Moon Island Series

By the Author ROMANCES as Jennifer Fulton From BSB: Dark Vista Series Dark Dreamer Dark Valentine

Standalones More Than Paradise

Other: Moon Island Series Passion Bay Saving Grace The Sacred Shore A Guarded Heart

Standalones True Love Greener Than Grass

CONTEMPORARY FICTION as Grace Lennox

From BSB: Chance Not Single Enough

MYSTERIES as Rose Beecham From BSB: Jude Devine Series Grave Silence Sleep of Reason Place of Exile

Other: Amanda Valentine Series Introducing Amanda Valentine Second Guess Fair Play

Moon Island Series by Jennifer Fulton Passion Bay Saving Grace The Sacred Shore A Guarded Heart

Passion Bay

Two women from different ends of the earth discover passion in paradise—a paradise threatened by secrets and impending disaster. Mourning the death of her favorite Aunt, Annabel Worth is stunned to find she has inherited two things--an island in the South Pacific and a mystery that can only be solved by traveling there. Disillusioned with life as a securities trader in Boston, she rashly decides to exchange one world for another. New Zealander Cody Stanton has made the same choice. Dumped by her lover, laid off from her job, she rents a beach villa on remote Moon Island, expecting to take comfort in sea, solitude and simplicity. Then she meets Annabel. Haunted by a secret that threatens to derail her relationship with her mother, Annabel resists their powerful attraction. Cody, too, is burdened with a secret that could destroy the passion growing between them. When Hurricane Mary strikes the island, each woman must make a choice that will change her life

forever. A runaway bestseller with seven reprints in its first edition, Passion Bay is now being re-released in a second 'author's cut' edition, extensively revised, updated and expanded. First in the Moon Island

Series

Passion Bay © 2008 By Jennifer Fulton. All Rights Reserved. ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-064-7E This Aeros Ebook is published by Bold Strokes Books, Inc., New York, USA Original Bold Strokes Books Ebooks Edition: August 2008 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits Production Design: Stacia Seaman Cover Design By: Bold Strokes Books Graphics

Chapter One Mid-winter bus stop conversation was cheerless and predictable, half-sentences captured before the wind could steal them away, people’s faces mottled, noses dripping. Like a family of fat gray caterpillars, the commuters inched their way along Lambton Quay platform, clutching the jetsam of their working lives in briefcases and plastic shopping bags and glaring at the derelict spread full-length along one of the few benches available. The trolleybus was late of course. It would have caused needless shock and distress were it to arrive on time. The passengers huddled in line would have had nothing to talk about except the weather, and it seemed fairly pointless to tell someone engaged in a death struggle with coat and scarf that it was a lousy day. Wellington, New Zealand, was a vile city in July. Southerly winds roared straight up from the Antarctic, constant earth tremors made the entire population twitchy, and the suicide rate doubled. Cody Stanton hated it. She hated the endless grayness of it all, the flu that everyone had in one form or another, the traffic accidents and the sirens

screaming all day. She hated the litter blowing unnoticed along the street, the deadened faces of pedestrians, the television screens in store windows playing nothing but rugby. Someone gave her a shove and she realized the line in front of her had vanished. Hurrying along the platform, she ran agitated fingers through her windblown hair and hoisted herself up into the red and white trolleybus idling at their stop. “Two sections,” she muttered, for once failing to notice the dyke driver’s muscular thighs or her assessing look. Half the city’s public transport was driven by lesbians, it seemed. The bus lurched away while she was stumbling along the aisle. Grabbing for a rail, Cody snagged her leather jacket on an old woman’s shopping trundler and trod across the protruding Reeboked feet of a brawny youth. She heard his “Fuck you” without registering it, and headed for the only spare seat in the bus, right at the back next to a large Indian woman. Careful not to destroy the filmy sari spilling from her raincoat, she occupied the child-sized space beside her and stared sightlessly ahead. People got laid off every day, Cody reasoned. Only she had thought it would never happen to her. She had

a nice, safe job in computers and her particular skills were scarce in the technology-shy New Zealand market. It wasn’t going to look too hot on her resumé, she realized. There were people at work who had actually resigned to avoid the stigma; men of course, shit scared of taking a nosedive in the job market. Fortunately she wasn’t too proud to take a bullet and a severance check. Labor laws being what they were in liberal New Zealand, the payment would be decent. That was something, she thought, feeling for the envelope in her pocket. Its stiffness was reassuring. She hadn’t opened it yet. Packing up her desk had been traumatic enough in the half hour they were given. Clear out your belongings and leave the building. Cody couldn’t believe it. Treated like criminals, somebody said. They weren’t supposed to speak to the other staff or notice the awkward looks. Cody could remember feeling that same queasy relief herself when the first layoffs were announced several months back. She had watched colleagues depart, some of them with few prospects in their specialties. Many had moved across the Tasman to Australia, one had killed himself. Losing his job was not the main reason, the staff psychologist had

insisted. There were personal problems. The trolleybus jerked and clattered through the rush hour traffic at a crawl, stopping and starting for passengers every few blocks. It would be pitch dark by the time she got home, Cody thought. This was something she wouldn’t miss—the snail’s pace commute morning and night. She grabbed for the seat rail as they lurched drunkenly to the left, navigating their way onto the huge roundabout that spewed traffic into the Mount Victoria tunnels. Almost in the Indian woman’s lap, she struggled to get upright, dragged herself to her feet and elbowed her way through the crush of standing passengers to the exit door. Her stop was directly on the other side of the bus tunnel. Trolley drivers often missed it altogether. Sandwiched between men in trench coats and students with purple hair, she pulled the stop cord so the driver would have plenty of warning. Today had been bad enough without having to walk an extra quarter mile in the pouring rain. Naturally the driver accelerated through the tunnel then failed to brake in time to halt safely on the steep downward slope on the other side. Watching her stop recede through the fogged up doors, Cody yelled, “Hey, thanks a lot!”

The driver must have heard her because she ‘missed’ the next stop as well. Cody finally escaped with the exodus of passengers at the Hataitai shopping center. There the smell of fried chicken assaulted her, and she straggled back up the hill toward her flat, her stomach churning. Once at her gate, she lingered on some silly pretext. Last night it had been paint flakes on the sidewalk, tonight her shoelaces needed tightening. Fool, she berated herself and trudged along the path to her front door. She pushed it open with a pounding heart, halfexpecting to smell food cooking and hear some scratchy old Ferron recording. But the narrow hallway was dark and silent, the air stale with last night’s fish and chips. For the first time that day, tears crept down her cheeks. Impatiently, she brushed them away. If Margaret had been there, she would have rushed down to the kitchen, burst out with her news, thrust the check at her lover to open, and leaned against her, warm and safe. Instead she wandered into the emptiness of her bedroom, dropped her satchel on the floor, and threw herself down on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling for a while, then dropped her eyes to the discolored patch of wall where Margaret’s Amelia Earhart poster

had hung. She really ought to hang something else there, Cody thought for about the twentieth time in four weeks. Instead she lay motionless and icy cold until darkness swallowed the outline on the wallpaper and made a black hole of the gap where Margaret’s chest of drawers had once squatted, drawers neatly packed, doilies arranged on top. Aware that her teeth were chattering and her hair was making a damp patch on the pillow, Cody eventually sat up. She should make some dinner, only there was nothing in the house. She hadn’t bothered to shop since Margaret left. Anyway she didn’t have much of an appetite, especially not for greasies again. With a listless sigh, she flicked on her bedside lamp, pulled the envelope from her pocket and tore it open. A message on heavy embossed letterhead informed her that she had redundancy compensation of $10,000. A check was stapled to the back. Cody pried it off and studied it, feeling dull-witted. The zeros looked wrong. She counted them, rubbed her eyes and counted them again. Tracing her finger along the line, she read the amount out loud. “One hundred thousand dollars.” For a moment she panicked, then she counted the zeros a

third time just to be sure. “Shit!” she whispered. “A hundred grand.” Well, that was just perfect. Those stupid bastards in Admin had messed up and she would have to gird her loins and march straight back in there tomorrow to sort out their mistake. Bureaucracy had triumphed yet again. With a loud groan, she crawled under the quilt with her clothes on. “This is not my day,” she muttered. * When the sun hit Cody’s face the next morning, she opened her eyes with a start and threw off the bedclothes. Eight-thirty! She was late. Cursing, she hurtled toward the bathroom, then remembered. On the floor beside her bed lay the letter and check that proved yesterday was not just a bad dream. Cody approached the oblong bank draft as if it were radioactive and stared down at it. Even upside down, even in the clear light of day, the neatly typed figures were the same as they were the night before. One

hundred thousand dollars. Of course she would have to give it back. Admin had probably discovered their mistake already and

canceled the check. But what if they hadn’t? What if they’d just stamped her file Processed and shoved it back to the records department with this week’s big stack of redundancies? Cody scooped the check off the floor and brushed away imaginary dust. What if she kept it? What if she spent the lot? That would serve the bastards right, she decided a little wildly. What could they do? Ask her for $90,000 back please? Put her in jail? For the first time in a month, Cody laughed. * Later that morning, the bank teller was less amused. “Large deposit,” he commented, looking Cody over as if she were in a police line-up. “It’s my severance compensation,” she said, suitably tragic. “I lost my job.” His face cleared immediately, and he rearranged his expression into one of pious concern. “Very sorry,” he murmured with a shake of the head. “Lot of it about.” Cody did her best to look nonchalant as he keyed in the deposit and rubber-stamped everything. She could almost feel the security cameras zooming in on her, see her face immortalized on TV screens all over New

Zealand in Crimewatch: Cody Stanton, female Caucasian aged 28, 5’7”, slim build, black hair, and gray eyes. Wanted for theft. She shivered. The teller was speaking to her in a confiding tone. “...lot of money. Our manager can advise...don’t hesitate to call…” “Thank you.” Cody shoveled her deposit book into her bag. “I certainly shall. You’ve been most helpful.” Bestowing her best school-photo smile on him, she escaped. “A hundred grand,” she muttered under her breath as she walked away from the bank. Now what?

Chapter Two Seven thousand miles away, Annabel Worth was burying her aunt Annie. It was a small private ceremony and she was one of a handful of mourners who tossed roses onto the coffin as it was lowered. Glancing about, she recognized a couple of distant cousins and several tearful older women, friends of her aunt’s. Annabel’s parents were represented by a lavish wreath in the shape of a cross, the closest they could come to having the last word, she guessed cynically. Her aunt would have hated it, pagan that she was. When the prayers were over, Annabel slowly approached the edge of the grave, her black Bally heels sinking into the soft lawn. People were drifting away in twos and threes, probably returning to their hotels to prepare for the discreet gathering later in the day. The sun seemed indecently bright. Annie would never see it again, her niece thought sadly. She took a handful of earth and released it onto the gleaming coffin, staring down at her own reflection mirrored across the ebony surface. She wished she had spent more time with Annie recently, but work had been hell and she had allowed the weeks to trickle by, not realizing how quickly her

aunt would fail. Annie had left her home in the South Pacific a few months ago to spend the rest of her borrowed time in her San Francisco apartment. Annabel had flown out from Boston when she first arrived, and she had seemed well, if a little thin. Typically proud, Annie had avoided telling anyone how ill she was for as long as possible. Four weeks ago, Annabel and her mother visited her once more, and everyone had seemed confident she still had months. They had been profoundly shocked when her doctor called just last week, telling them she was critically ill. Cancer could suddenly accelerate, a woman from the hospice had said. Annie had died while Annabel was still on the red-eye, trying to reach San Francisco in time to kiss her goodbye. Holding back tears, she pushed a clod of earth into the grave with her foot. It made a soft, distinctive thud. “Miss Worth?” A voice behind her made her turn quickly. She was faced by a short, perspiring young man who thrust a damp business card at her. “Jessup. Bryan Jessup of Swain, Buddle & Jessup,” he told her. “Walter Jessup’s my father,” he added, as though that explained everything. Disconcerted, Annabel retreated from the grave’s edge. “I take it you are a lawyer.” What other

professional would collar the bereaved before the coffin was even fully lowered? “We are,” her companion confirmed loftily. Annabel waited. He just stood there staring, as though confronted with a rare zoo specimen. She finally prompted, “What may I do for you, Mr. Jessup?” “Yes… excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “We wrote after your aunt passed, God rest her soul. I imagine you did not receive our letter before leaving Boston.” “You imagine correctly.” “Please forgive this intrusion in your hour of… er. We thought we might catch you here before you left town, you see. To arrange an appointment.” “An appointment?” What on earth did Swain and so forth want with her? “To discuss your aunt’s affairs,” Jessup added. Annabel raised an eyebrow. Her aunt’s affairs. Now that would make for interesting conversation. But not with a sweaty young California lawyer. “You mean before her will is read? I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Jessup,” she said in dignified old Boston. It produced immediate results. “Of course.” He mopped his forehead. “Allow me to offer our sincere condolences, Miss Worth. Your aunt’s

untimely death must have come as a great shock.” He glanced past her toward the grave with obvious discomfort. “You will be aware that you are named in her will of course. But for certain reasons it is desirable that we—” Annabel cut him off. “Is it really necessary to have this conversation now?” Jessup, Jr. blinked, apparently accustomed to getting a warm reception from eager relatives salivating over the prospect of a fat inheritance. “Your late aunt left specific instructions that we were to contact you immediately,” he said with a hint of chagrin. “We have a letter from her for your eyes only. My father felt it was important to make you aware of this as soon as we could.” “I see.” “Might I er… walk you to your car or drive you somewhere?” Annabel hesitated. “The latter works for me,” she said, glancing along a meandering pathway to the funeral director’s limousine in which she had arrived. Returning to Russian Hill in its grim luxury was a ride she would gladly pass up. Obviously thrilled to have scored this coup with a client he wanted to impress, the young attorney led the

way to a silver Porsche and opened the door with a flourish. He attempted to assist her in, but Annabel was an expert at avoiding eager hands. She was yet to meet a man who did not behave like a complete fool around her, staring as if he’d never seen a blonde in a country that had cornered the world peroxide market. People had stared at her all her life, some even assuming they had the right to touch her as one would a curiosity on a store shelf. She had never really grown accustomed to it and for years had loathed her appearance, her paper-white skin, her peculiar pinkyblue eyes, and the hair that was blonder than Barbie’s. Other girls paraded about in bikinis— she wore a sundress. With sleeves. Other girls could wear makeup. Against Annabel’s albino complexion it looked as stark as paint. Her painful self-consciousness had never quite vanished, even after she’d ‘successfully’ married. What a dismal mistake that had been. How naive she’d been back then, she thought cynically. After avoiding males throughout high school and college, she had finally met Toby Simpson, a new employee of her father’s. Clever, polished, ambitious Toby. Desperate to feel normal and approved of, Annabel—with a little prompting from her mother—had

