cause like this one.
Honesty was something he put a high value on.  Meanwhile he held his
breath to see what would happen when the doorman called up to Samuel's
apartment with the news that Penelope Wren was supposedly downstairs.

The doorman turned back from the phone on the wall and smiled.  "Go
right up," he said.

"Thank you."  Delia smiled back at him.  No one would ever have guessed
that she'd just identified herself as a woman who lay murdered on a
bathroom floor a few miles away.

Nick had stopped to make an anonymous call to the police before hailing
the cab to bring them uptown.  The detectives would have arrived at
Penelope Wren's apartment by now.  Nick mentally reviewed the places
he'd wiped to remove his fingerprints and Delia's.  He thought he got
them all, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure.  He was worrying over
that small chance of error as the elevator moved upward.  Delia stood
in front of him, maintaining her silence.  She didn't have to speak to
tell him how tense she was.  He could see it in the rigid set of her
shoulders.  She was as anxious as he was about what they would find on
the eleventh floor.

What they did find was another unlocked door with a yellow note stuck
to it.  "Penelope--Come on in," the note said in a scrawl that could
have been Samuel's.

Delia had her hand on the doorknob when Nick reached out and took her
arm.

"Let me go first," he said.  He already had his gun out.

"I guess that's necessary?"  she asked, looking at the weapon.

"Yes, it is."

She gazed up at him for a moment, then took her hand off the knob and
stepped aside with a resigned sigh.  She had to know that even if there
was only Samuel on the other side of this door, and even if Nick was
fight about her brother posing no real danger to anybody, erring on the
side of caution was always best.  St'dl, Nick could understand why she
might not want her first meeting with her brother in many, "many years
to begin at gunpoint.  Nick had his weapon at.  the ready all the same
as he turned the doorknob slowly, then eased the door open inch by
inch, just as he had at Penelope's place.

What greeted them inside could hardly have been more disarming.  The
splashing shower was clearly audible from down the hall into the
interior of the apartment, and above that, the sound of singing.  A
tuneless ditty it was, unrecognizable and quite loud, the kind of thing
a non singer belts out in the shower for the fun of it when nobody is
around to hear.  Nick looked back over his shoulder at Delia, and she
returned his glance.  Some release of tension was obvious from her
expression.  Nick, on the other hand, wasn't ready to relax just yet.

The apartment was the kind he'd like to live in himself if he were a
permanent New Yorker.  The ceilings were high, probably ten feet, and
the living room was large with an archway into an only slightly smaller
dining area.  The walls of the living room were covered with paintings
from waist height up.  Delia was studying the paintings with a curious
expression on her face.  "Quite a collection," Nick remarked.

"Yes."  She sounded lost in thought as she Wandered along one side of
the room and examined the pieces above an artfully faded burgundy
velvet sofa.  "What do you think?"

She turned to look at him.  The curiosity in her eyes had turned to
something deeper, as if she might be trying to figure out a perturbing
problem.

"I think I'm impressed," she said.

"I get the feeling that I've seen paintings like these before.  Not the
same ones, but something like them.  I just can't remember where it
was."

"My father's study," she said.  Her voice seemed to come from somewhere
far off.  "You saw a collection very much like this one in my father's
study."

She was right.  Her father did have his study walls crammed with
paintings, just like these were, paintings of a similar style, as
well.

"Do you see any of your father's paintings here?"  Nick asked.  "Would
you remember if you did?"

"I'd remember all right.  That study was my favorite room in the house.
I spent a lot of time there looking at those walls."

Now that she mentioned it, Nick did member her disappearing into her
father's study for hours at a time.  She probably would recognize if
these were the same pictures.  Nick was relieved to hear that they
weren't.  There were already more than enough mysteries to deal with in
this situation.

"So, what do you think?"  she asked him, as he had asked her moments
before.

"I'm not Sure I know what to think."  "Don't tell me you're not asking
yourself the same question I'm asking myself."  "What question is
that?"  She turned and walked toward him across the Oriental carpet
that covered the center of the floor.  "The question I'm asking
myself," she said, "is whether I actually believe this art collection
could long to my brother Samuel."  Nick thought about that for a
moment.  "Well, Samuel and your father spent a lot of time together:
Maybe they talked about art some of that time.  Maybe your father
taught him things."  "Everything I ever heard about Samuel's mental
condition would suggest he'd have a lot of trouble taking in anything
so complex as the principles of creating an art collection."  "But that
was back then.  We don't know what could have happened to Samuel in
between."  She was standing in front of Nick now, studying his face
much like she'd just been studying the paintings on the walls of this
graciously sedate room.  "That's right," she said.  "We don't know
what's happened to him in between."  She sighed and looked away from
Nick's face, toward the tall windows overlooking the Hudson River. Nick
couldn't see her face, but he could hear the wistful sadness in her
voice.  Nick felt a pang in his heart for her.  Still, he couldn't help
wondering yet again how much of what he Saw in Delia now was really and
truly her and how much was the person she'd made up to show the world. 
"Maybe Samuel found a miracle."  Nick spoke tenderly despite his doubts
about her.

"Maybe."

She cleared her throat and turned abruptly back toward him.  He could
see her recomposing herself, snapping herself back into the carefully
controlled woman she was anytime other than when they were making love.
,

"Let's have a look at the other rooms," she said.  She swept past him
before he could take hold of her and maybe even pull her into his arms.
Nick was the one to sigh this time.  Then he remembered what he should
have been thinking about all along.  He was supposed to be in the lead.
They had no idea what they were going to run into here.  He could still
hear the shower, more loudly now that they were back out in the hallway
again.  The enthusiastic singing had stopped.  Even so, Nick had to
admit this didn't seem like a very dangerous place.  Probably the guy's
voice gave out.  How long can anybody sing at the top of their lungs,
anyway?

Still, Delia shouldn't be out front like she was with Nick tagging
along.  He'd let his distractions into the way he felt about her make
him forget his job again.  He hurried after her, but she'd already
turned into a doorway to the left just past the dining room.  She
didn't even hesitate so much as an instant to check the interior of the
room before walking in.  That was a surefire way to get caught in an
ambush.  Nick cursed under his breath and brought his gun to ready
position once more.  When he got to the doorway she'd entered, he held
himself back from dashing in there even though he wanted to.  If she
was in trouble, he wouldn't be much help if he went barreling into
danger right along with her.

Nick backed himself against the wall and took a deep breath to focus
himself.  He edged closer to the door way and very gradually peeked
around into the room.  Delia was alone in what looked to be somebody's
study.  She was in the midst of a slow, visual sweep of the walls.  She
turned gradually as she looked, appearing to examine each new angle in
great detail until finally she was facing the doorway and Nick standing
there watching her.  He'd lowered the gun to his side, but her eyes
found it there immediately.

"Please, put that away," she said.

