Chapter 2

It would've taken a lot more than a statement like Wycliffe's to shake the Steeles. One second went by, then two, and then Remington said lightly, "Well, I'll bite. Who is it you think we are?"

The shrewd gleam in Wycliffe's eyes softened into a reverie that acknowledged Remington's and Laura's presence without actually seeing them. After tasting his drink he set the glass aside and folded his hands. Suddenly he looked much older. "Fifty years I've been in this profession," he said. "If I may be so naive as to call it a profession. Started at the same place as every eighteen-year-old lad with no money, no connections, an indifferent education and a passion for the theater—at the bottom. You could do it in London in those days, hang about backstage, taking on odd jobs, hoping someone would notice you. At last someone did. Notice me."

This was so far from the accusing finger and denunciation for which the Steeles were bracing themselves that they stole a puzzled glance at one another. Wycliffe, wrapped in his memories, was oblivious.

He went on: "Not because of my brilliance, since I had none, apart from a certain aptitude for dead-on mimicry. I'm still quite good at it. Wouldn't you agree?"

He paused to smile at Laura, a sparkling, light-hearted grin. It was as if a door opened and through a narrow crack afforded a brief glimpse of the boy he had once been. She couldn't help smiling back.

"D'you know, to this day I'm still not sure what he saw in me? Willingness to learn, perhaps. I did have that, along with an enormous appetite for hard work. But sometimes, looking back, I think it wasn't me at all. It was him, just him…and his kind heart. A rare commodity in the theater, as you'll find out, if you don't already know it."

Now Wycliffe's attention shifted to Remington. "He was the darling of the London stage, and New York, too, in the thirties. Thirty-five, this was, the height of an Oscar Wilde revival that was mainly due to him. He had a great run that season in 'The Importance of Being Earnest' and 'An Ideal Husband'. As the saying goes, he taught me everything he knew."

Remington couldn't have spoken if he tried. A flash of insight had told him what Wycliffe was driving at. He longed for, yet dreaded, the moment when Wycliffe would put it into words.

"His name," said Wycliffe, "was Lloyd Chalmers."

Judging by her gasp of surprise, Laura hadn't made the connection Remington had. He didn't think she realized how quick she was to reach for him, but he grasped her hand gratefully.

"—And you, young man, if you're not a relation of his…" Wycliffe was saying. "Well, I don't see what else you can be, except his doppelgänger. You're him again to the very life."

"He was my grandfather," Remington said, his voice gone slightly hoarse, and cleared his throat.

"I thought so. That would make you Lillian's son? Or Daniel's?"

"You knew my father?"

"I knew the entire family. Lillian…Peggy…your grandmother, a truly good and beautiful woman. Not that I was a close friend, mind you. Daniel in particular socialized in different circles than I. But an admirer, oh, yes. That I certainly was. Your first name is-?"

So much for their cover story, Remington thought. Still, the truth could be co-opted to serve as its substitute, especially since there wasn't time to produce an alternative. "John."

"Delighted to meet you, John Chalmers." Wycliffe extended his hand for Remington to shake. "And Mrs. Chalmers-?" he added, addressing Laura.

"Laura," she replied.

"Delighted again. Well, John and Laura…welcome to Hambeth. It seems the family torch is passing to the both of you, yes?"

"I suppose that's what we're here to find out," said Remington.

"Indeed. You've come to the right place for it—provided you're able to stick it out."

"Is that your standard advice for newcomers, Mr. Wycliffe?" Laura asked. "It sounds more like a warning to me."

"Did it? I didn't mean it that way. It's just that you've arrived at a difficult time. We're not quite ourselves just now."

"Mr. Hogarth told us about the accidents. I'm sure it's been very upsetting for everyone."

"It has but I wasn't speaking of the accidents particularly. No, no. There are other problems…serious ones…among us."