convinced herself she needed a husband and had accepted Toby’s convenient proposal. The marriage lasted only six months, and she slunk out of it even less confident in herself than before. That had been nearly ten years ago, and she was no longer a wimp. But men still stared, and to her profound irritation, she was still unnerved by it. The last thing she felt like today, of all days, was trying to keep her closefitting black silk skirt over her knees while Jessup, Jr. drove her all over San Francisco. Settling into the black upholstery with an edge of irritation, she said, “I’m staying at my aunt’s apartment in Russian Hill.” “No problem. I know the address.” He gunned the motor for her benefit, then seemed to remember where they were. Mumbling something apologetic, he cruised through the cemetery with a display of reverence. Annabel stared out the window. Tall trees and manmade lakes formed a sylvan backdrop for manicured lawns that seemed unnaturally green and shrubs that were too neat for nature. Flowers punctuated this serene vista with shameless bursts of color. Each orderly row of monuments they passed made the reality of Annie’s death sink in deeper. It was so unfair, Annabel thought numbly. She was only in her sixties—a

good and decent person. With all the scumbags there were to choose from, why had the Grim Reaper taken her? Feeling tears threaten, she shifted her attention to the street. Colma, otherwise known as “the city of souls,” was a necropolis, not a metropolis. Instead of fast food and fashion stores, the main route was lined with florists, tombstone engravers and ‘funeral shoppes.’ Home to over a million dead and a mere 1,500 living, the town greeted visitors with a sign that warned It is unlawful to drive through any funeral procession. This was where San Francisco had relocated its dead half a century earlier. Annabel was surprised that Annie had chosen to be buried here and not in the islands she loved so much. Most people wanted to come home in the end, she supposed. “Did you know my aunt?” she asked Jessup, Jr. after some particularly flashy driving. They were on the freeway now and he was bent on showing her how a real man handles a sports car. “I had the pleasure of delivering documents to her on many occasions,” he said, cutting off a guy in a Pontiac Firebird. “A very colorful lady, if I may say so. And kind.” “Yes, she was,” Annabel said quietly. “I’m going to

miss her very much.” The guy in the Firebird pulled alongside and Jessup stepped on the gas. Great, Annabel thought. I’m going

to be killed on my way back from a funeral. Jessup glanced at her sideways like a puppy that had just eaten your favorite Manolos and expected praise for his feat. What the heck, she decided. Life wasn’t that great anyway. Producing her toothiest smile, she said, “Wow, this thing really kicks ass.” Which was all the encouragement he needed.

Chapter Three At the appointed time the next morning, an entire herd of attorneys were gathered in the overstated luxury of a Swain, Buddle & Jessup conference room, all on her account. Her new best friend Jessup, Jr. flashed her a conspiratorial grin and introduced her to his colleagues. Buddle was short and solid like a pit bull. Annabel could easily imagine him in court reducing some teenage rape victim to tears. Swain was clearly miscast as a lawyer—a Harvard Med School reject, she decided. Someone called Zimmerman, who looked like Rambo in a suit, mauled his fountain pen as if it were a wrist iron. There were several others whose names she immediately forgot and a complete absence of women. Jessup, Sr. was a walking advertisement for hair transplants. “We’re so pleased you could join us, Miss Worth,” he began in a voice like glucose. “Ms.,” Annabel said coolly. Did they all have nothing to do or was there a reason for this over-attended conference? He recovered quickly. “Ms. Worth.” A slight bow in her direction. “Thank you for coming in at this difficult

time.” Everyone stared and Annabel resisted the urge to stretch her skirt further over her knees. She crossed her ankles instead and twisted her heavy gold signet ring. “There are a number of matters we will need to discuss with you pertaining to your late aunt’s assets,” Jessup intoned. “Being her principal beneficiary —apart from a handful of legacies to friends and charities…” He waved a dismissive hand as though these stood for nothing. “There will be questions you wish to ask us at this juncture, I’m sure.” Annabel frowned. They were acting as if the terms of her aunt’s will were old news to her. It hadn’t even been formally read yet. She had assumed Annie would leave her something. Her mother had mentioned the Russian Hill apartment. But she had no idea she would be left everything. “As you are no doubt aware, your aunt’s estate is considerable—in fact, the largest estate our firm is handling.” Walter Jessup coughed politely. The partners nodded and licked their lips. Zimmerman inched forward in his seat and worked his legs as though jogging on the spot. Annabel raised a hand. “Forgive me, I’m not really

familiar with my aunt’s business affairs. It’s not something we discussed.” At that the room broke up into murmurs and everyone stared again, eyes glinting, like large rats sizing up their next meal. “I don’t think she knows,” Buddle whispered audibly to Jessup. “You are Miss...Ms. Annabel Worth of Back Bay, Boston?” Jessup confirmed belatedly. Annabel nodded and smoothed a wayward strand of hair back into its French plait. “Then we have very good news for you,” he declared with the smug paternalism endemic to his profession. * Two hours later Annabel dragged off her clothes and collapsed onto her bed. She still couldn’t believe it. Aunt Annie had left her everything; and everything was, as Buddle had so succinctly put it, “one helluva lot for a little lady to manage on her own.” Not only did her aunt own the Russian Hill apartment, but her home in the Cook Islands was not just the villa Annabel had so often heard her speak of, but the entire island on which it was located. Annie had also

amassed a fortune in stocks and commercial real estate that was almost embarrassing to contemplate. Her bohemian ways had masked a remarkably astute business brain. Not for the first time Annabel was aware how little she actually knew about her aunt. The details of her life had always seemed vague. Her mother’s younger sister, she was invariably spoken of with polite exasperation. Annabel had come to accept that Annie was somehow an embarrassment to the family. That she was a lesbian was one thing. But it seemed Annie also had a past—one that was supposed to remain well buried. As she had prepared to leave the attorneys that morning, Walter Jessup produced two sealed envelopes. “Your aunt left these,” he explained, with an air of ceremony. “One is for you.” He passed her a pale lavender envelope. “The other is for someone called Lucy.” He studied Annabel’s face for a moment. “Can you recall a lady who goes by that name, a friend of your aunt’s, or perhaps a maid?” “I don’t think so.” “It seems your aunt expects this ‘Lucy ’ to present herself here to claim the letter.”

Annabel wracked her brain. “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone.” “In that case we will need to make inquiries. Miss Adams gave us no other information.” He slid the envelope back into his breast pocket with a resigned air and escorted Annabel to the elevator. “If we are unable to trace this woman we will seek your instructions, Ms. Worth.” Whatever had possessed her aunt to deal with the likes of Jessup and his firm was a mystery. They seemed to have been time warped from the fifties and did not have a single female partner. The thought of leaving everything in their hands was scary, but Annie’s instructions were very clear. They were to be retained, period. Baffled, Annabel propped a couple of pillows behind her and tore open the letter Jessup had given her. She read it once quickly then again very slowly. It was dated three months earlier, shortly after Annie had arrived in San Francisco.

My Dear Annabel, By the time you read this, I will no doubt have met my maker and you will be wondering why you are my sole heir. As I write, my body is exhausted from that

wretched chemotherapy and I know I have little time. For many years I have wanted to discuss with you certain matters of importance, but it now seems I haven’t the strength. The answers can be found on Moon Island. Please go there as soon as you can and you will understand. I wish you a happy life, my dear girl. Know that I have always loved you. Annie

Chapter Four “Moon Island,” Cody repeated. The travel agent stabbed a long red nail at a dot on her map. “Gorgeous,” she breathed. “Totally private. Just five houses on the whole place, and they’re leased out only to women.” She paused a little uncertainly then half-whispered, “An eccentricity of the owner’s, I gather. Something to do with native customs…” She trailed off, doubtless noting Cody’s eyes widen. “Women only. Amazing.” Cody stifled a cough. The agent’s cloying perfume was giving her heartburn. “Don’t let that put you off.” The agent did her best to look enthusiastic. “It’s the perfect place to get away from it all, kind of a retreat. Most of my clients adore it. Why, just last week a lady dropped in to tell me she found it absolutely fabulous and didn’t miss men a bit!” “Imagine that,” Cody said, deadpan. “As a matter of fact it sounds ideal—just what I’m looking for.” “You won’t regret it.” The red fingernails fluttered over a reservation slip. “Expensive, but then in this business I always say you get what you pay for. Now, how many days was that?” “A month,” Cody said, producing her wallet and extracting a wad of notes. “And that’s cash.”

“Cash?” The agent froze, slightly bemused. “Cash money?” she squeaked as though she’d never seen the folding stuff. Cody pushed the notes across the desk and watched her count them. Earlier that day the bank had been pretty astounded, too. “You want to close your account and withdraw the full balance?” The teller had disappeared to get the floor manager, a grim-faced woman wearing a frilly shirt and a scarf covered in bank logos. She escorted Cody into a private office where she explained it would take a little time to prepare such an amount. Was Cody sure she wanted it all at once? “I’m leaving the country,” Cody told her. The woman smiled glacially. “We could prepare some travelers checks for you, Ms. Stanton,” she offered. “In a hard currency. It would be much safer.” “Thank you, but I’d rather just have the cash.” Travelers checks were too easily traced. “If you could let me have some in US dollars that would be handy.” The manager had eyed her with an expression close to pity. Poor creature, it said. She obviously had no idea, and traveling overseas, too, God help her. Cody was told to return in an hour when the bank would

provide her with the cash in a combination-locked briefcase with an optional wrist chain. Wearing a martyred expression, the woman escorted her out. Soon after, briefcase in hand, Cody marched into the nearest travel agency with no idea where she should go. Somewhere very private, she had told the perfumed agent, somewhere obscure, inaccessible and beautiful. “Somewhere like New Zealand?” the agent joked, and for a moment, Cody actually considered the possibility. She could take a ferry to the South Island and vanish into the wilds of the West Coast, hole up in some gold-mining town along with every other criminal escaping a police dragnet. She could change her name and become a guide on the whale-spotting boats in Kaikoura. No, she decided, New Zealand was too small. Sooner or later she would phone home in a moment of weakness, or worse, bang into someone she knew and…curtains! They’d be onto her. The sooner she left, the better. And on a one-way ticket so no one would know her ultimate destination. She had already given notice at her flat. All she needed to do now was say goodbye to her mom and she could camp at Janet’s place until she left.

* “You’re going where and you want me to do what!” Cody’s best friend Janet stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses. “I’m leaving New Zealand,” Cody said. “I’ll be staying on an island near Rarotonga. After that I’ll probably head to London and pick up a job.” “I can’t believe you’ve let your apartment go. What if you change your mind and want to come back?” “You’ve got a decent sofa,” Cody responded with a cheeky smile. She could tell Janet was concerned about her frame of mind. In a reassuring voice, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m okay. I promise I’ll call you when I can.” Janet looked unconvinced. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” Cody tried for an innocent expression, but Janet knew her too well. “Well, there is something,” she conceded. “But I can’t talk about it right now. When I can, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?” “Are you seeing someone? Are you meeting her on this island or something?” “No! Trust me, I won’t be seeing anyone for a long

time if I can help it,” Cody said emphatically. She shoved the bank’s black briefcase across the floor. “Can you do me a favor and mind this while I’m away? And please don’t tell anyone where I’m going. No one at all. It’s important.” Janet pushed a stray brown curl out of her eyes and examined the locked bag with a dubious expression. “Looks like Fort Knox. What’s in it?” “Personal stuff,” Cody told her blandly. “Important papers, will and so on.” That at least was true, she thought with a pang of guilt. There was also eighty thousand dollars in there, but she figured what Janet didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Her friend squeezed her shoulders in a hug. “I know you’re upset at the moment about breaking up with Margaret and losing your job and everything. But you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” Cody leaned against her and released a deep sigh. She felt like pouring out the whole story—what had really happened with Margaret, her job, the money, her escape plan—how everything felt very scary now that she was leaving tomorrow. Instead she said throatily, “I’m going to miss you like anything.” That was the truth. Janet was the kind of friend everyone hoped for. She was loyal, fun, and

always there. Lovers could come and go, but Janet still made the best guacamole in town. If only Cody had listened years ago when Janet voiced doubts about Margaret. Actually she’d voiced more than doubts. Janet had taken an instant dislike to Cody’s new lover and made no bones about it. Cody had gotten defensive and stormed off in a huff. For a year or so a rift remained between them, until one day Margaret let slip a negative comment about Janet that got Cody thinking. She became aware all of a sudden that in a myriad of ways, Margaret had subtly manipulated the situation to ensure Cody and Janet would not patch things up. Even now she could not put her finger on exactly how her ex had done it, but that was Margaret’s stock in trade. The people she screwed over were always convinced she meant well. “I’ll miss you too,” Janet said. “You are coming back though, aren’t you?” Her puppy-sad brown eyes combed Cody’s face, searching for more than she could reveal right now. “Of course I’m coming back,” Cody promised, and hoped it was true. *

“You’re doing what!” Nathaniel Kleist glowered at the tall blonde woman sitting opposite him. “It’s all there in writing, Nat.” Annabel referred him to the single typed sheet on his blotter. “I can read,” he grunted, brushing the letter aside like a dead bug. “But I’m asking you what you’re really doing? I mean, for God’s sake, Annabel, you’re my best trader. If it’s more money you’re after, in Jesus’s sweet name ask! If you don’t like your new secretary just say so and I’ll buy you another one.” He was on his feet, pacing the huge art-filled office like a caged bear. Drama queen—they’d invented the term for Nat. “Nat,” Annabel said with an air of finality. “My contract’s up and I’m not coming back. For personal reasons. That’s it. End of story.” “Personal reasons.” He clutched his forehead and leaned heavily against his hand-painted Italian blinds. Fixing Annabel with an accusing look, he said, “It’s New York, isn’t it? What are they offering?” Annabel got to her feet. “Enough!” She started toward the door. “I’ll better it.” He rushed after her. “I’ll double it …Annabel don’t do this to me.” “For chrissakes Nat!” Annabel raised her voice. “I’m

leaving. I’m giving up trading. There’s no New York, no headhunters. I’ve resigned. Period.” “It’s a man.” He leaned against the door to prevent her opening it and grinned at her indulgently. “Why didn’t you say so? You wanna stay home and keep his slippers warm. Hey, not a problem… we can hook you up, screen in the bedroom if you like… you name it, sweetheart. Work from home.” Annabel sighed. “That’s very generous. But it’s not a man. It’s something far more interesting.” “It is?” Nat frowned, clearly puzzled at the idea. “If you must know, I’ve inherited a Pacific island,” she enlightened him reluctantly. “And I’ve decided to go live there for a while.” “An island. As in Robinson Crusoe?” Nat pulled the door open, his face a study in wan disbelief. “There are amenities,” Annabel said dryly. He shook his head in bewilderment. As Annabel stepped past him, she heard him mutter, “Cracked. Burnt out, poor kid.”