He might have protested that they were in unfamiliar territory here,
but what he saw in her eyes kept him from doing that.  He tucked the
gun into the back of his belt instead and took a step toward her.  He
hadn't entirely understood that he was about to take her into his arms
until she spoke again.  She waved her hand in front of her first, as if
to draw a line in front of her.  "Don't" was all she said, but he could
see instantly what she meant.  She needed not to be touched right now.
What he didn't comprehend was why.  The bewilderment in her eyes told
him he had to find out.

"What's going on?"  he asked.

"That's what I want to know."  Her voice was trembling.  "That's what I
have to know."

"About what?"  He could barely stand to see her this way without being
close enough to comfort her.

She swept her arm around in a circle to indicate the room without
looking back at it.

"About this?"

Nick followed the direction of her gesture.  It took a minute to sink
in, but then he saw what she was talking about.  The imprint of her
father's taste was everywhere.  Nick could see that more readily here
because of the hours he'd spent in Edward Lester's study all those
years ago in Colorado.  Suddenly, Nick understood what was feeling.  He
felt some of it himself, as if he'd been transported back to a better,
happier time only to be slapped in the face with the reminder that this
better time was gone forever.

Nick moved into the room then, despite her having asked him not to. She
was moving, too, turned away from him and walking toward the desk at
the opposite end of the room in front of a window onto Riverside Park
and the morning.  Nick followed, reaching out toward her.  He wanted to
hold her, however hard she might resist, until she was quiet in his
arms.  He wanted to make her feel safe there, from the sadness of the
past and the uncertainty of the present.  At the moment nothing could
matter to him more--which would explain why he didn't see what else was
happening in that room till it was too late to be prepared for it.

Chapter Nineteen

For a wonderful and terrible, moment Delia thought it was her father
bursting through the glass doors from the dining area into the study.
His presence was so much with her in this room filled with books le
those he'd read, furniture in his particular taste, objects he would
love, that she'd half expected him to walk in even before the rattle of
glass and slamming open of the double doors announced an arrival.  Then
she saw those eyes, in a flash only, as they glinted at her on the way
to their true target.  It was the man who'd stalked her from her office
and tried to assault her at the Waldorf Hotel, but she wasn't his
intended victim this morning, at least not his first intended victim.
He was after Nick.

The initial onslaught happened so fast she could barely register what
was going on.  The man with the burning eyes crashed into the room and
was on top of Nick in an instant.  She saw the attacker reach behind
Nick.  In seconds, he was brandishing the gun Nick had had in the
waistband of his jeans.  In another flash, both men had their hands on
the weapon as they each struggled for possession.  All Delia could
think of was how she'd told Nick to put the gun away, and if she hadn't
done that he wouldn't be in so much danger now.  The pain of that
thought thudded into the pit of her stomach.  Then she heard a loud
clatter and her prayers were answered.  The gun was out of the
attacker's hand and sliding across the floor.

Of course, that meant the gun was out f Nick's hands as well.  They
were fighting unarmed, grabbing at each other and trying to land
punches that mostly half connected as they shoved from one side of the
room to the other, toppling a chair and jarring books from the
shelves.

Delia was struck by how different the smoothly choreographed fight
scenes in movies were from the real thing.  She also didn't intend to
be like the women in some of those films who stood around and shrieked
while a man battled on her behalf.  Delia would do her part, too.  She
had a weapon of her own.  Or so she thought.  She felt in her coat
pocket for the Beretta, but it wasn't there.  Maybe it had dropped from
her pocket during their ride in the cab.  Whatever might have happened,
the gun was gone, and she needed to find the one Nick and his attacker
had just let go of.

She'd heard it bounce along the floor in the general direction of the
doorway to the hall.  She'd have to make her way past the two grappling
men to get there.  She waited what seemed like forever for them to move
out of her path.  She had begun to brush past them when a hand snaked
out of nowhere and clamped onto her forearm.  She knew instantly that
this hand didn't belong to Nick.  He would never touch her so roughly
or growl at her as his opponent in combat was doing now.  Her reaction
was instantaneous.

"Take your hands off me," she shouted, and there was a growl in her
voice, too.

She balled her free hand into a fist and began pounding at his wrist.
Instinctively she knew that would be the weakest area of his grip.  She
pounded with all her strength and all her anger, and none of her blows
failed to connect with their mark.  He gripped tighter at first.  Then,
as she continued to punish his wrist, she could feel that grip slacken.
In the meantime he also had only one arm and fist free with which to
fight off Nick.  It occurred to Delia, in one of those flashes of
understanding that can come at the most unlikely times, that whoever
this guy was he must have thought she was making an escape out the door
when he grabbed her.  He had to want to keep her from leaving in the
worst way or he wouldn't have made himself so vulnerable to Nick.

The consequences of that action were swift and certain.  Delia felt as
much as saw the fast-rising arc of Nick's right arm.  That arm then
descended in a flash of motion and didn't miss its target this time.
Nick socked his opponent so hard that the shock of the impact shook
Delia, as well.  Suddenly the grasp on her was gone.  Instantly she was
at the doorway, crouched over and searching the floor for Nick's gun.
She didn't see it anywhere.  Could it have slid far enough to travel
through the doorway into the hall?

She was about to dash out there for a look when she noticed the chair
that had been shoved askew in the struggle that was still going on
despite the punch she'd hoped would be decisive in Nick's favor.  The
chair rested against the bookcase with one leg knocked up onto the
bottom shelf.  It was that kiltered angle that had kept Delia from
noticing the gun.  She dove for the chair so fast she almost struck her
head on the lamp table next

to it.  She did manage to knock the lamp to the floor with a crash.

The two men at the other side of the room both glanced in her direction
for an instant.  Nick's attacker must have figured out what she had in
mind to do he-cause he tried to get away from Nick in a hard lunge,
probably to grab her again.  She could see Nick straining not to break
his hold.  This guy with the crazy eyes was a fierce fighter even
against somebody as powerful as Nick.  She was sure Nick would win out
in the end, but it looked like he'd have to take a painful heating on
the way to that victory.  Delia wasn't going to let that happen.  She
reached under the chair and felt for the gun.  She all but cried out
with joy when her fingers touched it.  She was back on her feet in a
flash with the gun gripped in both hands and pointed just as she'd seen
Nick do.

"You can take your hands off him now," she shouted.

Once again the men halted their fevered wrestling to look in her
direction.  In that instant she saw those crazy eyes more clearly than
ever.  Their maniacal gleam blazed into her as if they had the power to
send her into flames and their owner was willing them to do just that.
A shudder of fear rocketed through her.  Suddenly she understood that
she was gazing into the face of not just craziness but evil, as well.
Her breath caught in her throat so hard she couldn't exhale.  For the
second time that day, all she wanted to do was run.  She'd run out of
this study that reminded her of her father.  She'd run out of this
building she wished she had never come to.  Most of all, she would run
away from these eyes that were telling her as clearly as if they had
voice how much she was in danger of harm.