The Steeles waited, but Wycliffe didn't elaborate. "Perhaps it would help if you understood Mr. Hogarth's character a little better," he said instead. "He's quite brilliant, you know. Has been from the cradle. But hampered by obstacles along the way, mainly a disapproving mother and an absent, peripatetic father. Father's in the business, but never made much out of it, and Hogarth's rather ashamed of him. He was absolutely no help in achieving his son's ambitions, you see."

"But he's been an enormous success anyway. That counts for something, surely," commented Remington.

"He doesn't see it like that. He's the underdog, and other actors are the competition. That attitude has done wonders for his career and for Hambeth's reputation. But on his relationships—professional, personal—it tends to wreak havoc. You may find yourself on the receiving end, John. That's all I'm trying to say."

"I'll bear it in mind. Thank you."

"Think of it as a small return on what I owe your grandfather. I meant it in strictest confidence, of course..."

"We understand," said Laura.

"And hope you'll regard our real names in the same light," added Remington.

"I wouldn't worry that anyone else in the company will recognize you, if I were you. They're all too young to remember Lloyd Chalmers. But I promise I won't breathe a word."

It was as they were seeing him out that Laura said, "I'm curious about something, Mr. Wycliffe. You said Mr. Hogarth looks at other actors as competition. What about you? You've obviously gotten close enough for him to share some very private insights. How did you manage to gain his trust when the others can't?"

"Did I forget to explain?" Hand on the door knob, Wycliffe hesitated, glancing from her to Remington. "Well, I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you. The situation's a little different when it comes to Edmund and me. You see…he's my only son."

He opened the door, and slipped out into the darkness.

Very early the next morning, Remington was doing the same thing.

Sunrise was more than two hours away, but the prospect of wandering alone through a strange town gave him no qualms. He'd done it in places far seedier than Solvang without coming to any harm. Nor did the throbbing in his ankle—the result, no doubt, of over-exerting himself yesterday-stop him. It couldn't be worse than the mental turmoil that had awakened him at this ungodly hour. Perhaps it would prove an effective counter-balance. Setting his jaw, he willed himself to push through the pain.

The mental turmoil wasn't so easily dismissed. There was acute disappointment in Laura's reaction to the idea of having a child to be got over, and nerve to ask her again to be worked up. Not likely to be an easy feat, that, considering it had taken practically every moment of the last three weeks to talk himself into the first attempt.

He'd allowed her plenty of chances to return to the subject once Wycliffe had taken his leave last night. As they'd talked over the old man's amazing revelation, he'd begun delivering subtle hints, the kind of thing Laura was usually so good at picking up. She'd either adroitly changed the subject or outright ignored them. Finally she'd resorted to the strategy with which she'd outflanked him earlier in the evening. Laura's hands; Laura's mouth; Laura's perfect little body. What chance had he stood against them? None whatever.

And well she knew it! That was what irked him the most. It wasn't enough that they'd been the final catalyst, as it were, for his transformation from incurable global playboy to fiercely monogamous husband. Now she was deliberately using them to seduce him out of pursuing an important conversation with her-! Really she was starting to resemble him much too closely in the depths she would sink to in getting her way.

And there was another thing. The crease that had formed between her brows the moment he'd let slip the word 'baby'? The one he normally loved? He'd known exactly what it signified. The same with the look with which she'd searched his face. She was weighing him, trying to gauge the depth of his sincerity. Can he possibly be serious? she was asking herself.

The memory set off a fresh wave of irritation. She still had so low an estimate of him, had she, that she imagined he'd treat such a momentous decision as a joke? Apparently they hadn't come as long a way in their marriage as they believed. He was half tempted to swing round and head back to the motel to tax her with it.

Then he paused. He hadn't a leg to stand on. After all, which precedent could he point to as proof to the contrary? His business arrangement with Clarissa and their aborted wedding, hooker-attendants and all? His and Laura's wedding on the fishing trawler? It would be tantamount to arming Laura with enough ammunition to blow his argument out of the water, should he be foolish enough to commence hostilities.