Chapter Five The heat hit her like a blast furnace, and Cody automatically started fanning herself with the unread paperback she had nursed for most of her five-hour flight. Trooping across the tarmac with a cluster of well-fed tourists in baggy pink shorts and florid cotton tops, she felt conspicuous in jeans and a long-sleeved checked shirt. It had been freezing when she left New Zealand. This is the tropics, she reminded herself belatedly, where civil servants let it all hang out and honeymoon couples travel on group discount. She paused at the customs entrance while round-faced local women dropped sweet-smelling garlands over the heads of each passenger. A crew-cut German ordered his wife to photograph him with an arm around a voluptuous island woman. He could barely drag his eyes from her breasts to say the German version of cheese. Cody flinched at the spectacle. Customs and Immigration was a cursory affair. Name, destination, rubber stamp, have a nice day, next! They didn’t bother with visas on the Cook Islands. You stayed thirty-one days, longer if you could pay. Various bellhops and touts waving hotel signs

clustered at the main exit, and Cody struggled to remember her travel agent’s instructions. The tourists were dispersing, herded into all manner of transport including an extraordinary number of Subarus. Stragglers like Cody fiddled with their luggage, looked at their watches and thumbed through their itineraries. Cody was supposed to find a man waving a sign saying MOON ISLAND. “Don’t worry if he’s late,” the agent had said. “Time doesn’t mean much where you’re headed.” Heat shimmered off the road and Cody’s pores oozed in sympathy. She wished she could just strip off her clothes and lie under a tree somewhere. Back home in Wellington, a hot day was when you had to take off your sweatshirt and even then you’d stash it in your car just in case. On record as the windiest city in the world, Wellington was notorious for its rapid weather shifts — one minute warm and balmy, the next a hailstorm. Its population, fancying themselves politically sensitive, tried to keep quiet about welcoming the Greenhouse Effect. But some optimists were already planting banana palms. Cody wondered when she would see the place again. It felt weird having bought a one-way ticket out. How would she know when it was safe to return? She’d

probably be picked up by Customs the second she got off the plane. She marveled that they hadn’t found her already. Rarotonga was, after all, a New Zealand territory. Stretching limbs stiff from travel, she rolled up her sleeves and popped a couple of buttons at her neck. Her head was aching and sweat had plastered her hair to her brow. With tired fingers she smoothed the short, damp strands back off her forehead. “Ms. Stanton?” A man’s voice. Cody swung around. The first thing she saw was a battered hand-painted sign that read MOON ISLAND, the second was a tall woman standing a few paces beyond it. She had dead straight white-blonde hair caught back in a fluorescent pink band, and skin so pale that Cody found herself gaping dumbly. An albino. She must be an albino. Don’t stare, she ordered herself the way mothers reprimand children for pointing at cripples. “The name’s Mitchell.” The voice came closer. It sounded very British. “Bevan Mitchell. I’m your pilot.” Cody refocused blankly on the sign and the man tucking it under one arm. He wore light cotton fatigues and a dilapidated straw hat. A cigarette drooped from a permanent groove in his bottom lip and a pair of

aviator sunglasses swung from his breast pocket. “My pilot?” Cody repeated, subconsciously looking for a uniform. “These your bags?” He picked them up before she could answer. “Follow me.” Cody looked back across his shoulder. The woman had gone, she noted with a faint shock of disappointment. Perhaps she was never really there at all, but was a ghost or mere figment of her imagination brought on by a lethal combination of heat and stress. Assailed with doubt, she stumbled after the man. It was not too late. She could say she’d changed her mind, pay the cancellation fee, book herself on the next flight back home. As they skirted the terminal, she saw a police officer strolling purposefully toward the entrance and lowered her head. “We’re over here,” the pilot said, waving vaguely at a group of hangars. Cody followed him across an expanse of tarmac, moisture gathering in the small of her back. Her clothing felt wet, clinging everywhere it connected with flesh. The acrid smell of jet fuel mixed with hot tar and ripe fruit in the shiftless air. Dumbstruck, she halted next to a crate of pineapples a few yards from their transport.

The plane was a four-seater twin-engine job. Postwar, but not by much. Cody shuddered at the sight of its delicately strutted wings with their thin silvery fabric cover. They were probably due to crumple from metal fatigue at any moment. Filled with gloom, she watched as the pilot stowed the fruit and her bags, and the body of the little biplane rattled and quivered. Checking the propellers he called to her, “In you get, old girl.” “Crime doesn’t pay,” Cody muttered and heaved herself up into the tiniest cabin she had ever seen. The interior was a battered shell crammed with parcels and boxes. She occupied one of two dwarfsized bucket seats in the back and wondered where to put her legs. A crate of bananas occupied the floor between her seat and the pilot’s. Gingerly she squeezed her feet down one side and twisted sideways in the rock-hard seat. “Watch your head,” she heard a moment later, and a second passenger appeared. Astonished, Cody changed position to create more room. It was her. The ghost. Don’t stare. She quickly looked elsewhere. The pilot secured the hatch and took his seat, instructing, “Belt up, ladies.”

Cody groped for the ancient straps. It seemed a pointless precaution given the circumstances. They were probably going to be killed anyway, that’s if they ever got off the ground. “Here, let me.” A pair of hands interrupted her fumbling, clicked the belt shut and adjusted the strap length to fit snugly across her lap. Cody blushed at the bizarre intimacy of the action. It was totally innocent, of course, a helpful gesture on the part of a more experienced passenger. Her whole body tensed nonetheless. “Thanks,” she blurted with a nervous laugh. “Have you flown much in smaller airplanes?” the ghost asked her conversationally. It was a low, slightly husky voice, with an accent that sounded American but hinted at England. She would sing divinely, Cody decided, trying not to be weirdly fascinated by her looks. “As a matter of fact, this is my first time,” she admitted. “Really?” The stranger took off her dark glasses and blinked into the harsh glare beyond the plane. The light made her pupils shrink, revealing irises of a pale lavender hue that seemed quite unreal. “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” she added lightly. “And if memory serves me, it will probably turn out to be an

anticlimax.” Cody felt her pulse leap. It was innuendo. No, it was nothing. She was confused. The cockpit was hot and airless, cramped and sticky. She’d recently broken up with her lover. She was sexually frustrated. She looked up and met the woman’s eyes, struck all over again by their extraordinary lavender color, a subtle hint of pink beneath the irises. Now you see it, now you don’t. Her eyebrows and lashes were dark, no doubt thanks to a beautician, she decided. They were a shock against her absolute fairness, drawing attention to those astonishing eyes. And what was that perfume? It was like nothing Cody had ever smelled, warm and delicious, a hint of vanilla and something else, one of those heady tropical flowers. They were sitting so close it was almost impossible to avoid breathing her in. Distracted, Cody wriggled in her seat. “Are you nervous?” she was asked very softly. “I guess I am.” Again their eyes met but Cody dropped hers quickly, startled at what appeared to be a very definite bedroom stare. The engines roared, or more accurately, coughed into life, and their pilot screwed around to them with a cheerful grin. “Tally ho! Hold on to your hats, girls.”

The din was awesome, the fumes nauseating.

Breathe, Cody told herself as they bounced and spluttered up the runway. Her teeth chattered and her stomach lurched. This was madness, she decided as they gathered speed. She wished she could just give the money back and slink home. What on earth had possessed her to trade her nice safe routine existence for a life of crime? She could easily have found another job, and given time, she would get over Margaret. It’s not as if she still loved her. How could you love a woman who had treated you so badly? Cody could almost hear her mother, One day you’re

going to regret your impulsiveness, my girl, and I hope I’m there to see it. Look at me now, she wanted to shout. Instead she stole a peep through the murky little window beside her and gasped, “We’re up in the air!” The other occupants seemed entertained by this. “God’s running a special on miracles this week,” Bevan Mitchell called over his shoulder, and it was as though the little De Havilland relaxed all of a sudden, completely at home in the wide sky. The shuddering died down, and the dull thud of the propellers sounded reassuringly constant as they lolloped away from

Rarotonga. After sufficient time had elapsed for Cody to recover from the “anticlimax” of take-off, her companion struck up conversation, asking “Have you been to the Cook Islands before?” Cody shook her head. “Have you?” “I arrived last week. It’s my first time here.” The ghost slipped on her dark glasses once more, and Cody was ashamed to feel relief. Those lavender eyes were way too unnerving. “My name is Annabel, by the way. Annabel Worth.” “I’m Cody Stanton.” “Cody?” Annabel rolled the name about experimentally and Cody imagined hearing her whisper it, cry it as they… Shocked, she banished the image. Shame on you. Her mother’s voice. And your sheets still warm from Margaret. “Cody, short for Cordelia,” she explained, clearing her throat and dragging her attention away from the woman’s mouth. “It suits you —the Cody form that is. So many names seem to be mismatches.” “I think you look like an Annabel.” “It’s funny, it never felt quite right to me when I was a

child. But I suppose one grows accustomed to things.” “I never grew accustomed to Cordelia.” Annabel laughed. “I guess you wouldn’t.” What exactly did that mean? Cody wondered. Was Annabel letting her know she’d been spotted? Or was she just making conversation to pass the time? “How far is Moon Island?” “It’s about an hour and a half from here. If you want to sleep, I’ll wake you when we get closer.” “Maybe I will,” Cody said, knowing it was highly unlikely with this woman’s warm fragrant body jammed against hers. All the same, she didn’t want her companion feeling obliged to continue small talk that was probably boring her to death. Closing her eyes, she turned slightly onto her side and made a show of dozing off. To her astonishment she really was asleep when she felt a hand brush her arm much later. “Look.” Annabel pointed past their pilot. “There it is. Moon Island.” Across a hazy expanse of blue, Cody made out a steamy dark green blob banded with cream. Encircling it, the ocean pooled pale, bright turquoise. The travel agent wasn’t kidding—Moon Island really was in the middle of nowhere. Her stomach lurched yet again as

the tiny plane abruptly dropped a few hundred feet. “Sorry about that,” Bevan said cheerfully. “Just testing her reflexes.” “I think we can survive without the aerobatics,” Annabel said with a familiarity that caused Cody’s brow to pucker slightly. These two obviously weren’t strangers, she concluded with a slight knot in her stomach. Were they lovers? She stole a look at Annabel and almost protested out loud at the idea. Irrational, of course. It was nothing to do with her whom this woman slept with. How typical. The first woman she’s fancied since the Margaret drama turns out to be straight. Very convenient. It was so much safer to lust after the unattainable. Swallowing a sigh, she peered boldly out her window as the plane banked to the right. The sea looked close, Van Gogh blue, and suitably sharkinfested. The island ahead seemed almost miragelike, rising sweetly out of the ocean like a glimpse of paradise. As they drew closer, Cody saw the glow of a coral reef beneath the water, a white beach curving around a thatch of palm trees. It was beautiful, breathtaking. Suddenly a reckless optimism chased the negative thoughts from her head. If such a place

could exist on the same earth as cold, windy Wellington, surely anything was possible. Bevan’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “We’re coming in now.” They promptly lurched into a steep nosedive, and the shuddering and rattling started all over again. “Don’t worry,” Annabel told her. “I do this most days and I’m still alive.” Cody tried to smile but her teeth were clenched. Willing herself not to faint, she clasped her hands together and refused to permit her life to flash before her. If she was about to be killed, she wanted at least to think about something cheerful. “We’re nearly there,” the soft voice said. “That’s Passion Bay below us.” Cody felt warm breath on her cheek, smelled that impossible fragrance. She braved a peek past the pilot. Palm trees. All she could see were palm trees. The plane seemed to stall then, dropping out of the sky like a slaughtered bird. “Oh, God,” she whispered, falling back on the patriarchy now that the chips were down. There was a pronounced thud, and she clutched her seat as they swayed and jolted to a merciful standstill. As soon as Bevan Mitchell gave the okay, Annabel

was out of her seat. She opened the hatch and sprang lithely to the ground. But Cody’s legs were trembling so much she didn’t think she could move. Pretending to fumble in her satchel, she drew a few deep breaths and waited for her shattered nerves to regroup. After what seemed an embarrassingly long pause, she managed to disembark. “So...” Annabel turned, hands on hips, and smiled full blast. “How was that for you?” Leaning back against a wing, Cody managed not to blush. More innuendo. Was it lesbian innuendo or mere wishful thinking on her part? Maybe Annabel and the pilot were not lovers after all. Maybe they were just friends. But Annabel could still be straight. She was probably married. Married and bored. Cody sized her up. She wore a pale pink longsleeved T-shirt and baggy knee-length white shorts. Her body was athletic, muscles clearly defined. Aerobics, Cody decided; her face was free of that slightly harassed expression joggers wore. She was waiting for a reply and Cody wondered what her eyes were asking behind those all-concealing lenses. “For me?” Cody very deliberately ran her tongue across her lips and casually flicked open the next few buttons of her shirt. “I guess you could say the

earth moved.” Grinning, she imagined the stranger naked, hot; imagined sliding against her, stroking her hair. This time she let herself fantasize.

Chapter Six Monday. I am tired. Unbelievably tired. It breaks my heart to say goodbye to my beautiful island. I planted another hibiscus near Rebecca’s mango tree this morning and made my farewells. My body aches. I cannot endure another needle. They tell me I’m a fool to refuse further treatment but I’ll swear it’s worse than the disease. I can’t turn away their pain relief, though. Since it went into my bones I simply can’t imagine how a person does without the drugs. Last night I dreamed of Rebecca, dreamed she was holding me again. I am nearly ready to leave and still I have not written to Annabel… Guiltily Annabel snapped her aunt’s diary closed. The answer is on the island, the letter had said. Surely she didn’t have to invade her aunt’s privacy, snoop about among the most intimate details of another woman’s life to uncover it. Was that what Aunt Annie had intended? For a moment Annabel imagined someone else in her shoes, some cousin who had barely known Annie.

What would they make of the diaries? Over thirty years worth piled into boxes in her aunt’s attic study. And the letters! Bundle after bundle, tied with thin ribbon and stuffed into the window seat. The house itself was wonderful, a large sprawling timber construction, built around a central garden-filled courtyard and skirted by deep shady verandahs. Its name was Villa Luna and Annabel had loved it at first sight. It was built on the highest northwestern aspect of the island and looked out across jungle and palms to the huge blue of the Pacific. Set above a belt of stately mango trees, it was screened from ocean winds and the curiosity of the rare passers-by who might walk the beach below. Exploring the property, Annabel had been amazed and delighted at how immediately at home she felt there, how oddly familiar it all seemed. It was as though she belonged, as if in some strange way the island had been waiting for her. Behind the villa was a grassy glade and a stable housing a single black mare. Aunt Annie had adored horses and Kahlo, as the mare was called, had arrived by ferry only last year after her predecessor had died of old age. I’m too weak to ride her now , Annie had noted in her diary, but I can watch her run and keep

her company. According to Mrs. Marsters, who kept house for the island several days a week, the mare was often tethered to the verandah and Annie would sit reading and writing, periodically talking to her like a friend. During her first week on the island, Annabel had gradually befriended the elegant creature, and today for the first time she saddled her up. Kahlo shied a little initially, then whickered her acceptance as Annabel climbed into the saddle and gently guided her toward the jungle tracks. Soon she was behaving as though she had never known another rider. Her tail lifted, she pricked up her ears, stretched her pace, and responded to Annabel’s commands like a showjumper. They negotiated a path down through the mangos to Passion Bay and trotted along the beach. Whinnying at the sight of water, Kahlo strained at the reins, plainly thrilled by the change of scenery. Careful not to overtire the horse after her more sedentary existence, Annabel did not allow her to gallop. Later in the afternoon she tethered her to the front verandah and was gratified when the mare approached and contentedly nuzzled her lap while she read. The diary was written over thirty years ago.