Nick, still straining to hold on to his enemy, managed a nod in her
direction.  She knew that was a signal for her to act.  He needed her
help, and he needed it now.  Five years of relentlessly tuned escape
instincts struggled with that need and her response to it as violently
as these two men were struggling.  Then she saw Nick's eyes, so
different from that other pair.  Nick's eyes were dark and fathoms
deep.  They beckoned her, and that beckoning reached through her fear.
In the shadowed light of her lover's eyes, she found her courage once
again.

"I said let go of him," she shouted.  "Let go of him or I'll shoot
you."

She meant that, even though she'd never physically harmed another human
being in her life aad could not have imagined herself doing so before
this moment.  She knew she could shoot this man now and deal with how
she'd feel about it later.  He must have known that, too, because he
backed away from Nick, only a step at first, then farther as she
motioned with the barrel of the gun for him to do so.  The man let go
of Nick.  Delia had to force herself to look into the attacker's
disturbing eyes.  Otherwise he might doubt her resolve to do him as
much damage, if necessary, as he longed to do her.

Nick was at her side the instant he was released.  He put his hand over
hers with the gun in it.  She didn't let go.  An impulse more basic
than reason had clamped this weapon into her grip and refused to give
ground now for anyone.  If she'd stopped to describe what that
steel-hard resolve felt like, she would have called it primitive.  This
was about survival, as surely as all combat against a sworn enemy had
ever been, and she was determined to prevail.  Nick tugged at her grip
on the gun once more.

"I'll take it now," he said, dose to her ear and still a little out of
breath.

"No," she said.  She'd been breathless, too, a moment ago.  Now she was
as calm and steady as the rock hardness of her resolve.  "Find
something to' tie him up with, then we'll get out of here."

Nick kept his hand on hers a moment longer.

"I can handle this," she said, and she knew she could.  "Please, just
tie him up now."

Nick must have heard both the determination and the pleading in those
words because he let go of her hand and reached for the lamp she'd
knocked to the floor when she was going for the gun.  The lamp cord had
been pulled out of the wall socket.  He picked up the lamp in one hand
and wrapped the cord around the fist of the other.  He gave the cord a
mighty yank and snapped it free of the lamp base.  He hurried to the
other man's side and forced his hands behind his back.  Minutes later
Nick had his attacker trussed up tight.

Delia waited till Nick had preceded her out of the study door.  Then
she backed out of the room still pointing the gun at the "man who lay
so supposedly helpless on the floor.  Craziness and evil had been
subdued, but only for the moment.  He would be back after her again
probably very soon.  She was sure of that.  Still, she couldn't bring
herself to put the pressure on her trigger finger that would have put
an end to that probability.  Instead she turned and run after Nick down
the hallway toward at least momentary escape.

NICK DIDN'T TRY to talk to Delia right away.  He could tell by her eyes
that he shouldn't.  They were set and staring, almost as if she might
be walking in her sleep.  She'd been through so much these past few
days and even more this morning.  He would have liked to take her in
his arms and hold her tight so she'd know she was safe, but gently so
she'd know he cared.  He did care, more than he could remember ever
caring.  At least for right now he wouldn't let himself think about how
many doubts and problems came with allowing this particular woman
inside his heart.  He only let himself think about how much she needed
him and how much he wanted to fill those needs.

All the same, he didn't take her in his arms or even stand very close
to her in the elevator ride back to street level.  She was giving off
clearly discernible signals that she'd gone off into an isolated part
of herself and didn't want anyone to follow.  He understood that she
needed this solitude for her mind to adjust to the shattering blows of
just these past few hours--discovery of a body on a bathroom floor,
attack by a crazed man--not to mention five years of constant tension
and uncertainty.  That could put anybody in the way of needing some
downtime.  He left her alone because of that.  Besides, she still had
the gun.

They were by themselves in the elevator.  Nick didn't say anything
about the drawn weapon she held in the hand hanging at her side.  When
they walked through the lobby, he edged close enough to block any view
of what she was carrying.  He cast what he suspected might look like a
nervous smile in the doorman's direction.  If the man noticed anything
at all peculiar in that, he was too well trained in discretion to let
it show.  When Nick and Delia were finally outside, he breathed a sigh
that sent a cloud of vapor into the cold, crisp air.

He turned left and, fortunately, she followed, out from under the
building's awning and away from that area of visibility through the
glass front doors.  He waited till they were well away from that
entrance be-foe moving off from the center of the sidewalk into the Ice
of another building where they'd be less conspicuous.  He mentally
crossed his fingers that she'd follow.  He breathed another cloud of
vapor when she did.  She turned with him as if there were a string
attached from his shoulder to hers and she'd been programmed to take
her cues from any tug on that connection.

'-"You can give me the gun now," he said in a carefully even tone.

She looked up at him, raising her eyes slowly from their straight ahead
stare to his face.  He didn't detect any of what he would call
recognition there at first.  She'd merely transferred her blank stare
to a new target.

"I'd like you to give the gun to me now," he said.  He continued to
betray no hint of urgency though he knew exactly how urgent it in fact
was to get that gun away from her in her present, unpredictable state.
Meanwhile he thought he might have seen a flicker of something in her
eyes, but maybe he only wished it would be there.

"Delia, it's me.  Nick."

"I know who you are."

Her answer was so unexpected he almost jumped at the sound.  He had to
remind himself not to make any startling moves.

"I thought you wanted this," she said.

She was holding the gun in front of her and toward him.  He reached
carefully across the space between them, still taking extra care not to
do anything alarming, especially while the gun was pointed at his
midsection.  He touched the gun barrel first and eased its aim
gradually outward toward the currently empty street.  He slipped his
fingers over hers on the grip and was about to say something he hoped
would coax her to let go.  She did so all of a sudden then, without
being asked.  Fortunately, Nick's instincts were keener than he might
have expected after so much stress and strain.  He clamped his fingers
around the gun before it could clatter down onto the sidewalk.

"I'm hungry," she said as matter-of-factly as if they were out for
nothing more than a morning, or actually by now midday, stroll "There's
a diner not far from here on Broadway."

She turned away from him without another word and began walking east on
Ninety-first Street.

Chapter Twenty

They were seated in a booth at the Argo Restaurant before Delia came
fully back to herself.  She'd ordered a hearty breakfast though it was
well past breakfast time.  She wanted the comfort a steaming plate of
eggs scrambled soft and home fries would give her.  Being in this diner
also helped.  Greek-owned diners were a neighborhood staple just about
everywhere in Manhattan.  There was a uniformity about them, especially
in the way they smelled, as if they all brewed their soup in the same
communal pot each morning.  That kind of reliability felt good to Delia
right now.  The only thing out of the ordinary were the signs of the
season, carols playing in the background and colored lights strung
along the wall shelf behind the counter.  Unfortunately, their off and
on twinkle reminded her of Penelope Wren's living room.