He had to admit it was true. Chastened, calmer, he resumed his walk and his train of thought.

As to whether he was serious: hell, yes, he was. As serious as the day the realization burst upon him full blown, the nearest to a personal epiphany he'd ever experienced. He wanted to be a father, and not just in a general sense. He wanted to father a child of Laura's. He wanted Laura to have his baby.

It was remarkable, the power of the prospect of imminent death to awaken dreams you never suspected you had. That was what had happened to him. A month ago, while he lay on the floor of Anna Patton's garden shed, dazed by pain, tormented by thirst, hopes pinned on a rescue whose arrival seemed agonizingly slow, his priorities had undergone a shift of seismic proportions. Nothing about his view of himself and his purpose in life would ever be the same.

Even before he'd spoken to her face-to-face, instinct had warned him that Anna Patton's reappearance portended some kind of monumental upheaval for him and Laura. The only thing he couldn't guess was from what quarter the threat would come.

That was because Anna had had the good sense to conceal her intentions until midway through their first meeting. Her greeting as he approached her in the crowded Santa Monica restaurant conveyed just the right note of surprised delight. "Hello. You're here."

He'd been reasonably certain heading into this confrontation that he'd built up immunity to Anna's physical effect on him. At the sound of her voice he'd inventoried his reaction. No catch in his breathing; no pounding at his heart. To the contrary, he was altogether unmoved.

Across the table they'd sized each other up. Either the years in prison had been kind to her, or she'd spent a tidy sum to repair their ravages, for she was little changed. A few fine lines around the eyes, shorter hair: that was all. He could've conceived no better foil for her icy elegance than the simply cut dress she was wearing. Every movement she made wafted a faint, nostalgia-laden breath of L'Heure Bleue to his nostrils.

None of it had stirred him. Not in the slightest.

Finished with her appraisal of him, she'd inclined towards him discreetly. "I'm glad you came. How are you?"

"Splendid. Thank you." Curt, clipped and to the point. Just this side of rudeness, in plain fact.

She'd absorbed it with grace. It was the one thing he could say about Anna: she was rarely at a disadvantage. "Aren't you going to ask how I am?" she said.

"I would, if it weren't already obvious. Released from prison. Widow of Walter Patton. Heiress to his fortune. Have I left anything out?"

"You seem remarkably well-informed about me. Careful. I might take it into my head to be flattered."

The arrival of a waiter had cut the exchange short, and Remington waited grimly for Anna to place her order. "And yours?" she asked him. "Is it still Chartreuse on the rocks?"

A transparent effort to establish intimacy between them; it had raised his hackles. As if a trivial nod to the past could erase the image of her drawing her pistol and poising herself to shoot him through the heart. Or drown out the poignant echo of Laura's words, uttered as she lay in his arms the previous night, struggling valiantly to accept her failure to dissuade him from this very encounter: "I love you. For my sake, don't forget watching Raymond Marleau die."

So he'd declined Anna's offer of a drink, and turned on her with barely disguised aggression as the waiter withdrew. "There's no use pretending I'd have come today if you hadn't insinuated to my wife that you'd ruin us if I stayed away," he said. "So drop the act, and let's have it."

Past mistress of the carefully staged build-up, she'd allowed the silence to spin out.

"I said let's have it, Anna."

"You're really going to make me say it out loud, aren't you?"

He'd gazed at her.

"It's simple." Good God: were her eyes really shimmering with tears? "I miss you. I want you back."

And then she'd proceeded to tell him that nothing was as it had appeared three years ago. That everything she'd done was so that they could be together. That she hadn't used him as a stepping stone to Walter Patton's fortune. That she had never stopped loving him.

And she'd called him "darling" as she did it.