Father is at me again to marry Roger and even Laura is hounding me. I just don’t know what to do. I’ve told Rebecca that I must see her and begged her to come with me this summer. She says I cannot dither any longer and I must put poor Roger out of his misery, but he refuses to listen. What can I do? Three weeks later another passage:

Oh joy! Oh bliss. Rebecca is coming with me to Europe. Last night we sat for hours in her car just talking and Rebecca gave me this little ring with a diamond horseshoe set in it for luck. I can hardly concentrate for thinking about her, imagining her on some Greek Island, wearing only flowers. Annabel closed her eyes and stroked Kahlo absently. She had known Annie was a lesbian, her mother’s scandalous younger sister, the family skeleton in the closet. But who was Rebecca? Her aunt had never mentioned her. Yet obviously they had been in love, perhaps even lovers. Way back in the nineteensixties. She sipped her iced tea and lapsed for a moment

into her own private fantasy centered around the woman on the plane yesterday. Cody. Short for Cordelia. Annabel called to mind her deep, lazy accent. Australian-sounding, only softer. I lahve swemming, she’d said, looking down at the sea. And Annabel remembered; New Zealand was an island, too. She had seemed shy, dropping her eyes whenever Annabel looked at her. Did she find her appearance repulsive? She wouldn’t be the first. Annabel felt the same sharp pang she’d experienced all through adolescence. She could have sworn she sensed genuine interest and had flirted lightly to test the water. Cody had responded—she hadn’t imagined that. Cody was in Hibiscus Villa, the house nearest hers. Peering east past the mangos, Annabel made out the pattern of a thatched roof nestled among the palms. Perhaps she would call by tomorrow on some pretext. Maybe invite her to dinner. She conjured a vision of Cody sitting on her verandah, smoothing back that dark, cropped hair with the same appealing gesture that had caught her eye at the airport. Annabel tried to recall when she had last made love. Months ago, maybe longer. She could barely

remember. She had neither the time nor the energy these days of late. All of a sudden she wanted to change all that. Warm, perfumed air went straight to the groin, she concluded. * Cody pulled off her shorts and left them in a heap with her shirt, hat, and shades under a large beach umbrella. It was stupid to wear togs, she supposed, on an empty beach with no one to shock but a few gulls. But old habits die hard and Cody had never been nude bathing in her life. She poked an experimental toe into the water. It was clear and very warm. Reveling in its balmy caress, she swam out into the lagoon, conscious of the outlying coral reef and testing the currents for safety. The water was amazingly calm, totally different from the chilly surf she was used to in Wellington. It was almost too good to be true, she decided, flipping onto her back and drifting toward the shore. Back home everyone would be shivering in their woolen pants, lighting fires, and buying king-size boxes of tissues. And here she was, swanning about on a deserted island, lapping up the sun and sea on a beach called,

of all things, Passion Bay.

How did it get its name? she wondered idly, and imagined a range of highly erotic possibilities, most of them involving the woman on the plane. Annabel. Cody tested the name silently and remembered her bedroom smile, the way she had stood, hands on hips, eyeing Cody. The way she had flirted. She seemed very sophisticated, quite unlike anyone Cody knew. She thought of Margaret—small voluptuous Margaret, the life and soul of the party, the woman who could sell sand to the Arabs. Her throat tightened and she fought off a flood of memories. Damn Margaret! Cody wished she could erase every trace of her from her life, slam the door on the last five years. She wished she could forget that Margaret’s favorite color was blue, the very same blue as the sky over Passion Bay. She wished she could forget her elfin face, the dark freckles sprayed across her nose, her innocent, teasing eyes. But somehow Margaret kept seeping through the smallest cracks in her consciousness, at the very moments when Cody least expected her. Feeling the gritty swirl of sand around her feet, she turned onto her belly and hoisted herself up onto the beach, lying where the half-hearted breakers lapped

the shore. To hell with Margaret. This was her holiday and she was not about to let thoughts of her ex-lover dominate it. Margaret had done enough damage already. Willing herself to relax and empty her mind, she stood and washed herself off with sea water. This place never saw winter, she supposed, returning to her shade umbrella and flopping down on her towel. She wondered how hot it would get in January, during the peak of the South Pacific summer. Unbearable, no doubt. She picked up her book and read a few pages without really concentrating. It felt strange and very decadent not to be at work. She should have invited Janet to come on holiday with her, she thought with a pang of guilt. Cody closed her eyes and reminded herself that she was entitled to have this time alone. Besides, if Janet had come that would probably make her some kind of accessory, enjoying the proceeds of the crime. Cody’s thoughts strayed to the black briefcase in her friend’s room—of course, that implicated her as well. She closed her eyes, blocking out an image of Janet in a cell downtown with hardened criminals. The heat and the hypnotic pulse of the ocean were making her sleepy. Contentedly, she allowed herself to drift. “I hope you’re wearing a sun block,” a voice intruded

just as she felt herself nodding off. Startled, she blinked up at the speaker, shielding her eyes from the glare. It was her, this time staring down with an expression of faint concern. “You’re probably not used to this kind of heat,” she told Cody in a businesslike tone. “Although I guess you don’t need to be as careful as I do.” She wore a white pajama-style outfit in lightweight cotton, a large drooped-brim hat and dark glasses. Cody figured her skin was so fair she would burn terribly unless she protected it. If Annabel ever sported a tan, it would be compliments of that instant bronzing stuff. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.” Politely Annabel removed her sunglasses, her eyes roaming Cody with candid appreciation. “I was worried.” Cody pulled herself up to sitting position, at once conscious of her inadequate bikini top and Annabel’s steady lavender gaze. “I put cream on earlier,” she said. “And I do tan easily. But you’re right. Even with my skin I’d turn to lobster if I lay out here all afternoon.” Annabel lowered herself onto the sand next to Cody. “I plaster myself all over in factor forty. I’m always terrified I’ll miss a spot so I tend to keep my clothes on. And of course, I can only swim at night. It’s kind of

wonderful…naked in the moonlight.” Stretching languidly, she propped herself back on her hands and surveyed Cody with an expression that was hard to decipher. “How’s the water today?” “It’s divine. I love this beach. Beats a sand storm on Lyall Bay any day.” Annabel looked at her sideways. “Lyall Bay?” “A beach where I live. The place is more famous for its wind than its surf. Open your mouth and it fills up with sand.” Annabel laughed softly. It melted like caramel in the back of her throat. “Sounds like a real resort.” “It can be…when the locals aren’t tossing fish and chip wrappers all over it and letting their rottweilers practice guard duty on the swimmers.” “Lends a whole new meaning to Jaws.” Annabel’s eyes sparkled. Rolling onto her side, Cody leaned on one elbow to face her. “What line of work are you in?” Annabel didn’t answer at first. Returning her dark glasses to her face, she said, as if weighing her words, “I was in the financial sector, but I’m not working at the moment.” It sounded evasive, and Cody wondered with a quick jolt whether she had lost her job, too.

“Me, neither. I was made redundant.” “Redundant? Oh, you mean laid off.” Annabel moved closer to Cody so she was fully shaded by the umbrella, and changed position, lying flat on her back. Cody watched her fine cotton shirt settle on the outline of her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the fabric clung slightly where her skin was damp with the heat. Cody experienced a crazy urge to lean across and bite a nipple through the thin covering. Embarrassed, she looked away, suddenly tongue-tied. “What was your job?” Annabel asked. “I’m a DBA,” Cody managed to sound like she wasn’t hyperventilating. “Database Administrator. I specialize in systems security.” “Computers.” Annabel sounded dismayed. “Wonderful inventions, but—” “Who’d want to work with them?” “I don’t know how we ever lived without them. I certainly couldn’t have done my job. All the same, I can’t imagine anything worse than having to manage one for a living.” Annabel smiled quickly. “I’m sorry. I hope you’re not offended.” “Deeply,” Cody said, poker-faced. “You’ve no idea what it does to a girl’s social life to talk encryption and platform—I mean women are simply bowled over,

rendered speechless.” She sat up, brushed the sand slowly off her arms and breasts, and began to apply more lotion in long slow caresses, conscious of Annabel following her movements. Dropping her voice conspiratorially, she added. “It’s the mystique of the machine. Why do you do it, they ask…” Turning her attention to her legs, she parted them and applied cream along the insides of her thighs. “So why do you do it?” Annabel asked. “Because it’s there.” Annabel burst out laughing. “Well thank you for sharing.” Cody unfastened the back of her bikini top, dropped the bottle onto Annabel’s stomach, and asked with brazen innocence, “Would you mind doing my back?” Screened by the dark lenses, Annabel’s expression was unreadable. She sat up, squeezed some lotion into her palm, and applied it methodically to Cody’s shoulders and neck. After a moment she asked, “Seriously, though, aren’t there things you’d rather do? I mean, I know you computer people are all that stands between us and the end of the world come the millennium, but really.” Cody took a moment to respond, distracted by the sensory banquet of Annabel’s hands on her nape, her

fragrance in her nostrils, the husky softness of her voice. “I can’t think of anything right now.” She had intended to say it flippantly, but a trace of defensiveness crept into her voice. Her jobless situation made her feel self-conscious, she supposed. Annabel screwed the cap back on the lotion and wiped her hands on the towel. Facing Cody, she moistened her top lip with the tip of her tongue. “Are you sure about that?” Cody’s stomach dropped. This time she knew she was not imagining the innuendo. She had been flirting with Annabel and the other woman was returning it in kind. But then perhaps Annabel flirted with everyone, female or male. Sexual game-playing was a way of life for some women, so much so that it became unconscious. Well, two could play at that, and Cody was a free woman now. She could do what she liked. Refastening her bikini top, she returned Annabel’s steady regard. “That would depend on the offer.” A wicked smile pulled at the corners of Annabel’s mouth and she cocked her head to one side. “Tease,” she said. Her tone was one of playful invitation. If she wanted this flirtation to deepen, the door was wide open. But Cody’s boldness suddenly deserted her, and she took

refuge in a safer conversational tack. “So, how do you like the island?” For a split second Annabel did not respond. Then, with a trace of resignation, she picked up the ball. “I love it here. After Boston it’s incredibly tranquil. The air tastes really fresh and everything is so lush and tropical. Have you ever been to Boston?” “I’ve never visited the States at all,” Cody confessed. “Back home most people think it’s really dangerous. You know, crime everywhere, lunatics shooting up schools, crack babies. That’s all we get to hear about in the news.” Annabel clasped her arms around her knees. “And all I know about New Zealand is that you have the most sheep in the world.” “Three million people and seventy million sheep,” Cody said. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” Annabel laughed. It was deep, rich laughter that lingered in the warm air about them. “I guess vegetarianism is virtually a capital offense.” “No, but we’re all very biodegradable. Besides, we don’t have to eat our mutton. We sell it to the Iranians.” “You talk to the Iranians?” “No,” Cody said blandly. “We sell to them.” Both women chuckled. “Are you married?” Annabel

asked abruptly. “Good God, no!” Cody gave a graphic shudder, then felt embarrassed that she might have put her foot in it. Guardedly, she asked Annabel, “Are you?” “I was once,” Annabel said. “Years ago in my callow youth.” Cody felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Annabel was straight after all. Or was she? Heaps of lesbians had been married. “So what happened?” “I guess what didn’t happen was more the point. I was just a kid and Toby was everything my parents hoped for. I had such low self-esteem back then that I would have done nearly anything for approval.” Low self-esteem! Cody’s face must have registered her disbelief, because Annabel sounded suddenly defensive. “I know it’s probably hard for someone like you to understand. You seem so confident. I suppose you’ve never had any doubts about yourself.”

What did she mean by that? Doubts about being a lesbian? “To a certain extent that’s true,” Cody admitted. “But I wouldn’t say I’m brimming with selfesteem. Especially since…” She trailed off and deftly changed the subject. “So anyway what happened to Mr. Terrific?” “I left him after six months. Told him he deserved

better than a frigid wife.” Cody snorted. “I guess there was no question that you were the one with the problem?” Annabel shrugged. “It was the quickest way out. Besides, I’d fallen for someone, and it didn’t feel a bit like how it was with Toby.” “Do tell,” Cody prompted. “This is better than ‘Days of Our Lives.’” “It was a woman.” Annabel slowly shook her head, her tone nostalgic. “Miss Clarice Harvey, my mother’s new piano teacher. She was wonderful. Tall, clever and very pre-Raphaelite. I’d moved back home after my marriage broke up, and she used to visit once a week. After three months I asked her out.” She fell into reflective silence. Cody prompted, “Did she accept?” “Yes.” Annabel sighed. “But alas, it was a lesson in un-requited lust. She was engaged to a violinist with the Boston Symphony, and she wanted to bring him along on our date.” “Say no more.” Cody grimaced. “Did you let her?” “Of course not. But she spent the whole evening talking about him anyway. God it was a disaster! In the end I bared my soul and, as calm as you please, she said, ‘Oh my goodness you must be a lesbian.’”