Delia turned away from that reminder.  Nick sat watching her from
across the table while his coffee cooled in front of him.  His
expression was very perplexed, as if he might be watching a bomb that
might or might not explode.  His bewilderment struck her as very funny
somehow.  Despite all the horrendous things that had been happening to
her and around her, maybe in defiance of them, she began to laugh.  The
sound was almost foreign to her at first.  She hadn't heard herself
laugh in what felt like an extremely long time.  She hadn't thought
about it till this minute, but she really hadn't laughed much in
general over the past five years.  That realization made part of her
want to stop laughing and start crying, but she didn't.

"Are you all right?"

The very tentative way he asked that, as though he saw her as an
eggshell so fragile even a raise in his voice could collapse her shell,
sent her into another gale of laughter more irrepressible than the
first.  She tried to choke it back, but there was no stopping the peals
of what sounded like merriment trilling through her and out of her. The
other patrons of the diner looked quizzically her way.  She took a deep
breath and clamped her mouth shut.  Several more small eruptions burst
through the bulwark, but they were considerably reserved compared to
the uncontrolled guffawing of a moment ago.  She kept herself staring
at the Formica table in front of her.  She wasn't ready to look at Nick
just yet.  She was certain she'd be set off into further paroxysms if
she did.

"Delia, are you all right?  Can you talk to me?"  Two questions at
once.  Oh, no!  She nodded yes to the first and shook her head no to
the second.  The absurdity of that was more than she could stand.  She
burst out giggling this time, like she couldn't remember herself doing
since her teenage pajama party days.  She knew she had to stop this and
get back under control.  She was close to gasping for breath.  She bent
over, put her forehead on the table and tried to focus on the coolness
of the Formica-topped surface while sporadic spasms continued to escape
then began gradually to subside.

She said a small, silent prayer that she would be able to pull herself
together and stay that way.  When she finally thought it was safe to
lift her head, she found the waiter standing by the table with a full
plate of food held just a few inches above where her head had been on
the table.  She clamped her teeth down hard on her lower lip.

"She's remembering something funny," Nick said, and Delia had to bite
her lip even harder.

The waiter looked at her, shrugged, then set the plate down in front of
her.  "No matter," he said.  "In New York I see everything."

Fortunately for Delia's struggle toward decorum, he" walked away after
that.  She gulped in another deep breath, then another.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear," she chanted as she resolved to compose
herself right this very minute.  Nick was still watching her and still
perplexed.  She could feel that without looking at him.  "I'm all
right," she managed in a voice quavering on the edge of her
hard-fought-for control.  "Just a little tension release, I guess."

She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly each time.  The yoga
class she'd taken a couple of years ago was coming in handy now.

"I can think of worse ways of getting rid of stress," he said, sounding
relieved.

She looked up at him then, at his dark, shadowed eyes and the tumble of
thick hair blown thicker still by the winter wind.  Suddenly the
impulse to laugh had disappeared.

"I can think of a better way," she said.

Her near whisper carried with it a charge of sexual energy that
crackled across the table.  She saw Nick suck in his breath fast and
knew the charge had connected.

"I think we'd better stick to the business at hand for the moment," he
said after a few deep breaths of his own.

An image of the two of them together on top of this table flashed
across Delia's mind.  They were tearing each other's clothes off while
plates and cuff cry crashed to the floor around them.  She felt her
pulse race and had to gasp again.  First a spastic fit of laughter, now
vivid turn-on fantasies.  She absolutely had to get a grip on
herself.

"And what is the business at hand?"  she forced herself to ask.  She
was still shaky.

"Well, to start with, I don't believe Samuel lives in that apartment we
were just in," Nick said as he continued to eye her warily.

"What makes you say that?"

Nick leaned so close across the table she could smell his clean,
masculine scent.  Delia had to will herself to concentrate on what he
was saying.

"Samuel was a nut for nature, so much so I can't imagine he isn't still
into it.  He collected pieces of wood and stones he thought had
interesting shapes.  He kept a lot of plants, too.  He had a natural
talent for making them grow, and he loved to take care of them.  There
were no plants Or nature specimens in what we saw of that apartment,
and I'm willing to wager there are none in the rest of it, either."

"Maybe he lost interest in that stuff."

"Maybe, except that it was more than an interest with Samuel.  It was
his passion."

Nick was still leaning close, watching her.  He probably could see
skepticism in her eyes.  " "Do you have that letter?"  he asked.

"What?"  She didn't get what he was talking about right away.

"The letter we found at Penelope's that was supposed to have come from
Samuel."

She thought for a moment, then reached into the pocket of her coat,
which she'd flung over the booth back next to her.  She took out the
crumpled envelope.  "Here it is," she said.

Nick took the envelope out of her hand and looked it over.

"See," he said.  "Just like I thought I remembered.  The return address
isn't written out in longhand like the rest.  It's just a printed
label.  There are stationery stores and office places in this town that
will stamp these things out for you while you wait.  Anybody could have
had this label made and put it on here to look like Samuel was living
at that address."

Delia snorted and shook her head.  "You're really desperate to come up
with a way to make it look like my brother isn't behind this thing,
aren't you?"

Nick had his mouth open and a look on his face that made her almost
certain he was about to launch into a defense of his theory when the
front door to the diner burst open and a hefty guy in a bright green
down parka charged in.

"Happy Christmas Eve day, everybody," he shouted.

The cashier by the door smiled wryly.  "Same to you, Jimmy," she
said.

Delia shot up out of the booth and grabbed her coat, nearly sweeping
the plate of untouched breakfast off the table.

"I have to go," she said.  "There's something I promised to do today,
and I have to do it."

How could she have lost track of such an important occasion as
Christmas Eve day?  She really had been taken out of herself by all
that'd been happening to her lately.

"You can come along if you like," she said to Nick, who was still
sitting in the booth with his mouth open.

She turned on her heel and headed for the door almost too quickly to
let herself think that he just might be right about the envelope.

Or of THE DST places Nick wanted them to head for right now was Hester
Street.  He'd argued with Delia about that half the way down there,
including through the stop at Gramercy Park, which he also didn't want
to make.  Then he gave up.  He'd always thought of himself as a
persuasive man, but he was no match for her stubbornness.  She insisted
she had obligations and refused to listen to his objections, and that
was that.  He'd never known a woman, or maybe anybody at all, who could
make him so exasperated.  The last time she was in this neighborhood,
somebody tried to run her over with a car.  What could she be in for
now?  Maybe a sniper out to shoot her in the head?  That thought, and
the way it rang through to Nick as a real possibility, sent his hand to
the back of his waistband to assure himself his hardware was still
there and at the ready.