It was the conversational equivalent of a train wreck or a freak show; much as he couldn't stand to hear it, he couldn't seem to close his ears against it, either. It had also gripped him with an odd feeling of dislocation. One part of him was dispassionate judge, evaluating her performance from the standpoint of a fellow con artist. She was good, all right-very, very good. She'd have had to be to deceive him, let alone Gregor von Knauss and Walter Patton. Objectively he could even admire the seamless operation of her facial expressions and the tone of her voice in achieving the effect she wanted. In another situation it might've elicited applause and a "brava!" or two from him.

The other part of him…that was the man he liked to think he'd become, namesake of gentlemanly Lloyd Chalmers, husband of courageous, upright Laura Steele. That part was seething. What the devil was she playing at? Did she not remember the things she'd said and done, or the context in which she'd said and done them? Did she imagine he'd forgotten? Or did she truly believe her charms were so overwhelming that she'd only to crook her finger to bring him on the run, panting to let bygones be bygones?

He became aware that he was barking questions at her, and not very flattering ones, about the night at Club 10, about Marleau's murder, her relationship with Patton, but they didn't leave a trace on his consciousness. The replies flowing with glib facility from Anna's exquisite lips, those were what registered. Rationalizations. Justifications. Romantic importuning.

Sickening, all of it. Quite literally. Nausea had begun to twist his stomach.

Well…wasn't that what happened when you ingested poison?

"Stop right there," he'd said at last. "Even if I believed a word of this nonsense, which I don't, none of it matters. I'm a married man."

"I know. But are you happy?"

He'd bared his teeth. "Deliriously."

"Oh, darling." Gentle laughter had rippled from her. "Who do you think you're kidding? Your loyalty's admirable, it really is. But you needn't maintain the charade with me. We both know what kind of woman you prefer."

For the first time she'd stretched across to touch his hand. He'd snatched it away. He could've sworn it was tingling unpleasantly as he did so. But perhaps that was utter revulsion influencing him.

"-I don't mind sharing you with her, at least for a little while," Anna went on. "It'll give you a delicious basis for comparison. Why, anyone with eyes can see she's not your type. It isn't a marriage of…equals…at all. Is it?"

He'd only felt fury like this a handful of times in his life, the red mist blurring his vision, the shaking that originated at the core of him. It briefly stunned him motionless and speechless. Probably that was for the best. Otherwise he'd have had a hard time restraining his hands from closing around the smooth white column of Anna's throat.

Shoving his chair away from the table, he got to his feet. "There's a name for women like you, and it's not a pretty one," he'd said, his voice unrecognizable in his own ears. "As for my wife, you're not fit to wipe her shoes on. Go near her again—threaten her again—and I'll see you live to regret it." And he'd started to move away.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He'd turned. She was laying a large envelope in the center of the table. Her tiny close-mouthed smile proclaimed that she held the highest trump, one he wouldn't be able to beat.

As soon as she revealed the contents—his detailed notes for the robbery, the photographs of Anna with the jewels—he'd had to agree.

Of course he'd recognized the pictures immediately: they weren't the kind a man would easily forget. Snapped in his room on the rue Souta Riba in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, as he recalled. He'd slipped in with the fruits of a successful heist just as dawn was breaking to find Anna waiting for him in his bed. The sapphires and diamonds were dazzling, his reliable old Leica near at hand, and Anna had snuck away from powerful, wealthy Gregor von Knauss to seduce him. And one thing had led to another.

As to how the schematics had ended up in her clutches, he was less sure. "Where did you get these?" he'd demanded.

"Does it matter?"

"Evidently not. What do you intend on doing with them?"

She'd kept her eyes on him as she slid the papers back into the envelope. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"All I want is the chance to win you back. I know I can do it, if only you'll let me try. As soon as we're together again—oh, darling, the pictures, the papers, they're all yours. A package deal. In the meantime, think of them as…incentive."

"Blackmail, you mean."

"Call it what you like, I won't use them unless you force my hand. You won't, will you? You will give me a second chance?"