Cody burst out laughing, then apologized. “Hell, I’m sorry. Talk about insensitive.” “Don’t worry about it,” Annabel said. “I’ve always aspired to comedy. Anyway, do you know anyone who has a nice straightforward coming out story?” “Well actually…” Annabel groaned. “Tell me it’s not true.” “What can I say? I just started falling in love with girls, and finally one of them loved me back.” “You never dated guys?” “A few times. Double dates mostly. But nothing serious, I mean I’ve never slept with one or anything.” “Lucky you,” Annabel muttered. “So are you in a relationship at the moment?” Cody paused. Chewing her lip, she studied the pattern on the towel. “No,” she finally responded, her throat contracting. “I was, but…” Annabel touched her arm lightly, unexpectedly, the gesture of comfort stirring a clamor of mixed emotion. “I’m sorry. When did it happen?” “Five weeks ago.” Cody cradled her head against her knees for a moment. Annabel’s fingers tightened a little. “Rough?” Cody nodded, hunching her shoulders. She wished

she didn’t feel so raw. Here she was in this beautiful place with this beautiful woman, and what was she doing? Talking about her ex. “Is that why you came to the island?” Annabel asked. She sounded tentative, as if wary of intruding. “It’s part of the reason,” Cody said huskily. “And the rest?” Annabel’s hand moved to rest cautiously on Cody’s shoulder. A small shiver of awareness snaked down Cody’s spine. Unsettled by her wayward response to Annabel’s touch, she felt awkward. “It’s kind of complicated,” she said evasively. “I’m sorry. You must think me dreadfully inquisitive. I don’t mean to be.” Her arm dropped. Cody immediately missed its weight and warmth. “It’s fine,” she said. Why couldn’t she accept Annabel’s empathy for what it was, instead of reacting sexually to her slightest touch? “I’m here if you want to talk about it,” Annabel offered. “Sometimes it’s easier with a stranger.” “That’s really nice of you,” Cody said, conscious that her tone was unenthusiastic. “Right now I don’t think I can, but thanks.” “No problem.” Annabel paused, then, as if against her better judgment, said, “Don’t give yourself a hard

time. Everyone copes differently. It’s still very fresh.” Understanding that she was trying to reach out to her on a level beyond the superficial, Cody felt both touched and embarrassed. Annabel was making an effort to relate to her, and she was backing off as fast as she could. “It’s weird,” she spoke her thoughts out loud. “I’d never consider getting back together with her. And I’m angry with myself almost as much as her over what happened. So I don’t understand why I’m not just over it. I guess I need to do some work on my grief.” Annabel grinned. “How about doing some work on your holiday instead. Have dinner with me tonight?” Cody felt her heart lurch. Dinner. “That would be great.” “Say seven o’clock?” Annabel traced a map in the sand with her finger. “My place is here,” she said, making an X. “You can’t miss it. Just cut through the mango trees and look for a gabled roof. If I’m not there when you arrive, grab a chair and help yourself to a drink.” She got to her feet and brushed herself off. “I’m flying into Rarotonga this afternoon. Do you need anything?” Conscious of a sharp sense of disappointment that she was leaving already, Cody said, “No thanks.” “Then I’ll see you later.” With a brief wave, Annabel

strolled off across the white sand.

Chapter Seven Annabel’s house was spacious and restful, not the least bit like a holiday place. It was full of books, ornaments and pictures and the wooden furniture looked old and loved. “Wow. Do you actually live here all the time?” Cody asked, taking in worn Persian rugs and huge potted palms. “No, but my aunt does… did.” “Is your aunt—” Annabel responded flatly. “She died recently.” “I’m really sorry.” Cody wondered if she should change the subject as people did when someone had died. Instead, because she wanted to know more about Annabel and her family, she asked, “Were you close?” “Yes, later in her life we were. She left me this house. Can I get you another drink?” “Just a little. Champagne goes straight to my head.” Besides, Cody noticed, Annabel had barely touched her own glass. She allowed her gaze to drift across the striking woman at the other end of the sofa. Annabel wore a white shirt tucked into faded old Levis, and her hair

was pulled back into a French plait, a mixture of casual and formal that suited her perfectly. The only jewelry she wore were a tank watch and a heavy gold signet ring. “Have you always lived in Boston?” Cody asked. The bright lavender eyes lifted. “Pretty much. I made a bid to break out when I was eighteen. I told my parents I was going to college at the University of California in Berkeley. You would have thought I’d just taken shares in Sodom and Gomorrah. Mother had a migraine for a week. Anyway my bid for freedom was short-lived and I ended up at Radcliffe where they could keep an eye on me. I was a real wimp back then. ” “I find that hard to believe,” Cody said. Annabel shrugged. “Sometimes I get frustrated when I look back at my twenties. It feels like such a waste of time. I can’t believe how stupid I was.” “Do you mean not realizing you were a lesbian sooner?” “I suppose so. And I had some issues around my appearance.” Annabel twisted her signet ring. “People tended to treat me as a curiosity—it’s hard to cope with that when you’re a kid. I thought it meant I was ugly and for a long time I allowed this to limit me. Even now,

it doesn’t matter what anyone says or how much I intellectualize it, I still get paranoid.” “But you’re stunning,” Cody blurted. “I’ve never seen anyone quite like you.” She found herself transfixed by Annabel’s perfect mouth, the hollow of her throat. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” Annabel said a little stiffly. Embarrassed, Cody dragged her attention away. “I meant what I said, Annabel. You’re beautiful. I’m… I think you’re very attractive. I mean—” Blushing, she broke off and recklessly poured herself another glass of champagne. There was only one way a conversation like this could end up. She wished suddenly that it had never begun. She hated playing games. It all seemed so farcical. Either she was going to bed with Annabel or she wasn’t. And if she wasn’t, it was time to leave —only she didn’t want to yet. Something of her confusion must have showed. In a warmer tone, Annabel said, “Well, thank you. As you can probably tell, the attraction is mutual.” With the watchfulness of a lioness, she poured yet more champagne into Cody’s glass and relaxed back in her corner. She seemed very much in control, her predatory self-assurance disquieting. After this drink

she would leave, Cody decided. She gulped another large mouthful of the rich amber-toned liquid, letting the bubbles pinprick their way into her senses. “This is great champagne,” she said, staring into her glass, suddenly engrossed in the effervescence. A warm rush weakened her legs. “My aunt kept a spectacular cellar,” Annabel said. “We’re drinking a fifty-nine Dom Pérignon.” This meant little to Cody, whose knowledge of wines was confined to choosing red instead of white for steak. But she could tell from Annabel’s tone that it must be something a bit special, so she said, “Wow.” Not exactly a suave response. To her dismay this made her giggle and she hastily set her glass down, attempting to gather her scattering wits. “Oh dear,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough.” Cody seldom drank alcohol, having learned the hard way that she made her worst mistakes after a few drinks. She thought about Margaret and how tempting it had been to head for a bar and stay there, obliterating the feelings. It’s Margaret who needs the lobotomy, not you, Janet had said. Cody wondered what time it was and whether it was too early to leave. She felt as though she’d only been with Annabel for a short while. The meal had been

wonderful and their conversation easy and comfortable. Until now. “You look tired,” Annabel interrupted her thoughts. “Would you like to lie down for a few minutes before you walk home?” Cody found herself nodding before it dawned on her that this was the oldest trick in the book, and here she was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. All the same she allowed herself to be led into a dimly lit room and guided toward a large futon bed. There were candles around the walls and their golden halos blurred and danced before her eyes. “Annabel...” she began, but a finger was placed on her lips and the other woman drew her down onto the edge of the bed. “Relax.” She slid her hand through Cody’s hair and around to massage the back of her neck. “You’re very tense,” she commented, probing the stiff tendons. Cody wished she could think of something sophisticated to say. Annabel’s fingers kneaded the tight muscles around her shoulders in a hypnotic rhythm. It felt delicious. Cody allowed an arm to drift around Annabel’s waist, turning to face her. In the haze of the candlelight, she looked soft and golden, like a goddess strayed to earth. She lifted a tentative hand to

Annabel’s cheek, then to her plait, gently loosening it. Like a web, the fine, silky hair clung to her fingers. She pulled out the pins, letting it spill down over Annabel’s shoulders. Cody was aware of her T-shirt being eased out of her jeans, of Annabel’s hands caressing her back, drawing her closer. Her stomach hollowed and goose bumps crept across her flesh where Annabel explored. She closed her eyes and her head spun. She wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t form. You’re drunk, a distant voice reminded her. Annabel lowered her onto the bed and Cody did not resist. She felt a mouth on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and savored the sensations. When her T-shirt was deftly removed, she opened her eyes and focused dazedly on her surroundings. This was not her room, she thought in a mental fog. The hands stroking her were unfamiliar. She stared up at Annabel and fell short of breath. Almost of their own accord, her muscles tensed. Annabel, this is Annabel . A woman she had only met two days ago. They were here in her room making love. This was not Margaret. Hot tears stung and her lips trembled. She pushed her hands against Annabel and elbowed herself back

into sitting position, head spinning. This was not how she wanted it to be. She wanted… she didn’t know what she wanted. “I can’t,” she stammered jerkily, covering her breasts. Annabel drew back. “Are you okay?” Cody wet her lips. Avoiding Annabel’s eyes, she lowered her head. “I just can’t do this,” she said miserably. “I’m sorry.” She moved to get off the bed, but Annabel prevented her, taking her gently but firmly into her arms. “No, I’m sorry, Cody. I was taking a lot for granted.” She cupped Cody’s cheek and gazed into her eyes. Cody could feel her shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle a sob. Somewhere inside a voice persecuted her. Fool, you want her don’t you? What’s the matter with you. Quit that whimpering. Embarrassed, she looked away, trying to hide her tears. Annabel trailed a finger down Cody’s wet cheek, then licked the moisture off it. “Don’t cry. There’s no harm done. It’s just too soon. I can understand that.” “I feel so stupid,” Cody said, angry with herself. “It’s been more than a month and I just don’t seem to be getting over it at all. I can hardly think about her without crying and I can hardly think of anything else.” Feeling sluggish with drink and emotion, she sagged against

Annabel, permitting herself the comfort of her embrace. “Are you still in love with her?” Cody shook her head adamantly. “No.” Of that, at least, she was certain. “I did love her. I thought we were going to grow old together. All that stuff. But now, when I look back… it’s like something changed. I’m not sure when.” Probably around the time Margaret started seeing men. “Relationships go through stages. At some point the honeymoon period ends.” It was more than that, Cody thought. There were so many tiny things she had never added together. If she were really honest, she knew her feelings for Margaret had undergone a transformation during their last year together. It was as if her love had been eroded into little more than a sentimental attachment to the future they always talked about sharing. Having Margaret in her life had become a habit. It made no sense to be this upset over losing a partner she was no longer in love with. “What’s her name?” Annabel asked. “Margaret,” Cody said into her shoulder. “Want to tell me about her?”

Cody turned her head, one cheek cushioned against Annabel’s breast. She could hear the regular thud of her heart and smell that familiar scent—vanilla, but not quite. Annabel stroked her head. Her touch was tender and soothing. “I met her on a holiday job in my final year at University.” Cody closed her eyes. “Strawberry picking. It was so hot and everything was sort of sticky and juicy. I had this enormous bucketful ready to weigh and she was lugging hers up to the station. My bucket wasn’t where it should have been and she tripped over it.” Cody half chuckled, half hiccupped. “There were strawberries everywhere.” “Very kinky,” Annabel remarked lightly. “We had this huge fight...a physical fight, and well...we both got the sack.” “Obviously a match made in heaven.” Cody had thought so. “We started going out, and a few months later we moved in together. That was nearly five years ago.” “Five years,” Annabel raised her eyebrows. “You really were married then.” She paused. “What happened?” Cody braced herself. Every time she tried to say the words they eluded her, froze on her lips like little

stones. She hadn’t even been able to tell Janet. Annabel had pulled back slightly, her expression calm and attentive. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “It just might help if you did, that’s all.” Cody met her eyes and saw in them only warmth and genuine caring. No games. Maybe the alcohol had loosened her inhibitions or maybe it was just being here in a far-off world. Whatever the reason, the urge to unburden herself was irresistible. “She left me,” she said quietly. “There was… someone else.” The tears started again and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. “It happened so fast. One minute we were lovers and the next she was saying how she’d never felt truly happy with me and it was all over. She had met this person and they were soul mates.” I have to leave you Cody, had been her exact words. I’d like us to stay friends but I’ll understand if

you can’t. I still really care about you. “Did you know the other woman?” Annabel asked. Hunching her shoulders, Cody shook her head. “It wasn’t a woman. It was a man,” she heard herself say, suddenly aware of nausea rising. “A man…” Annabel repeated blankly. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Head swimming, Cody

donned her T-shirt and swung her legs off the bed. “I need some fresh air.” Annabel took her hand and led her insistently to the front door. They walked out onto the verandah and stood in the moonlight while Cody drew deep breaths. Her cheeks tingled where a mild breeze made the tears evaporate. She felt mortified. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Don’t be. I’m glad we talked.” “I just don’t get it. I’m not even sure if I really loved her in the end. So why do I feel like this?” “Cody, this is a person you trusted and she betrayed you. That’s incredibly hurtful, whether you loved her or not.” Cody nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Annabel was dead right. It was the betrayal that was making her crazy. How could the woman she had shared her life with for five years treat her with such contempt? Her throat tightened around a sob and she stared up at the crystalline stars, willing her head to clear. She felt dizzy and humiliated. Obviously, she had completely blown it with Annabel. A woman like her was not going to bother with an unemployed country girl boo-hooing over a broken relationship. Determined to depart with some dignity still intact,

she said. “I’m feeling better now.” “Liar.” Annabel slipped an arm around her waist and helped her down the wooden steps. “I’ll walk you home.” With a trace of dry humor, she added, “Don’t worry—this too shall pass.” Cody tried to take a step but the soft grass beneath her feet receded. Her legs felt like they were about to give way. I’m a mess, she thought retching slightly. Annabel’s arm tightened around her. “On second thought, I have a spare bed. I think you should stay here tonight.” “No. Really. I’ll be okay,” Cody insisted. Even to her ears her voice sounded slurred. “I don’t think so,” Annabel said without inflection. “Come inside.” “No! Please.” Cody broke free of her hold and started toward the track. “I want to be by myself.” “Cody, stop! You’ll hurt yourself!” Cody was aware of Annabel coming after her, but she half ran, half tumbled down through the huge trees and onto the track. “Leave me alone,” she protested, as a hand caught her by the arm. In the dark cloister of the night, she could not make out Annabel’s expression but the anger in her voice

was plain enough. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you really want. But first I’m taking you home. Now shut up and walk.”

Chapter Eight Cody rolled on her stomach and opened her paperback to page twenty-one which she had already read several times. The words ran together and she pulled off her Ray Bans, wiping tiny beads of perspiration off the lenses with her T-shirt.