Delia came across as a piece of hardware herself sometimes, like now
when she was determined to have things her own way.  She also still
believed Samuel could be behind all of this.  Her insistence on that
almost had Nick considering the possibility she could he right.  At
least, Samuel might be one of the possible suspects,

along with Tobias Wren, who appeared to have dropped out of sight.
There was also the not-so-incredible theory that Delia's tormentor came
from right here on Hester Street.  A smart woman like her should know
that could be true, but she didn't want to hear about it.  Nick, on the
other hand, was well aware that this settlement house was full of
repeat offenders, substance abusers and, most significantly, people who
were down on their luck and close to desperate.  That added up to
strong motive in Nick's book.

"Motive for what?"  Delia asked.

They were on their way up the steps to the front door of the settlement
house main building.  They'd been at the diner during late lunch hour,
even though they'd ordered breakfast.  The ride down here with a stop
in between had taken nearly two hours.  It was now going on the end of
afternoon.  The sky was already turning dark, maybe with the chance of
more snow.  The lights had been turned on over the door.  Two fellows
were on ladders on each side of the doorway, stringing lights and
garland.  Nick's guess was that they'd deliberately waited fill
Christmas Eve, the last minute, to do the outdoor decorating. Otherwise
in a neighborhood like this one, the decorations were liable to get
stolen before the holiday came around.

"Motive for knocking over a lady from uptown and picking her pockets
clean," he said in answer to Delia.  "Who do you think would do
that?"

Another naive question.  Nick sighed.  "Jaycee and her friends are one
possibility."

"And where do you think she parks her late-model sedan while she's
living on the streets?"

Delia had a point.  Jaycee and her gang weren't likely to own a car
like the one that tried to run Delia down.  Still, there were other
possibilities.

"People like this sell information all the time.  Maybe whoever's aft
you got to somebody here and put them on the payroll."

Nick had opened the front door for Delia to pass through.  When he
looked up, he noticed the guys on the ladder were giving him the evil
eye.  They must have heard what he said.  He told himself he didn't
care.  He knew he had a cop's suspicion of street people and the like.
Though he knew that was a prejudice, he also be-lie red he was
justified in thinking the way he did.  That's why he checked up and
down the street for lurking characters, and vehicles, too, before
following Delia inside.  He avoided the hostile stares of the guys on
the ladders.  They'd probably made him for a cop type by now.  That
meant he and they were natural enemies, or at least on opposite sides
of a very important line.  Nick felt like telling them that he liked
being on Hester Street even less than they wanted him here, but he kept
his mouth shut.

Delia didn't head left toward the classrooms as she had the other day.
She turned right along a wide corridor where kids were draping handmade
paper chains over the tops of the bulletin boards and in doorways.  For
a moment the red and green construction paper loops strung together
reminded Nick of his own childhood.  He was a little surprised to see
they still made paper chains.  Some things about holiday time and kids
must stay the same always.  He reminded himself not to get too
nostalgic about that.

The activity in the corridor grew even more intense as they approached
a wide doorway.  Delia pushed the latch bar on one of the double doors
and hurried through.  Once again she was bustling along too fast to let
Nick move in front at point position where he could check out what she
might be getting herself to.  He had to content himself with rear guard
for now, with checking the corridor before following her through the
double doors.  He was almost disgruntled to see a totally unthreatening
scene of children and adults alike scurrying about in preparation for
Christmas.  But, no matter how innocent this place might appear on the
surface, he intended to keep on his toes.  With that resolve in mind,
he wasn't too pleased to find Delia inside the settlement house's huge
recreation hall nearly engulfed by a hug from Jaycee.

The hall was as busy as the corridor had been.  Red and green crepe
paper streamers had been strung in a canopy over rows of long tables
covered with white paper tablecloths decorated with children's holiday
drawings in crayon.  As he strode past one of those tables, Nick
recognized the same kind of stick figure family he'd drawn himself as a
child.  The mother, father and children were holding hands between a
Christmas tree and a fireplace with stockings hung at the mantel.  Nick
wondered how many of the children who came to this place had ever
actually experienced such an idyllic scene in their own lives.  The
thought couldn't help but touch his heart with a pang of compassion.
All the same, he hurried across the rec hall toward Delia.

They'd stopped at Gramercy Park on the way down here so she could pick
up a huge bag of gift she'd stashed in her apartment.  Nick had been
dead set against doing that, but once again she wouldn't listen.  His
frustration level had been over the top from then on.  When she'd
insisted on carrying the bag of gifts herself, he'd shrugged and let
her do it.  Now, Jaycee was directing Delia toward the evergreen tree
at the other end of the hall.  She hurried toward it with Jaycee in her
wake and Nick not far behind but at enough of a distance so he could
survey the room and Delia at the same time.

She unloaded a pile of brightly wrapped packages and arranged them
under the tree that was hung with more paper chains and strings of
popcorn, too.  In fact, all of the decorations on the tree looked to be
handmade.  Nick couldn't help remembering the elaborate trees in the
lobby of the Waldorf Astoria and thinking how much more like a real
Christmas this one here looked.  There he was, in danger once again of
turning to holiday mush, until a glimpse of Delia's face rehardened his
resolve.

Jaycce had been poking around among the tree branches while the pile of
gifts was being stacked underneath.  Finally, she'd pulled an envelope
out, the square kind that holiday cards come in.  She handed the
envelope to Delia.  Nick was instantly reminded of the card she'd
picked up at her mail service office and what turned out to be written
inside.  He watched as she slipped her finger under the envelope flap
and tore it open.  He'd been right.  It was a card.  She didn't appear
to pay much attention to what was on the outside.  She flipped the card
open almost instantly and read what was inside.  It was his glimpse of
her face at that moment that sent Nick hurrying toward her.

"What is it?"  he asked, trying to keep his voice calmer than he was
feeling.

She swept past him, shaking her head as if to indicate that she
couldn't answer right now as she headed toward the door out of the
recreation hall.

"Where are you going?"  he called after her, taking long strides to
keep up with her near-run.

Once again she didn't answer.  They were outside the settlement house,
down Hester Street and into yet another taxi before Nick found out that
they were headed back uptown.

Chapter Twenty-One

All Delia could think about was getting this over with.  The card
Promised that.  "Meet me tonight," it said, "and all will be revealed.
Nopolice, or you're the one they will be taking away."  The scrawl
could be Samuel's, or somebody trying to make her think it was Samuel.
She didn't know which it might be.  Right now she wasn't even sure she
cared.  She just wanted the tension to be finished, no more hiding out
or being chased or running from one place to the next to keep from
being found out.  Her life had to settle itself, one way or the other.
Either she'd be free at last or on her way to prison or maybe even
dead.  Whatever happened, she had to find some measure of peace.
Something told her that following the instructions on this latest card
would allow her that.