He'd risen without replying and stalked out. Somehow through the red haze and the shaking he'd located the agency limo and stumbled into the back of it. "The office, Fred," were the only words he'd managed to utter before he surrendered to rage.

If he hadn't already learned how fully Laura had become his anchor as well as his wife, that ride to Century City would've persuaded him. It was the only thought in his head, getting back to her so he could spill out all his pent up anger and repugnance. God, he'd needed her, and badly. Her lovely lilting voice, the silk of her hair, the feel of her fine bones and slender curves as he held her: they would restore his world to soundness and sanity. Just as undressing her and caressing every inch of her later, and then lying in her embrace, would remove the last traces of Anna's taint.

She'd done that for him and more besides. She wouldn't have been the Laura he loved if she hadn't rushed to his rescue as soon as she properly understood what he was up against. Her first plan was so gutsy and smart he'd wanted to smack his forehead for not thinking of it himself. Stealing the evidence from Anna! And when that failed through no fault of theirs, it was Laura who'd insisted they capitalize on Anna's greatest weakness. Overly confident of her power over the men she fancied, Anna had practically handed him the perfect opportunity for getting close enough to retrieve the papers from right under her nose. It would be criminal for them to waste it.

Ah, he'd dug in his heels at first! Mainly it was because of his distinct aversion to spending even so much as a second more in Anna's company, though there were other elements of Laura's proposal he'd found almost as objectionable. Pretending in public that Laura was cheating on him was one. Portraying her in a negative light to Anna was another. But then it had occurred to him that he could adapt the plan to serve the consideration that outweighed all the others: keeping Laura safe without letting on that he was doing so. A complacent Anna was far less likely to entertain the notion of eliminating her feminine rival. If he held hard to that, made it the center of every decision, he might just be able to pull off the charade.

Rejecting Laura's conception of the way he ought to play it—he flatly refused to expose her to Anna's criticism, no matter how willing she was to pretend she was being unfaithful—he'd developed one on his own. The beauty of it lay in the fact that it wasn't so far outside the realm of possibility that Anna would suspect a set-up. The former rogue, tired of the straight-and-narrow, searching for an escape, any escape, from the tedium: that was who he'd be. Regretting the loss of old mates and old haunts. Bored with honest work. Unsuited to monogamy. Married to a woman much too good for him, whose standards he feared he couldn't live up to. Coupled to a deployment of his arsenal of romantic wiles, how could it miss?

But on second thought, he wasn't so sure. He'd run countless seduction cons in the old days, but never while so deeply in love as he was with Laura. It was one thing to woo a woman to whom you were indifferent when your heart was otherwise unengaged. To do it when you had a wife you adored—and the mark was a woman you'd once loved, but had come to despise and fear—was a cat of a different color. His skills, impressive as they were, might not be adequate for the challenge.

So it was with something akin to jitters that he'd delivered the opening line in his charm offensive. He and Anna were about to have coffee in the ground-floor bistro at the hotel in which she was living; she'd joined him at his invitation. He could only pray that his expression had achieved the level of sheepishness he'd practiced in front of his mirror. "I couldn't keep away," he'd said.

Anna had responded with a tremulous smile. "Welcome back…darling."

This time, when she reached for his hand, he was able to suppress his shudder and wind his fingers through hers.

It was more difficult than any job he'd undertaken, he soon discovered, and that was saying something, considering his multiple thefts of The Five Nudes of Cairo. He hadn't factored in the toll it would take on him. No matter that he was careful to maintain an emotional distance from Anna, like an actor performing a part; as the days went by the double life he was leading had begun to wear him down. It was hard, often incredibly hard, to disguise his contempt for her, the horror that assailed him when he remembered the coldness with which she'd gunned down Marleau. There were moments when it was all he could do to check the impulse to drop the mask, dare her to do her worst with the papers, and declare that if he never crossed paths with her again in this life, it would be too soon.