The alleyway was empty save for a mangy cat trying its luck in the garbage outside a cheap pasta joint. Amanda pressed her back flat against the grimy stone wall and inched her way along, one hand straying to the reassuring bulge of her Smith & Wesson. Cody lifted the book up, shook out the sand, and tried to remember how Amanda came to be stroking a pistol in that dark alley. She backtracked to the beginning of the chapter and skimmed a couple of pages, then dropped the book in disgust. She’d been trying to read it for days. Ever since that evening at Annabel’s, in fact. So much for escapism, she thought miserably and rolled over to stare up at the coconut palms. The sky was a cloudless big-screen blue, and the

ocean pounded the reef with all the involuntary passion of a heartbeat. A slight breeze stirred the drooping palm fronds but fell short of cooling the afternoon air. A week, she’d been on the island for a week, and she was homesick already. Cody conjured up a vision of her office, terminals banked up around the walls, printers spooling frantically, Suzie Wentworth concealing a cigarette behind the latest BYTE magazine. While she was there she’d hated it, but now that she couldn’t return she missed the security and predictability of it all. Marooned on a desert island, no ticket home. Why had she burnt her own boats? If she hadn’t kept the money, she could still have paid for her holiday. Then she could just fly home when it was all over, get a nice well-paid job, go to the movies with her friends, cruise the women’s dances. There were worse ways to spend the last years of her twenties. So what if she didn’t have a lover for a while? She hadn’t spoken to Margaret before she left, Cody remembered with a sharp pang. Maybe she would never speak to her again. And she’d given Janet explicit instructions to tell no one where she was, especially Margaret. “But what if she wants to talk?” Janet had dutifully

protested. “Sometimes couples make it up and get back together.” Janet was addicted to happy endings and was even willing to overlook Margaret’s shortcomings if it meant Cody would have one. “She won’t be back,” Cody had said with grim confidence. This was real life, not the movies. What was Margaret doing now? she wondered. Jumping out of bed the second her alarm rang, pulling on her tracksuit and heading off for her morning run? Was she living with what’s-his-name already, cooking his dinners, washing his shirts? Cody pushed the sordid fragments of a memory out of her consciousness: Margaret sitting in the car with him after moving her furniture out, reaching across, kissing him… Rage crowded her, forcing her up off the sand and chasing her along the beach. “Bitch!” Cody shouted into the breakers. “Lousy, rotten bitch!” Loud sobs forced their way out and she collapsed onto her knees weeping into the water’s edge. Cody had no idea how long she stayed there, tears of fury merging with the salt water until there was no distinguishing between them. It was the noise that first penetrated, a dull drumming as regular as the waves, only a different tempo. She looked up, saw nothing,

listened again. It wasn’t the Mercy Mission, as Annabel jokingly referred to her regular flights in Bevan Mitchell’s Dominie. There was no whine, no screaming of displaced gulls as the little plane evicted the local birdlife from its landing strip on the island’s western promontory. Cody wiped her face and got to her feet. It might have been a boat she had heard. Maybe one of the other guests on the island was out fishing. She hadn’t met anyone else since she’d arrived, but Annabel had mentioned that there were three women staying in another bay south of here. Guests were invited to Villa Luna for evening drinks twice a week, but Cody hadn’t attended the gathering last night. Forcing herself not to think about the evening she had spent at Annabel’s earlier that week, she returned to her beach towel and page twenty-one of her thriller. She found the mangy cat then stopped reading. There it was again, that soft rapid thrum. She sat up and scanned the beach to either side. It was a horse, a black horse. Cody lowered her book. Annabel. She could vaguely remember her mentioning the animal, and she wondered how it had got to the island in the first place. Horse and rider were

approaching at a canter. With a frown, Cody gathered her belongings. She didn’t want to see Annabel today. Recalling their last encounter made her cringe. She remembered apologizing over and over, staggering along the jungle track with Annabel’s stoic assistance, then rudely pushing her away when she offered to help her undress for bed. The next morning she had heard a knock at her door and, knowing it was Annabel, had ignored it. She was behaving badly, Cody realized. There was no need for her to avoid Annabel. They were both adults. They could talk this through like mature women. Besides, there was nothing to talk about. After all, nothing had happened. Cody could apologize for getting drunk and spoiling the evening, and Annabel… Cody’s gaze returned to the rider. If Cody hadn’t stopped them, they would have made love. A one-night stand. Was that what Annabel wanted? A good time —sun, surf and sex? What was wrong with that? Cody reasoned. Since when had she joined the Moral Majority anyway? With a defiant shrug she stuffed her towel and paperback into her bag and dusted the sand off her arms and legs. She would talk to Annabel, but not right now. Dragging her feet a little, she retreated into the jungle

beyond the palm trees. * Annabel dug her heels into Kahlo and felt the mare respond instantly. In the distance she caught a glimpse of a dark head and something colorful, a towel perhaps. Cody. Part of her wanted to rush after her, part of her wanted to pretend she wasn’t there. Pulling back on the reins, she slowed the mare to a trot and watched Cody disappear. She hadn’t stopped kicking herself since that night. What on earth had gotten into her, plying the woman with champagne, assuming they would go to bed, as though having sex was no more significant than coffee after dinner. Not content with that, she had squeezed her for the details of her breakup when she had barely processed them herself. No wonder Cody was avoiding her like the plague. Annabel felt butterflies invade her stomach as visions of her dark-haired neighbor flooded her mind. There was an unconscious sensuality about her Annabel found profoundly alluring. She seemed very straightforward and natural, devoid of the weary cynicism Annabel encountered in most women she

met. It was a cultural difference, she supposed. Cody possessed a coltish charm and independent spirit Annabel associated with farm girls and small town high schoolers. She was frank, funny, and perceptive. Then there was her body. Annabel could not remember the last time she had wanted a woman so badly. It seemed like years. She had almost forgotten what plain, old-fashioned lust felt like. Since she had started in commodities trading it was as though nothing could compete with the adrenalin highs of her job. She had moved to the trading floor after her split with Clare, and she had sworn then that it was the last time she would get ‘involved.’ In retrospect, their relationship had been doomed from the start. Clare, the out lesbian, the political activist; Annabel, the privileged only child. They fought as passionately as they loved and made love. They had talked around their differences for three years until what was unsaid became louder than words. Annabel could never forget the leaving, holding each other and crying for what they would both be losing. Neither of them had been capable of articulating their feelings. Words had become traps, weapons, and could be trusted no longer. They had tried couples

counseling, but Clare considered therapy a middleclass soft option and Annabel blamed their subsequent breakup on her unwillingness to participate. They still wrote. Three times a year—on each other’s birthdays and at Christmas. Since Clare, there had been other women, of course, but over the past year Annabel had found herself less and less interested. Not long before Aunt Annie died it had even reached the stage where she began to wonder if she was going straight. It was on the island that she had started to have some understanding of how soul-destroying her job was, how empty her life. She could finally admit she was suffering physical withdrawal from the adrenalin highs her body had grown accustomed to—the impossible hours, the alcohol, the caffeine. Up ’til now Annabel hadn’t put the pieces together. She hadn’t wanted to, she supposed. But here, listening to the sea and breathing in fresh untainted air, she had started to think about her gradual weight loss, the periods missed, her six-cups-a-day coffee habit, her increasing social isolation, and the exhaustion that knocked her sideways an hour after she finished work every night. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Some of her friends

had, and Annabel recalled her hostile reactions with embarrassed remorse. She hadn’t been ready to hear about it back then. Guiding Kahlo into the jungle, she located the route to Hibiscus Villa, paused, then reined the mare in the opposite direction. She wanted to see Cody. But it could wait.

Chapter Nine I cannot believe how much has happened in one short year. I am engaged to Roger. My beloved Rebecca is still in London and Laura has married that pompous bore Theodore Worth... Laura and Theodore. Her parents. Annabel smiled at Aunt Annie’s description of her father. There was no love lost between them. She flicked along a few pages.

I miss Rebecca desperately and write nearly every day. Her letters are full of some woman called Alexandra. They traveled to Paris together. I cannot bear to think of it but I know it is madness to feel such jealousy for one’s best friend. Roger pesters me constantly to allow liberties but I simply loathe his hands all over me. I don’t know how I shall endure married life. Annabel’s brow creased. As far as she knew, Aunt Annie had never been married. She returned the diary to its shelf and extracted the next volume. A wafer-thin letter slid out as she opened it. Annabel read the contents guiltily, feeling like a clumsy intruder on

someone else’s private world.

Sweet Annie, I’m coming home and I shall never leave you again. I can’t tell you how I feel knowing that you have finally accepted what we’ve always known in our hearts. Don’t worry about Roger. He’ll find some other girl and forget you soon enough. I’m so impatient to see you my darling. I want to take you in my arms and keep you there forever. All my love, Rebecca Annabel refolded the letter and tucked it into the diary. She had an uncanny sense of not being alone, of someone else’s presence in the house. For a second she wondered fancifully if it were her aunt’s ghost, or maybe the unknown Rebecca. Sliding the diary back into its place, she listened carefully but heard only the familiar waves on the distant reef, the rustle of palms, insect operatics. “Is someone there?” She poked her head around the door of the upstairs attic and listened again. Footsteps. “Is that you Mrs. Marsters?” “It’s me,” a voice responded from the verandah.

Annabel recognized the accent with a quickening of her pulse. “Cody?” She descended the stairs and hurried out, suddenly conscious of her clothes: tiny cut-off shorts, a tatty old halter top. Her hair was loose and tangled from an afternoon catnap and she pushed it off her face with fingers that trembled slightly. Cody was waiting on the verandah and Annabel’s heart lurched at the sight of her. She was wearing a short, brightly-colored sarong knotted at the valley between her breasts. The knowledge that she probably wore nothing underneath affected Annabel in all sorts of ways, making her shorts damply uncomfortable and her breathing erratic. Cody looked awkward, transferring her weight from one foot to the other as if she might bolt at a loud noise. What had she come for? To tell Annabel she was leaving the island? “Hi.” She greeted Annabel with a quick uncertain smile. “I was going for a walk and I thought I’d drop in.” “I’m glad,” Annabel said. “Can I offer you a drink?” Even as she spoke, she was mortified. A drink! If Cody were dying of thirst she’d probably turn down a glass of water from her. “Better not,” Cody said. “Look where it got me last time.” Her color heightened and she stroked her hair

back with that innocent gesture Annabel found almost unbearably sexy. “I’m sorry—” both women began at the same time, then laughed awkwardly. “Be my guest,” Annabel offered with mock gallantry. Cody started again. “I came to apologize for the other night. I had too much to drink and I behaved badly.” She backed down the verandah steps. “Cody!” Annabel’s tone arrested her. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry, too. You might find this hard to believe, but I don’t make a habit of plying women with alcohol and having my wicked way with them.” Cody’s mouth turned up into a wry smile. “You wouldn’t have to try very hard. You’re an attractive woman.” “I find you attractive, too, Cody,” Annabel said huskily. “The other night I...” She was embarrassed. “I guess I must be sexually frustrated,” she added in an attempt to laugh it off. “It’s been a while.” “Very flattering,” Cody responded with heavy irony. Annabel raised a hand to her mouth, groaning and laughing at the same time. “Wonderful. Now I’m adding insult to injury.” She took Cody’s hand. “I’m sorry. Can we start again?” Cody allowed herself to be drawn up onto the

verandah. Staring straight into one another’s eyes, they stood frozen in a moment of bright awareness, each recognizing the birth of something new between them. “I’d like that,” Cody said very softly.

Chapter Ten The days that followed passed in a blur for Annabel. She spent many hours poring over her aunt’s diaries, trying to piece together the complex picture of her life. At times it was all she could do to concentrate. She found her thoughts straying constantly to Cody, wondering what she was doing, when she would come by. They saw one another every day, ate dinner together, walked along Passion Bay in the moonlight, occasionally brushed fingertips or thighs, but were not lovers. Last night, on one of their strolls, Cody had slipped an arm around Annabel’s waist and asked, “How did Passion Bay get its name?” “I don’t know,” Annabel replied. “I guess my aunt must have named it. She lived here for the past thirty years and this was her favorite beach. The Bay does have a certain reputation among the Islanders though.” “Oh, yes?” Cody prompted. “What’s that?” Annabel smiled. “Well, there’s a legend. According to Mrs. Marsters, hundreds of years ago the Islanders believed that the waters of Passion Bay held the secret of fertility, so any woman who could not have a child

would come here to bathe. A famous chief whose wife was barren—her fault, naturally—brought her to the island and left her here for three full cycles of the moon. ” “Great way for her to get pregnant,” Cody murmured. “Indeed. Anyway, the story goes that he returned to pick her up and she had conceived. In due course she gave birth to a daughter.” “So she was already pregnant when he left her here,” Cody remarked. “I guess they didn’t have test kits back then.” Annabel administered a playful prod. “No, she wasn’t. And this is where we get to the interesting bit. Evidently this woman was quite certain she actually conceived on the island. She claimed she was visited on a number of occasions by the goddess of the island, who lay with her and made her the gift of a child —the only one she ever had, as it turns out.” Cody’s eyes widened. “Presumably this was after the local missionary told all the heathen about the virgin birth?” “Cynic!” Annabel sighed. “No, it was way before the missionaries sank their talons into the Cook Islands. And even more interesting is that no one lived on Moon Island at the time except for a small group of

priestesses—the Island was sacred to women and men were forbidden. But the women who did live here had children, all girls.” “Very weird,” Cody said. “So what do you make of it all?” “Well there’s really only one possible explanation.” “That the ‘goddess’ was a man in disguise?” Annabel laughed. “Of course not! It was parthenogenesis, the splitting of an egg without a sperm.” Cody looked dubious. “I thought scientists couldn’t be sure about that.” “Do you really think they’d tell us if they could? Imagine that—men not required for procreation.” Cody stopped in her tracks and grinned widely. “Women’s eggs carry only an X chromosome...” “Now you’re getting the picture. If parthenogenesis really can happen, it would result only in girls, and given that the female is the species type, that’s hardly surprising.” “Oh, dear,” Cody commented. “The male-as-mutant argument. You’re not a man-hating lesbian ball-breaker by any chance, are you?” Annabel glanced at her sideways, sparkling. “Will I score any points if I say yes to that?”

“If you want to score points I have some more creative suggestions.” Annabel turned to face her, slid her arms behind Cody’s neck. “Nothing that could result in parthenogenesis, I hope.” She trailed slow sensual kisses down Cody’s throat and onto her bare shoulders and they sank down onto the warm sands of Passion Bay. Reading in Cody’s eyes an echo of her own desire, she cupped her face and claimed her mouth in a kiss fraught with pent-up need. She felt Cody’s hands tangle in her hair, the exquisite pressure of their bodies aligned hard against one another. But as she moved to unfasten the knot holding Cody’s sarong, the younger woman tensed, her retreat unmistakable. Shaking, her body hungry for release, Annabel eased her embrace. This was not rejection, she realized. Cody needed time to build trust with her. Tenderly she cradled her, and they lay together listening to the sounds of the night. Annabel knew with fatalistic certainty that they would become lovers. The thought filled her with restless anticipation. At the same time she was aware of mixed emotions. The more she came to know Cody, the more conscious she was that for her, the attraction was not

purely physical. She was drawn to Cody on another level. Somehow the New Zealander had slipped beneath her guard, engaging a tender part of her self Annabel seldom connected with any more. It made her feel oddly vulnerable. Wary of exposing herself, she decided to play a waiting game. It was obvious Cody was attracted to her, but she also sensed the younger woman’s confusion. It was hardly surprising. Cody had just been left by a long-term lover for a man. That would be enough to dent anyone’s confidence. Annabel could remember all too clearly those feelings of helpless rage, of self-blame and introspection when she broke up with Clare. For months afterward she had stared at herself in mirrors, wondering if there was something wrong with her, some defect only others could see. Even though the breakup was more or less mutually agreed, she had still felt somehow at fault. If only she were more political, Clare might have stayed, if only she looked more butch, if only she enjoyed demos as much as theater, if only she didn’t sound like old money. There was a list as long as her arm. She had been so vulnerable then and so lonely. It was one of those times when she had most felt her

isolation as a lesbian. How different it was from her breakup with Toby. After only six months of marriage, she had been inundated with support—phone calls from her mother, cuddles from friends, and kindness from people at work. And she was the one who had left! With Clare, she had been forced to pretend that everything was just fine and rosy in her world, that her housemate had got a new job in San Francisco, and wasn’t that great? Of course her lesbian friends understood and comforted her. But for the first time in her life, Annabel had experienced deeply the distress of her invisibility. She had felt like two people, one the hard-working, successful banker, the other a secretive, distressed misfit. Her parents were pleased, of course. Not because they wanted to see her hurt, but because they had always believed her sexuality could only lead to unhappiness. They saw her breakup with Clare as a sign of their daughter coming to her senses. Her mother even referred to the possibility of another marriage now that she’d “got all that out of her system.” Annabel didn’t bother to argue. What was the point? Since that time she had barely mentioned the subject of her relationships to her parents, and they

never raised it. They knew she was still a lesbian, but it was not discussed. Silences were nothing new in Annabel’s family. For as long as she could remember, she had sensed the unspoken; the underground messages, her parents exchanging subtle glances, anger simmering beneath the quiet earth like a volcano. As a child, she had sometimes felt so nervous she had been unable to keep hold of her cutlery. And she never understood why. Dusting off another diary, Annabel shook her head. The old trepidation was still there, that strange waiting feeling. Waiting for what? With curious unease she opened the book and read.