She had mixed feelings about dragging Nick along for this last act.
After all, she didn't know what the ending would be.  If she was on her
way to inevitable defeat, she didn't want him to suffer that fate with
her.  Whatever doubts she might have about a future with him, she cared
very much about his safety and happiness.  She cared very much about
him in general.  She wouldn't want anything to hurt him ever,
especially not because of her.  On the other hand, she wasn't too proud
to admit she was frightened of what might lie ahead tonight, and after
tonight, as well.  She needed Nick, by her side and on her side, and
she knew it.  There was no getting rid of him anyway.  He'd attached
himself to her like a shadow.  That was his job for now.  She would
have liked to think about whether or not that attachment might last
beyond this bodyguard assignment, but there wasn't time for that.  She
told the cabdriver to let them off at West End Avenue between
Sixty-third and Sixty-fourth streets, as the note on the card had
directed

"What are we doing here?"  Nick asked.

He'd tried to get her to answer his questions during the ride uptown,
but she'd only shaken her head at him and stared out the window till he
stopped asking.  She felt she did owe him an answer now.

"We're getting to the bottom of things," she said.  "Could you be more
specific?"

Nick had paid the cabbie who then sped immediately away.  This was not
a neighborhood to hang around in after dark despite attempts to
gentrify the area with an upscale high-rise apartment building and a
park in the next block.  The vacant lot in front of them was desolate
and dark except for some spillover light from lamps in the small park.
Even that light was obscured by the huge tufts of snow that had begun
falling as Delia and Nick traveled from Hester Street.

"How long is this silent treatment going to last?"  Nick asked when she
didn't respond to his previous question.

Was that what he thought she was doing?  Freezing him out with silence?
Maybe he was right, though she longed to fly into his arms.  She'd
clasp him close to whisper, "My darling, my sweet darling," in his ear
and pray for those tremulous words to convey everything--her years of
loneliness, her limbo life between Rebecca Lester and Delia Barry, her
desperate need to have all of that ended once and forever.  What she
uttered instead was much les, expressive but all she could manage at
the moment.

"Everything will be revealed," she said quietly.  "What?"

She spoke louder.  "The card from Hester Street said all would be
revealed if I came to this place tonight."  "Here?"

Nick looked up and down the block.  There wasn't a soul in sight.

"Here," Delia said, and headed into the vacant lot.  She'd made it only
a few steps before Nick grabbed her arm.

"Do you know how crazy this is?"  he demanded.  "Please, don't shout at
me."  "I'm sorry."

He sounded desperate and kept his grip on her arm.  She wished she
could explain her own desperation.  She hadn't the heart for that now.
She had to save all of herself for whatever awaited her beyond this
empty lot.  She started walking again.  For a moment he managed to
prevent her from moving out of his arm's reach, but she continued to
strain against that.

"You have to have your way, don't you," he said.  "In this, yes."  She
strained harder.

"If I don't let you walk into this trap now, then you'll walk into the
next one without me."

"That's right," she said.

His grip hadn't loosened, not even from her tugging at it with all her
strength.  Still she had the feeling she was close to prevailing, at
least for now.  A few seconds

later that proved true.  Nick shrugged and released her al'ffl.

"You might as well go ahead, then," he said.  "At least I'm with you
now."

She longed to tell him that having him With her was all she really
wanted, but she only nodded.  This time, as she began walking again,
Nick was at her side.  He still hadn't let go of her arm.

"Where are we, anyway?"  he asked.  "Do you know ?  " "

"Vaguely," she said.  "We're headed into what used to be a train
yard."

"An abandoned rail yard.  That sounds just per-feet," Nick said in a
sarcastic tone.

Delia had no defense to offer against the obvious foolhardiness of what
she was doing.  She simply walked on with Nick beside her and wished
for two things--that her life as she'd lived it these past five
alienated years would be history at last and that Nick wouldn't be hurt
in the bargain.  They were well into the deserted lot now, past the
back edge of the adjacent park and picking their way among snow-covered
mounds of heaven knew what.  A figure emerged from the snowy veil of
deepening darkness.  Delia couldn't tell who it might be, or even if it
was a man or a woman, until he turned on the flashlight in his hand and
pointed it upward beneath his chin.

He'd looked scary enough in the stairwell of the Waldorf with his eyes
blazing crazily down at her.  He'd chilled her heart again earlier
today, the way he'd grit-ted his teeth and snarled at Nick as they'd
struggled for the gun in that apartment that might or might not have
been her brother's.  However frightening this man had been those other
times, he was much more so now as the'

flashlight beam cast his sneering face in eerie shadows and ghostly
light.

Nick slipped a step backward and slightly behind Delia.  She might have
been surprised that he didn't jump in front to shield her instead, but
she could feel him reaching behind him for his gun while her body kept
the man with the flashlight from seeing what was going on.  Then the
light beam was suddenly full on Nick and Delia.  She blinked and raised
her arm as if to ward off the blinding brightness.  Actually, she
intended that movement to be a distraction from what Nick was doing.

"Drop it, Avery."

The female voice came from behind them.  Delia had heard it before. She
was almost certain of that, but she couldn't place where.  She turned
to look over her shoulder.

"Eyes front and hands up, both of you," the voice barked.  "You'll see
me soon enough."  "Do you want me to give you my gun or put up my
hands?  I can't do both."

Delia guessed that Nick was stalling for time.  His mind had to be
spinning as fast as hers in search of a way out of this mess she'd
walked them into.  An armed maniac in front of them, a woman barking
orders behind them and Nick about to lose his only weapon.  Delia
wished she'd given him time to find that second gun before she'd raced
them off Riverside Drive.

"Put up your hands, and I'll get the gun," the woman was saying as
Delia felt Nick move ever so slightly.  She readied herself to follow
his lead.  "None of that, smart guy."

A thud accompanied the voice this time, and Nick groaned as he fell to
the ground.  Delia clamped her hand over her mouth to stop her scream.
The woman behind them had struck Nick with something hard enough to
knock him out.  Delia bent to help him.

"Stay where you are," the woman growled, setting off that flicker of
memory in Delia's brain once more.  "I never did trust Mr.  Avery.  He
was always too much of a white knight for his own good."

She knew Nick.  The flicker of memory grew stronger.  "I never trusted
you, either, Rebecca.  Or should I call you Delia?"  The woman stepped
around from behind, but it.  was too dark to see her clearly.  "Put
some light on the subject, Max.  Miss Delia, Rebecca, whatever "her
name may be, is dying to see who I am.  Or pretty close to dying, that
is."

Max, the man with the crazy eyes, moved forward a few feet and directed
the flashlight beam on the face of the woman standing in front of
Delia.  She studied that face--attractive, even-featured, maybe too
much so.  Delia still couldn't make the connection.

"You're not the only one who can make herself over," the mystery woman
said.  "Except that I made some more extensive changes.  It's amazing
what a good plastic surgeon can do."

She laughed then, and the memory chips clicked together for Delia at
last.

"Cassandra?"  she asked.

"Speaking of people who are close to dying.  I'm supposed to have been
dead for going on nine years now."  "

Delia was still having difficulty figuring out what was going on.  "But
you were in the helicopter with my father."

"Obviously, I wasn't."

"They found your body in the wreckage."