But that was nothing compared to watching circumstances eat away at Laura's faith in him.

She'd thought he didn't notice. Of that he was convinced. She thought he didn't see her fighting every morning to put on her game face and carry on as if everything were normal. Or how she inhaled a steadying breath and squared her shoulders each time he went off to keep another appointment with Anna. She'd thought she successfully concealed it, the return of the old wariness to her dark eyes. More than a lurking fear that she'd made a dreadful mistake and by and by she'd suffer for it, it was wariness of him. Typical Laura: she wouldn't have admitted it aloud if her life depended on it. But he'd recognized it anyway. And though he couldn't blame her for it, it had cut him to the heart.

If only he were a different sort of man, one who hadn't any trouble expressing his feelings! Never before had he wished it so fervently. Then he could've poured out the reassurances she needed to hear. As it was, he could only try and show her. Lots of love-making, constant physical affection, spending every possible minute with her—were they enough? Could they substitute for the words that he, craven idiot that he was, couldn't manage nine times out of ten?

He'd agonized over it, over her, especially as Anna suddenly went on the defensive, hiring a detective to tail the Steeles and demanding proof of Remington's changed feelings toward her. The only solution he could think of on both counts was to remove to a hotel. At least it would deflect Anna's attention from Laura. Sensible as he believed the idea was, he hoped he wouldn't ever again give Laura cause to wear the expression she had when he broke the news to her.

It was the first of a series of blows Anna had dealt her. It had shaken her badly when Anna interrupted them in the midst of an intimate moment in his hotel room and then turned up at Windsor Square the following morning to antagonize her. Granted, Laura had picked herself up in the aftermath and with defiantly tilted chin gone on as if nothing was wrong. But beneath her surface bravado he'd spied signs of a truth that terrified him.

Because she was nearing the end of her rope, that was why. They were losing ground in their relationship every day. If he didn't end Anna's blackmail soon, they would be back to square one, trust and intimacy in complete ruins. Laura would slip away from him.

Anna herself had handed him the opening he sought by inviting him to cruise with her from Malibu to San Diego aboard The English Rose, the yacht she'd inherited from her late husband.

He was frankly daydreaming that evening as Fred drove them back to her home base, the Rexford Palms Hotel—he'd discovered to his astonishment that Anna outside the bedroom was a crashing bore—but her question had jerked him back to full attention. "Eh?"

"If we leave early Friday morning, we'll be in San Diego by evening. Then we can spend the day in town on Saturday and be back Sunday night. That is, assuming you'll want to make it to work on Monday."

Struggling to catch up, he'd blinked at her arch smile.

"It'll be just like the old days. Remember how we used to say that as soon as we'd made our fortunes, it was off on a cruise around the world? Unless-" she was regarding him with her head on one side "—you don't think you can get away."

She'd said enough to fill him in on what he'd missed, thank God, but he'd suffered a couple seconds' panic while groping for an off-the-cuff refusal that wouldn't stir her suspicions. "I do work for a living."

"You wouldn't have to if you'd let me share what ought to be yours anyway."

"Out of the question, and you know it."

"Oh, but darling, you'll only miss one day at the office," she'd insisted, returning to the attack. "And you're the head of the firm, aren't you? Surely you're entitled to play hooky once in a while."

"It isn't that."

"Then what?"

"If you're expecting what I think you're expecting to happen…I'm not ready." And he'd fixed her with a gaze that brimmed over with meaning.

"I realize that. We'll have separate rooms at the hotel, I promise. Though I give you fair warning, I'm hoping that by the end of the weekend I'll have changed your mind." She'd squeezed his hand. "After I've given you a new reason to trust me."

She'd allowed the silence to continue unbroken just long enough for effect before switching smoothly to another subject entirely. Once again, he'd barely listened to her. Only this time his preoccupation came not from boredom, but growing excitement.