Rebecca has been wonderful. She won’t let me feel ashamed for a moment. She’s even bought me an island of all things, the goose. Mad isn’t it? I have no idea how we are ever to get there but Rebecca says her family isn’t in the shipping business for nothing and we leave as soon as the baby is born. I want to go now but Rebecca insists we should stay just in case anything goes wrong. As always she is the sensible one.

A baby? Whose baby? Her mother’s perhaps. There was nothing about Laura’s pregnancy in the diaries, yet the timing seemed right. Heart thumping wildly, Annabel skimmed back through the pages in case she had missed something. She could find no other reference to a baby. The diary was full of Rebecca—her cigar smoking and how Annie worried it would ruin her lungs, her passion for art and the poverty stricken painters who turned up for dinner every odd day, her conservative family and the politicians her father had in his pocket. Page after page was dedicated to their love for one another and their lovemaking. Annabel skipped by those, unwilling to intrude on her aunt’s most intimate revelations. She would have to make sure her mother never saw any of this, she thought with faint humor. Not that there was any danger of Laura Adams flying halfway across the world to read her sister’s letters and diaries. She had never visited the island, in fact, had never spoken of it other than in the vaguest terms. Until her friendship with her aunt had begun to flourish, Annabel had no idea Annie’s overseas home was in the Cook Islands. It was another subject no one ever mentioned. Even Annie had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about her life on Moon Island.

Cursing, Annabel glanced at her watch. It was Mercy Mission time, and Bevan Mitchell didn’t appreciate his passengers not turning up. With a sigh of impatience, she closed the diary and climbed down the attic steps into the hallway. A baby? She gathered up her gear, donned her riding hat and stalked out, churning her discovery over in her mind. Someone her aunt knew, some close friend perhaps, had been having a baby. Or was it Rebecca? Aunt Annie was childless. Annabel knew that much. Again she felt that uneasy curling in the pit of her stomach and a nebulous image floated across her mind—herself as a tiny child, on a woman’s knee, handling a large golden object and biting it. The woman’s face was out of focus, but her hair was pale. Mother, Annabel thought. Yet she felt oddly disturbed.

Chapter Eleven “Cody! Cody!” Annabel reined in Kahlo close to Hibiscus Villa, tethered the horse, and jumped the steps up to the open door. “Are you there, Cody? I’ve got something for you. Cody emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel, her black hair wet and plastered to her head like a seal. Annabel pulled a sharp breath and let her eyes travel over the finely molded form in front of her. It should be illegal for any woman to be so sexy with so little effort, she thought. Water rolled across Cody’s smooth shoulders, following the sinuous contours of her body, to gather in rivulets between her breasts. Completely distracted, Annabel held out a large paper bag. “Your mail,” she said, puzzled when Cody’s expression underwent a subtle change. “Thanks.” She took the bag and dropped it unenthusiastically onto a small table nearby. Annabel stayed where she was, flexing her whip slightly against one thigh and trying to pretend her muscles weren’t taut with tension. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she hinted finally. “I’ll get dressed,” Cody said and turned back toward the bathroom.

“Look, am I interrupting something?” Cody halted. “You know, Annabel,” she said dully, “life can get very complicated.” “Indeed it can.” Annabel stared at Cody’s long, beautifully shaped legs, her eyes hovering where the towel began high on those damp thighs. Dryness glued her mouth shut and her shirt seemed too tight at the neck. Easing a couple of buttons undone, she tilted her head back, exposing her throat to the cool air drifting through the verandah. Cody retreated back into the house. “I’ll put the tea on.” “I can make it, while you dress,” Annabel offered and followed her indoors. As she was stacking their cups onto a tray shortly afterwards, Cody appeared. She had changed into cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless lavender T-shirt that revealed more than it covered. Annabel had the impression she had been crying. “Are you all right?” she asked, realizing with a slight shock how much she actually cared. Cody made a convincing display of unconcern, shrugging her shoulders and lifting the tray with a flourish. “I’m fine,” she managed without a tremor. But she still looked everywhere except at Annabel.

Out on the verandah, Annabel pulled off her riding hat and flopped down into a cane chair. They sat in silence performing the tea ritual. It was not a silence like the communion of old friends, or new friends completely at ease with one another. It was dense and clammy, and exaggerated by the piercing birdcalls and persistent drone of insects. It stretched like quicksand, deceptive, treacherous—neither woman willing to take an experimental step lest she sink out of her depth, uncertain of rescue. Cody wanted to speak, but her throat was tight and her eyes still stung. Annabel looked so cool and somehow certain of the world. She would be shocked if Cody told her, shocked and disgusted to find she was calmly sipping tea with a criminal. Cody knew the secret put a barrier between them and she struggled to find the words to breach it. “Annabel,” she finally plunged in. “Have you ever done something you regretted?” Annabel’s eyes widened. In the shade of the verandah they looked pansy-blue. She cocked her head to one side as though lost in thought, then said softly, “Something I’ve regretted? Well, that gives me plenty of scope. I guess you don’t mean taking a bath on the Yen either.” Her brow creased and she admitted,

“It’s strange you should ask that. Since I came to the island, it’s like I’ve seen my life from a whole new perspective. I realize how miserable and empty it’s been. I feel like I’ve spent years so busy and tired, I haven’t had time to think about what’s missing.” Responding to an unspoken question in Cody’s eyes, she said, “I didn’t have time for relationships either. I’ve had a few flings. Nothing serious. Maybe I’ve been horse shy.” She said it reflectively as though the idea were new and interesting. “So to answer your question before you fall asleep, yes, I have done something I regret. I wish I had spent the last few years doing something positive. And I wish I had spent more time with my aunt. So… how about you?” Cody sipped her tea and shifted in her seat. Watching her, Annabel looked calm, reflective, a little sad. As if sensing Cody’s apprehension, she threw her a reassuring smile. The urge to spill the beans was overwhelming but Cody fought it off anyway. How could she tell Annabel everything? They barely knew each other and it was hardly fair to involve another woman in her guilty secret. Yet it would be such a relief to discuss it. Hardly an hour passed that she did not experience a sinking in her stomach when she thought about that briefcase lurking in Janet’s wardrobe, or of a letter

somewhere recording her crime and demanding restitution. Releasing a breath held too long, she set her cup down with a clatter. “I’m not sure that I have regrets, exactly. But I have done something that’s making me feel very guilty.” Annabel said nothing at first, but looked across her cup at Cody with eyes that were curious, but also kind. “Sounds serious,” she commented with a hint of humor. Despite herself, Cody relaxed. “It is. I can’t talk about it right now but it’s on my mind a lot, and I guess I wanted you to know. I don’t want you thinking I’m unfriendly or rude.” Annabel leaned forward, cupping her chin in one hand and examining Cody’s face with unnerving intensity. “Is it important what I think?” Cody blushed and lowered her eyes. It was important, but she found herself wishing it weren’t. Since that kiss on the beach, she had been unable to get Annabel out of her mind. Even now her skin tingled with the imprint of Annabel’s hands and her mouth felt hot with the memory of Annabel’s. Don’t, she ordered herself. The very last thing she needed in her life right now was another complication. Forcing a lighter note, she said casually, “Of course

it is. You’re supposed to be wildly impressed with my good looks, charm and incisive wit. Back home, the girls can’t leave me alone.” Without missing a beat, Annabel clutched her chest and simpered, “I can sure see why that is. The first time I laid eyes on you, well, I just said to myself, Annabel honey, this is your lucky day. Cody grinned at the Southern Belle impersonation. “You betcha.” She affected a pose that drew attention to her neatly muscled arms. “They don’t call me hotlips for nothing.” Annabel groaned. “Hotlips, how original.” She focused blatantly on Cody’s mouth. “I take it you have a reputation?” Cody nodded. “Yeah. Ever since a bad moment with a chili taco at the Refuge fundraiser.” “Cramped your style?” Annabel’s voice was dry. “I thought I’d never be the same woman again.” “And are you?” Annabel’s gaze traveled warmly across her body. Not yet, Cody’s mind ordered, but her body was not convinced. Her pulse had quickened and she found herself unable to look away from Annabel’s face—the way the fine stray hairs escaped from her plait and clung damply to her forehead, the way her lips turned

up slightly in the corners and her chin dimpled when she laughed. When Annabel got to her feet, Cody felt a sharp pang of disappointment. “I should be going,” she said without conviction. Those bright lavender eyes scanned Cody’s face, a hint of challenge in their gemlike depths. When Cody remained silent, she glanced about, apparently looking for something. “My whip,” she explained, reaching past her. Then her hands were on Cody’s shoulders and Cody felt the warmth of her as she leaned over the chair back. Her heart accelerated so sharply she felt winded. Annabel’s fingers lingered possessively, burning her skin. Twisting in her chair, Cody looked up her. “Annabel…” she began awkwardly, then chickened out. Trying to sound normal, she said, “Um, have a nice day.” To Cody’s consternation, Annabel bent lower, letting her arms slide from Cody’s shoulders over her breasts. She rested her head against Cody’s, her mouth just inches from her ear. “Why don’t you come along?” she invited, her warm breath caressing Cody’s cheek. Cody inhaled that familiar Annabel fragrance and

swallowed with difficulty. Her nipples strained against the thin cotton of her T-shirt, betraying the desperate craving that engulfed her. She tried to steer her thoughts to some common sense destination, but her mind would not co-operate. “You might even enjoy it,” Annabel persisted. She moved around the chair to face Cody, and with a broad smile took both her hands and pulled her to her feet. She was impossibly close and this time Cody let herself stare. At point blank Annabel’s skin was the radiant creamy white of a fine pearl. Cody found herself fascinated by its texture, by the natural red of Annabel’s mouth against it, the denseness of her lashes. She imagined owning it with her fingers, her lips, her tongue, and felt a flowering in her groin. Annabel was watching her with a frank expression. A trace of indolent humor played across her features, and Cody realized she must be gawking like some star-struck adolescent. Dropping her eyes, trying to concentrate on anything but the wet ache between her thighs, she pulled her hands free. Her heart pounded against her ribs so fast she could barely breathe. Annabel had to know the effect she was having, Cody thought with a mix of awe and dismay. “I won’t come,” she said. “But thanks anyway.” Her voice

sounded hoarse, unlike her own. She took a step back, wanting to distance herself from the chaotic emotions the other woman aroused. Her skin clamored for touch, her pulse surged. She felt altogether too exposed, transparent in her yearning. Annabel picked up her whip and flexed it absently, contemplating her next move. Cody looked to one side, hands tucked defensively into her armpits. Annabel studied the outline of her breasts flattened beneath her folded arms and imagined pulling those hands away, teasing the nipples they guarded. She experienced a powerful urge to reach for her, to seduce away her inhibitions. Conscious of her own heightening arousal, and of Cody’s obvious discomfort, she hesitated. Cody has just broken up with her lover , she reminded herself. She needs time to heal. Annabel had promised herself she would wait, yet here she was attempting to seduce her. When you were on the rebound, it was all too easy to jump into bed with any woman who came along. That was a class act, the kind she’d become famous for after her breakup with Clare. Back then, she had adopted a love ’em and leave ’em approach and had spent a year proving she could fuck any woman she liked, whenever she liked, and

feel nothing. To whom she was proving it was a moot point. When she finally made the switch from banking to commodities trading, she had been secretly relieved. The long hours and exhausting routine soon provided the excuse she needed to slide out of any kind of commitment, and before long, hanging over a screen and shouting into a phone in each hand gave her a bigger rush than an orgasm. At the time she had been delighted—cheap thrills without the emotional hassles of relationships. Now she felt sick at the thought of the women she must have hurt along the way. Tempting though it was, she decided it would be wrong to draw Cody into some kind of consolation fling. With a flash of selfawareness, she knew she wanted more than that. Certainly she recognized the sexual current that ran between them, but there was something else, too. Cody aroused in her an unaccustomed tenderness, an urge to find out more about her—feelings she would have run a mile from only months ago. Impulsively Annabel closed the distance between them, her hand straying to Cody’s cheek. With tantalizing softness, she brushed her lips against Cody’s, intending simply to say farewell. But Cody’s mouth felt so welcoming, parting against hers, the tips

of their tongues fluid against one another. Coaxing her lips further apart, Annabel moved her hand over Cody’s jaw to rest against the wild flutter of her pulse. Cody might be able to persuade herself she was not ready for this, Annabel thought, but her body sent quite different signals. Her defensive arms had dropped to her sides. There was no reserve in the sway of her body against Annabel’s, the press of her thighs, the telltale hardness of her nipples. She worked a caressing hand beneath Cody’s T-shirt, thrilling to the feel of her, so lithe and responsive. “I could stay,” Annabel murmured against her mouth. Cody’s arms wrapped hard around her, returning her sensuous embrace. This time it was she who kissed Annabel, urgently and deeply, making the demands Annabel ached to meet. Barely able to catch her breath, Annabel said, “Is that a yes?” Their eyes locked and the world around them seemed very still in the sultry languor of the afternoon. Annabel was conscious only of Cody: her soft shallow breathing, the undisguised need in her eyes. But something was tugging at her. She gave a slight, bemused start, looked around and groaned. “Oh, no.” A pair of dark liquid eyes surveyed her inquisitively,