"They found a body.  Same height, approximately the same build and
age.  Easy enough to find on the same streets I was wandering before
your dear daddy decided to rescue me."

More memories slid into place.  There'd been rumors all those years ago
about Edward Lester's much younger bride.  Delia hadn't paid much
attention.  She'd only cared that her father was happy, and devoting
himself to Cassandra seemed to make him so.

"You probably heard Tobias and Penelope talking about me," this new
version of Cassandra went on.  Her voice was full and confident, even
commanding, nothing like the timid young thing Delia remembered.  "The
Wrens didn't approve of me.  They thought I was only out for what I
could get.  They were right, of course."

Delia fought to think her way through the confusion.

"It was a fair trade actually," Cassandra said.  "Your father got a
protege to mold into his version of the perfect woman.  There was no
chance of his ever being able to do that with his darling daughter. You
were too headstrong.  I, on the other hand, was more than willing to be
molded.  I was nobody going nowhere when he came along.  He taught me
everything I needed to know to become somebody.  How to dress, what to
read, what to like, even what to think."

A corner of the picture began to come clearer for Delia.  The portraits
on that living room wall this morning.  The study that looked so much
like her father's.

"That's your apartment up on Riverside Drive, isn't it?"  she said.

"Good for you.  You're starting to put it together."

hand over her mouth to stop her scream.  The woman behind them had
struck Nick with something hard enough to knock him out.  Delia bent to
help him.

"Stay where you are," the woman growled, setting off that flicker of
memory in Delia's brain once more.  "I never did trust Mr.  Avery.  He
was always too much of a white knight for his own good."

She knew Nick.  The flicker of memory gtv stronger.  "I never trusted
you, either, Rebecca.  Or should I call you Delia?"  The woman stepped
around from behind, but it was too dark to see her clearly.  "Put some
light on the subject, Max.  Miss Delia, Rebecca, whatever her name may
be, is dying to see who I am.  Or pretty close to dying, that is."

Max, the man with the crazy eyes, moved forward a few feet and directed
the flashlight beam on the face of the woman standing in front of
Delia.  She studied that face--attractive, even-featured, maybe too
much so.  Delia still couldn't make the connection.

"You're not the only one who can make herself over," the mystery woman
said.  "Except that I made some more extensive changes.  It's amazing
what a good plastic surgeon can do."

She laughed then, and the memory chips clicked together for Delia at
last.

"Cassandra?"  she asked.

"Speaking of people who are close to dying.  I'm supposed to have been
dead for going on nine years now."  "

Delia was still having difficulty figuring out what was going on.  "But
you were in the helicopter with my father."

"Obviously, I wasn't."

"They found your body in the wreckage."

"They found a body.  Same height, approximately the same build and age.
Easy enough to find on the same streets I was wandering before your
dear daddy decided to rescue me."

More memories slid into place.  There'd been rumors all those years ago
about Edward Lester's much younger bride.  Delia hadn't paid much
attention.  She'd only cared that her father was happy, and devoting
himself to Cassandra seemed to make him so.

"You probably heard Tobias and Penelope talking about me," this new
version of Cassandra went on.  Her voice was full and confident, even
commanding, nothing like the timid young thing Delia remembered.  "The
Wrens didn't approve of me They thought I was only out for what I could
get.  They were right, of course."

Delia fought to think her way through the confusion.

"It was a fair trade actually," Cassandra said.  "Your father got a
protege to mold into his version of the per-feet woman.  There was no
chance of his ever being able to do that with his darling daughter. You
were too headstrong.  I, on the other hand, was more than willing to be
molded.  I was nobody going nowhere when he came along.  He taught me
everything I needed to know to become somebody.  How to dress, what to
read, what to like, even what to think."

A corner of the picture began to come clearer for Delia.  The portraits
on that living room wall this morning.  The study that looked so much
like her father's.

"That's your apartment up on Riverside Drive, isn't it?"  she said.

"Good for you.  You're starting to put it together."

More of the picture grew clear for Delia, none of it too savory.

"Did you kill Penelope Wren?"  Delia asked.  "Good for you again."
Cassandra poked Delia in the chest with the barrel of the gun she was
holding.  "I took care of them all, or to be precise, I had Max do it.
You've met Max, haven't you?  We've been together from way back in my
street days.  We're quite a team.  I do most of his talking for him. He
does all of my dirty work for me."

"What do you mean, you took care of them all?"  Delia asked as the
horror of what the answer might be crept into her bones.

"I had Max kill everybody I needed to be rid of," Cassandra said.  If
her voice hadn't been so cold, she might have sounded gleeful.
"Penelope and Tobias, Morty Lancer and, of course, your father."

Delia sobbed once then lunged forward, grabbing Cassandra who hopped
out of the way and toppled down.  She must have tripped over something
under the snow.  Delia was on top of her in an instant.

"You killed my father," Delia cried.  "You killed my father."

Her heart was breaking and exploding with rage, both at the same
moment.  She pounded her fists into Cassandra wherever contact could be
made.  Delia was oblivious of the gun.  All she could think of was that
her world had been destroyed, and her precious father along with it,
because of this woman.  Delia couldn't keep herself from giving back
some of that pain now.  One of them probably would have ended up dead
or at least unconscious if Max hadn't dragged Delia away and tossed her
into the snow next to Nick, who groaned and stirred then was still
again.  What could he do anyway?

Max stood over them with a gun and the flashlight.  Cassandra picked
herself up and brushed the snow off her coat.  Then she was standing
there pointing a gun at Nick and Delia, too.

"Why?"  Delia asked.  "Why have you done all of this?"

Cassandra laughed.  "The money, of course.  But you wouldn't understand
that, would you?  A pampered lit-He rich girl like you wouldn't have
any idea what it's like to have nothing or how far a person might go to
change that."

Delia could hear the hatred behind Cassandra's taunting.  Had she been
this way before, when they'd lived in the same house back in Colorado?
Delia wished she'd paid more than passing attention to her stepmother
back then.

"How did you find me?"  Delia asked.

"That precious ring of yours.  Your daddy told me the whole touching
story of your mother giving it to you on her deathbed.  Your daddy told
me everything, even that silly name he called you.  Topsy.  Isn't that
just too, too dear?"

There was envy behind Cassandra's sneer, along with the hatred,
powerful enough emotions to fuel her murderous rage.  Delia could see
that now.

"I'm surprised that my father shared those things with you," she
said.

"I could make your daddy tell me anything.  The only one easier to get
to than him was Morty Lancer.  Of course, he wanted his cut of-the
money, too.  That's how I got him to rig the will.  He was siphoning
off his own cut in the meantime, but I knew that and he knew I knew
it."

"Did Morty know you weren't in the crash?"