Later on he would recognize with chagrin how expertly she'd played him, but while the moment was unfolding, one thing had seemed clear. A "new reason to trust her" must mean that she was about to turn the papers over to him. Whether it also meant his charm offensive had succeeded, he couldn't tell. But it hardly mattered. Even if she did have some plot afoot—and he wouldn't put it past her—she would bring the papers along on Friday. Cruising with her might very well prove the means of ending her nasty little reign of terror for good.

Him: back where he belonged, at Laura's side. The trust he'd seen in her eyes on the stairs at Castagnoli's restored. How could he pass up the best chance he'd had yet to achieve those goals?

At the Rexford Palms he'd accompanied Anna to the door and offered the chaste kiss that was the most he could stomach without betraying his reluctance to touch her. "What time are you planning to start on Friday?" he'd asked.

The gray eyes had glowed like stars. "At first light."

"I'll be there."

Los Angeles had been experiencing an unusually hot January, and Friday's weather was no exception. He'd found Anna waiting for him in the Rose's galley, a teak-outfitted space twice the size of his kitchen at Windsor Square. "Fresh fruit and croissants," she'd greeted him, filling a plate. "Would a Bloody Mary hit the spot, or would you prefer coffee?"

Light-headed from lack of sleep, he'd opted for the coffee and sipped thankfully when it came. It was his own fault; the night before he'd snuck home under cover of darkness and spent the bulk of it making love with Laura. But this was one occasion when he was happy to bear the blame. If the way she'd kissed him good morning was any indication, he'd succeeded in laying to rest any jealous fears Laura might've harbored. As for himself, he'd more than girded his loins, so to speak, for today's ordeal. Any time the unpleasantness threatened to get the better of him, he could close his eyes and summon up the memory of the two of them, lost in each other. And all would be right with him again.

As soon as the captain cast off and the yacht was heading for open water, he and Anna had emerged topside at her suggestion to watch the sunrise. No doubt she expected it to call up romantic associations with mornings they'd spent together in Monte Carlo. That she wasn't in the mood for conversation was an enormous relief.

After a long time she'd breathed what sounded like a sigh of contentment and turned to take his hand. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I," he'd replied.

And, inwardly gritting his teeth, had set himself to endure.

Not surprisingly, the day dragged. Around eleven o'clock Anna went below deck to change into a bikini, looking pleased when he followed her example. But she raised her brows at his choice of swim trunks versus the Speedo that would've been practically de rigeur on the Mediterranean. "How very…American…you've become, darling," she'd said as he flopped onto the chaise lounge she'd placed beside hers. "I'm not sure I like it."

He'd hidden a smile.

There was a crew member on hand, supplying snacks and sandwiches, and she even replenished their drinks at regular intervals. He'd barely had time to enjoy any of it. Within ten minutes of stretching out beneath the hot sun, he was fast asleep.

It was an unconscionable lapse on his part, a dropping of his guard that he would never confess to Laura, who'd feared—with good reason-that Anna planned to kill him on board the Rose and toss his body over the side. For once he'd have agreed with his wife's denunciation of his foolhardiness. Hell, he was aghast at himself. It would've been just desserts if Anna had murdered him on the spot.

She hadn't, though she'd looked as if she could've done so quite cheerfully when at last he'd awakened. By the angle of the sun he knew that the afternoon was well advanced. "Good Lord," he'd muttered. "How long was I asleep?"

Long enough for me to shower and change, she might have snapped. Instead she said tersely, "Hours. It's almost five o'clock. And we'll be docking soon."

Nothing could've delighted him more. He'd hidden it beneath a big show of contrition. "An inconsiderate beast, that's what I've been, spoiling the afternoon. I'm sorry. You'll let me make it up to you, darling?"

Her response was the sultriest smile in her repertoire. Too bad it was wasted on him. All he could think was, almost ten hours down.

Only forty-eight to go.

TO BE CONTINUED