"He wasn't smart enough to figure that out, any more than he was smart
enough to steal small.  That's why I had to get rid of him finally.  He
was a greedy little man.  Of course, I was too smart for him.  Even
before your darling daddy died, I'd diverted lots f money and
securities into the trust fund accounts with a holding company in
control.  I controlled the holding company under what I'd already set
up to be my new name and identity.  Then he got greedy.  Unfortunately
we couldn't get straight to the money even with Morty pulling the
strings.  We had to go the trust fund route to not be caught.  You were
too much of an airhead to pay attention to what was going on, your
brother was too crazy to care, and Morty was the sole trustee.  It was
a perfect setup till good old Morty pushed his pilfering too far.  If I
hadn't stopped him, he'd have bled those trust funds dry.  He'd already
made a dent in Samuel's."

"Samuel."  Delia had been half reclining in the snow with her arm
raised to keep the large flakes of snow out of her face.  She shot up
now into a crouch that brought Max's gun directly to the side of her
head.  "What have you done to Samuel?  Did you kill him, too?"

Cassandra laughed again, even more cruelly.  "Why would I need to do
that?  He's too harmless to bother with.  Besides, he's been useful to
me.  I did have him moved to another institution, just in case you ever
decided to go after him and started checking his finances too closely.
Of course, you never did."

Delia felt a twinge of guilt more chilling than the wet gradually
seeping through her jeans.

"How did you manage moving him?  Don't papers have to be signed?"

"A lawyer, silly girl.  It's always possible to find a crooked one of
those.  This time I was smart enough to buy one smarter than Morty
Lancer.  His partner, in fact, a natural to take over the Lester estate
work.  He thinks I'm a distant relative of your father's just as Morty
did.  But then, neither of them ever questioned my story very closely.
Morty was too busy grabbing up the money I let him embezzle, and his
partner has enough brains to know he should keep his mouth shut.
Anyway, everything's run like clockwork since Morty died.  Morty was a
loose end, so I snipped him off.  Putting" him in your bed just tied
things up, nice and neat.  I like things neat.  Then you took off and
spoiled everything.  But I had a feeling you'd show up again someday.

"Then the other day, there you were, big as life in Saks Fifth Avenue
of all places, fight across the counter from me.  I'd call it fate. I'd
told myself I'd run into you someday and get rid of you like all the
rest.  You might never figure out what was going on, but maybe you
would.  That's a chance I wouldn't want to take.  So, fate brought you
to me, fate and a little luck, good luck for me, bad for you, just like
what's going to happen to you and Avery now."

Cassandra stepped back.  Unfortunately she didn't trip this time.

"Time to get on with it," she said.  "Right, Max?  Now that I've made
sure the poor little rich girl knows how the kid from the gutter
outsmarted the whole fester clan and ended up on Easy Street."

Nick stirred again next to Delia, then rolled over.  She reached for
his arm.

"How sweet," Cassandra said, "and better for Max, too.  He likes to
have his victims see what they've got coming to them."

Max's eyes glinted, more insane than ever in the beam from the
flashlight, but that wasn't what had Delia's attention at the moment.
Forms were moving out of the darkness behind Cassandra and Max,
advancing toward them without sound through the muffling snow.  At
first Delia thought Cassandra might have enlisted more henchmen, but
that didn't make sense.  Why would she need anybody besides herself and
Max and their minimum of two firearms?

These new arrivals were decidedly bedraggled.  Delia could see that
more and more clearly as they entered the peripheral glow of the
flashlight.  Suddenly, Delia remembered where she was.  This abandoned
rail yard was exactly the kind of place that attracted the homeless,
both good and bad, as a squatting ground.  Delia's stomach clenched'.
It looked like she and Nick had more than just Cassandra and her crazy
sidekick to contend with.

Delia watched the leader of the ragged band move into view behind Max
and coiled herself to spring to the attack, as she was certain Nick
must also be doing next to her.  Then she saw the leader's face glaring
purposefully from beneath aS anta Claus hat fringed in wild, frizzy
gray hair.

Jaycee!  Delia wanted to cry out.

But there were no greetings in that abandoned rail yard, not until the
sounds of scuffling died down and Max and Cassandra had been disarmed
by the Hester Street gang with Nick joining in.  Then Jaycee came
forward wearing her crooked grin and reached hex hand out toward
Delia.

"Merry Christmas, sugar," Jaycee said.

Jaycee had predicted two gifts for Delia that Christmas Eve.  The
first, from Jaycee herself, was deliverance from becoming yet another
of Cassandra's victims.  Jaycee had used what Delia had taught her to
read that Christmas card over her shoulder back at the settlement
house.  Jaycee guessed there was big trouble in store when she saw the
look on Nick's face as he scurried out of there after Delia.  Jaycee
went into action then, mobilizing everybody at the center,
commandeering one of the trucks waiting to be loaded with Christmas
dinners for needy families.

The rest was history--the end of the story for Cassandra and Max, the
beginning for Delia and Nick who spent the next several hours on that
same truck helping deliver those dinners and belting out carols at the
top of their lungs till they were hoarse from song and laughter.
There'd be time to clear everything up with the police later on.  Until
then, this was the first Christmas of their new life together, and
neither of them intended to miss a single, blessed, beautiful minute of
it.

"The second gift Jaycee promised," Delia whispered as she and Nick
tumbled up to her apartment door, arms around each other and near
exhaustion.  "What are you talking about?"  Nick asked.

Delia pointed to the package leaning against the door.

"I have a feeling this is the gift from heaven in Jaycee vision."

Nick laughed, and it was the happiest sound she'd ever heard.  "Then
you'd better open it," he said, and bent to kiss her, sweet as
Christmas candy, full on the lips.

Delia kissed him back and held him very tight for a moment.

"Let's go inside first," she said.

Christmas morning was dawning behind the blinds in Delia's living room.
She hurried to the window and pulled the cord to let that light into
the room.

"No need to hide anymore," she said.  "That's all over ."  "

"Yes, it is," Nick answered, taking her coat.

She smiled and sighed, as if his agreement made the words suddenly true
and put the years of fear and subterfuge behind her for certain and for
good.  She sat down on the floor next to the blue spruce and unwrapped
the brown paper from the package she'd discovered outside her door. 
She recognized what she found inside the moment she saw it, and a gasp
escaped her lips as she choked back her tears.  Cassandra had mentioned
leaving Delia a second, even more enticing invitation to the rail yard,
in case she didn't get the one at Hester Street.  Here it was, the
linen-covered book Delia remembered so well.

"What is it?"  Nick asked.

"My father's journal," she said.

She ran her fingers over the faded cover.  She would save the reading
of it for later on.  She understood that what her father had written
here would restore him to her in a way nothing else could have done.
This book was exactly what Jaycee had predicted.

"A gift from heaven," Dcha murmured again.  Nick knelt beside her, and
she lifted her face to his as they wound their arms around each other.
"You're a gift from heaven," he said.

"Merry Christmas, my love," Delia whispered in response as she gazed at
the spun glass angel sparkling from a blue spruce branch and held Nick
tight.