and Kahlo prised the whip she was still holding from her fingers. Cody’s face was a study in dismay. “I thought she was tied up.” “I’m sorry.” Annabel shook her head, disbelieving. “I’ll put her in the lean-to around the back.” She touched Cody’s cheek. “Don’t go away.” * It was a tragic piece of timing, Cody decided as she went into the villa. In more ways than one. It would have been so easy to fall into bed with Annabel right then and there. But, like a bucket of cold water, reality had intervened and stopped her short of a choice she would probably regret. It was for the best, Cody convinced herself. Not only was she fresh out of a broken relationship, but she was also a fugitive from justice. The last thing she needed was another complication. Raking a despondent hand through her hair, she paced the sitting room. Her mind seethed with conflicting emotions. She wanted to make love with Annabel—her body was unmistakably clear about that. But her life was a mess. She was a mess; a walking

rebound disaster. How could she even contemplate getting involved with another woman? And that’s exactly what would happen. Annabel already meant more to her than any stranger should. She was kidding herself if she thought she could keep things on a purely physical footing. Lamenting her folly, she crept onto the sofa and buried her face in a cushion. A moment later someone touched her shoulder. “Have you changed your mind?” Annabel sat down beside her. Embarrassed, Cody straightened up. “No...I mean...yes.” “It’s okay. I understand.” “No.” Cody caught at Annabel’s hand. She felt trapped, beached on the disorienting sands of her own insecurity. She knew she should tell her to leave, but instead she begged, “Please. Don’t go.” Annabel took her in her arms and gently caressed her cheek. “We don’t have to do anything, you know.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. “I’d like to, of course.” She tilted Cody’s chin and stared at her intently. Then she bent forward and delicately kissed her. They sat very still, mouths just touching. Cody closed

her eyes. Annabel’s breath was warm on her face. She moved against her, placing her hands behind her neck and responding to her kisses in kind. By some unspoken consensus, they moved to Cody’s bedroom and stood there kissing until Cody felt so weak she could barely stand. Annabel’s mouth moved from her face to her throat, licking and kissing as her hands unfastened Cody’s shorts. Panic fluttered along with desire in the pit of Cody’s stomach and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She turned her attention to Annabel’s shirt, unbuttoning it and sliding it off her shoulders. Annabel’s skin glowed with the richness of ivory silk and begged to be touched. Cody stared, wanting at the same time to taste and smell and feel her. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered and lowered her head to plant devotional kisses along Annabel’s shoulders, slowly working her way down to the perfect slope of her breasts and those nipples, the same astounding dark pink as her mouth. She pulled off her T-shirt, longing to press her flesh against Annabel’s, to remove the final layers between them. Annabel unzipped her jeans and Cody helped tug them over her hips, impatience making her a little rough.

With a soft laugh, Annabel stepped out of them and reached for Cody’s hands, raising them to her mouth and kissing the palms tenderly. “Not so fast,” she said and twisted Cody’s arms playfully behind her back, grazing her mouth with teasing kisses. Cody drew a ragged breath and broke free of Annabel’s grip. Catching hold of her, she pulled her determinedly toward the bed, throwing back the covers and drawing her down. She felt sick with passion. She wanted Annabel inside her, around her, close and hot. Annabel knelt across Cody’s body, astride one thigh. Cody could feel her wetness, the hands pinning her shoulders down, the hot crush of their flesh. Her breasts ached. Her mouth felt full and trembling. She opened heavy eyes and met Annabel’s bright, intense stare. Transfixed by what she saw there, she twisted her fingers into Annabel’s hair and pulled her down hard, kissing her passionately, reveling in the foreign textures of her body. Her breasts felt firm, the nipples hard. She was hot and smooth, as supple as a cat. Murmuring Annabel’s name, Cody gasped as fingers found her throbbing clitoris, slid down to explore her wetness, moved casually back again. With her hips, she begged for more than the slow, teasing strokes. She was almost crying with desire as Annabel

slid her hands beneath her shoulders and pulled her upright so they were both on their knees, each free to explore the newness of the other’s body. Cody pressed hard against her, loving the way their stomachs, their mounds, connected. She dug her fingers into Annabel’s ass, kneading the firm flesh, drawing her forward, sighing with pleasure as the pressure against her groin increased. Annabel’s sure fingers left her clitoris to work new magic, stroking and caressing her breasts, rolling her nipples into tense arousal. They were followed by her mouth, and Cody’s skin shocked and tightened as tantalizing licks rapidly gave way to hard urgent bites. “Don’t stop,” she moaned as Annabel’s attention moved further down her body, her mouth tracing circles around her stomach and down into the join of her thighs. As she felt herself parted, Annabel’s arm locked around her to keep her from sinking back onto the bed. Swaying, she clutched Annabel’s shoulders as she felt the head of her clitoris enveloped slowly, wetly. Beads of perspiration clustered on her forehead and between her breasts. She wanted to say something but her mouth was dry with passion. “Please,” she croaked, an exquisite tension

swamping her limbs. Annabel pulled back a little and straightened. Aligning her body with Cody’s, she placed one hand firmly behind her head and kissed her hard, entering her at the same time. Releasing a sharp whimper, Cody bit down on Annabel’s shoulder and felt the pressure inside her ease slightly. “Did I hurt you, baby?” Annabel’s voice shook. Cody could only mumble a denial. “You feel so good.” Annabel’s mouth was on hers once more, and Cody could taste her own juices, salty and sharp. She wanted to touch Annabel, too, make her cry out with pleasure, but instead she grasped hold of her more tightly, steadying herself as her arousal climbed. Legs shaking, Cody felt herself pass that final threshold of resistance, surrendering to sensation, giving herself completely to this woman. Finally, mercifully, Annabel lowered Cody onto her back and slid a hand beneath her hips, angling her so she could move deeper inside. Cody felt a strange heat roll beneath her skin as if a layer of supersensitive new flesh had just unfolded. She was sweating freely now, her body open and compliant. Annabel’s tongue circled her clitoris once more and

Cody rocked against the voluptuous rhythm of fingers and mouth. She tried to speak, but could only make small animal sounds as the tension in her body climbed to breaking point. She no longer had any sense of what Annabel was doing, only that she was lost to the irresistible. A pulsing swell of pleasure rose from her engorged center, and she bit down hard on her lip as a series of powerful shudders claimed her. She was barely aware of her own fierce cries of release, when a final startling burst of moisture swamped every pore and saturated her thighs. Then Annabel was kissing her tenderly and Cody realized she was crying. Suddenly self-conscious, she half-turned her head aside but Annabel gently drew her back. With shaky tenderness, she said, “You’re fine, Cody,” and pushed the damp hair off her forehead to plant a kiss there. When Cody attempted to part Annabel’s thighs her hand was caught and guided resolutely away. “Later,” Annabel murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. ” And as the hours passed and a full moon swam placidly across Passion Bay, they made love again

and again until exhaustion overtook them and, curling into one another, they slept.

Chapter Twelve It was dawn when Cody awoke. Barely daring to breathe in case this was just a dream, she watched the sky transform and listened to the birds and insects come alive. Next to her, Annabel lay sleeping, her thick lashes resting on her cheeks like two dark crescents. Her hair, released from its plait the night before, tangled about her head, and her mouth curved delectably upward as though she were dreaming clouds of butterflies. In the gathering light, Annabel’s skin glowed pale and flawless. Mesmerized by its translucence, Cody peeled the sheet back a little further. Even in sleep, there was an innate grace about her, in the languid droop of her head, the curve of her arm over her hip. How was this possible? Cody marveled. She had just spent the past night making love with this woman, exploring every inch of her body, finding the secret places that made her writhe and beg for more. She was stunning, incredible. Disbelieving, she curled closer and smoothed the bedding over them, careful not to disturb her. She had no idea where their lovemaking would lead, and for the moment it did not seem to matter. Her body

felt warm, used, content. Her mind was clear and fresh. Best of all, she could think of Margaret and… nothing. No tears, no rage, nothing. You shallow person , a voice chastised her. Only six weeks to mend a broken

heart. The first attractive woman that comes along and wham! Margaret’s history. Cody lifted a strand of Annabel’s hair. It was fine and silky, nearly white. The kind of hair chemicals couldn’t reproduce. Cody wished she would wear it loose all the time but guessed she was far too practical for that. In the two weeks since she had met Annabel, every one of her unconscious assumptions had been turned inside out. Somehow she had never imagined herself with a blonde American lover who looked like she thought hard work was a day’s shopping in Saks Fifth Avenue, but fixed her own plumbing without batting an eyelid. Annabel was a mass of contradictions. Sometimes she seemed entirely cynical and world-weary. Then she would rush outside to catch the first evening star or stand stock-still on her lawn trying to persuade a mynah bird to eat from her outstretched hand. During the time they had explored the island together, Cody had been astounded at Annabel’s

knowledge of plants and birdlife, her navigation skills, and her fitness. She was once a Girl Scout, Annabel had said. Easing an arm over her body, Cody tried to remain focused on the magic of now but thoughts of the future hovered like wasps. Two weeks. Her Moon Island booking ran out in just two weeks’ time. What then? London? Some tiny flat in Highgate… wall-to-wall commuters… cliquey parties. Maybe she should head for Australia instead. Melbourne was a laid-back kind of city with plenty of jobs. There were friends she could camp with for a few weeks while she got her act together. Cody frowned. She didn’t want to think about leaving, especially now. But how could she stay? Even if she booked another month on the island, it would only be a short-term solution. And it would make leaving so much harder. Besides she had no idea what Annabel’s plans were—when she intended to return to Boston. Cody’s heart lurched and almost unconsciously she tightened her arm. Annabel stirred. Opening her eyes, she blinked sleepily up at Cody and said, “Hi.” She sounded dazed but happy. “Do you still respect me?” Cody grinned. “Well, that depends.”

Annabel lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Depends on what?” “On whether you can rustle up a decent breakfast, of course.” Cody changed position, lounging back on her pillows, hands behind her head. “Why how very butch of you, Cody Stanton.” Annabel’s eyes gleamed. “Do I detect a hint of role confusion? Let me see now. One of us was not exactly fighting the other for control last night.” She propped herself up onto her elbow and trailed a knowing hand down Cody’s body, applying just enough teasing pressure to Cody’s clitoris to make her squirm deliciously. “Don’t get too excited,” she whispered against Cody’s ear, then nibbled her lobe. “After all, I’m about to go get intimate with your kitchen.” She drew back, slid her feet off the bed and stretched languorously. “Oh no, you don’t,” Cody crawled after her, giggling. “I take it all back.” “Too late.” Annabel located a sarong and wrapped it around herself. “I wouldn’t want you lying in bed suffering from cravings.” She slapped Cody’s hands as Cody tried to untie her sarong. “What do you feel like eating?” Her tone was business-like, but her eyes sparkled. “Something hot?”

“Precisely,” Cody said and grabbed her around the waist. “Come back to bed, you flirt.” “Make it worth my while,” Annabel said. And Cody did. * “I have to go.” Annabel slid her arms around Cody’s waist and kissed the corner of her mouth. “I’d know that whine anywhere.” Cody grimaced and followed Annabel outside in time to see the Dominie slouch its way across the sky. “Can’t he go without you for once?” she muttered. Annabel was saddling Kahlo and pushing her shirt into her loose-fitting jeans. She shook her head. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. If I don’t go to Rarotonga none of us will eat. And while you and I could probably think of better ways to spend our time, the other guests might not see it that way.” Cody made a snorting sound. “Let them eat cake. Doesn’t Mrs. Marsters look after all that stuff.” “Actually, I do. The job comes with the house,” she said, not quite ready to explain that she owned Moon Island. Her aunt had previously employed a manager to handle the day-to-day operation of the island, ferrying

guests, bringing in supplies, and handling requests. But the woman was pregnant now and had given notice virtually the day Annabel had arrived, having put off her departure for Annie’s sake. She had spent a few days showing Annabel how things were run, then she was on her own. How hard could it be? she had thought. There were only a few guests and they seemed to keep to themselves, obviously seeking privacy and seclusion. Following a tradition her aunt had started, Annabel operated an open house a couple of evenings each week, serving hors d’oevres and drinks. The rest of time guests did their own thing. Each morning she or Mrs. Marsters delivered platters of food to the occupied cottages and made note of any problems. Annabel had not yet decided if she would continue to run the island as a vacation spot. She could not envisage living here indefinitely, miles from civilization. For now, she had decided to give it six months —maybe a year. So she was continuing to accept reservations, content to see how things went. Annie had found it too lonely on the island by herself and had built the guest cottages for that reason. It made sense, Annabel thought. And besides, it had brought Cody here.

Finished with the saddling, Annabel glanced back. Cody looked so dejected standing in the doorway, her unbrushed hair sticking out at crazy angles, gray eyes wide and appealing. Annabel felt curiously protective. She was startled by the emotion and not entirely comfortable with it. Feeling protective smacked of ownership and blurred boundaries. In her experience it was a trap for the unwary. It meant losing touch with your common sense and sometimes your self-respect. The last time she had felt protective, she’d sold herself short, allowed a woman to manipulate her, and been hurt. She knew better than to do that again. With a hint of reserve, she looked at Cody and willed herself not to respond to the unspoken plea. She had responsibilities. Life could not be put on hold because she had just rediscovered sex with one of her guests. “Want to come over later tonight?” she said, mounting Kahlo with careless ease. “Okay,” Cody said quietly. Annabel tried not to notice the slight hurt in her voice. She could feel Cody watching her as she reined the mare away from the villa, but she did not look back. *

Bevan was waiting when she reached the landing strip, and he greeted her over his habitual cigarette. Without ceremony, Annabel boarded and strapped herself in. She was fast coming to take for granted the shuttle to and from the island. She liked the fact that they went to Rarotonga almost every day and brought in fresh supplies, taxied guests and Mrs. Marsters, and collected mail. At first the decrepit plane had unnerved Annabel, and Bevan’s comment that he could fly her under the Golden Gate if necessary had done little to inspire confidence. She hated the helpless, dependent feeling of being an ignorant passenger, of staring at the flickering needles on the control panel without the slightest idea what any of them meant. To her surprise, Bevan had been quick to notice her attitude and had promptly offered to teach her to fly. He pointed out that the Dominie was originally used as a navigation trainer for the English RAF. The plane was built during World War II, originally for six passengers, but after the war, it had found its way into private ownership in Australia, and eventually Bevan swapped a bag of opals for it at Broken Hill. He converted it to a two-passenger and cargo transport and had spent a decade flying charter

through most of Southeast Asia and the Pacific. Annabel’s aunt had employed him six years ago when he settled on Atiu, the island whose coffee was the best Annabel had ever tasted. He still lived there with a friend she had never met, but who was evidently some kind of journalist. Annabel had been amazed at how easy it was to learn to fly. With each lesson she grew more confident, co-piloting at different stages of the flight and coming to grips with navigation. “Feel like taking her up today?” Bevan asked, securing the hatch. She smiled wryly. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She had made a futile attempt on their last flight. After they bunny-hopped the entire length of the strip twice, Bevan finally took the controls back and got them off the ground. “They’re like horses,” the pilot told her. “You have to keep climbing back in the saddle.” “Okay,” she said with resignation. “It’s your funeral. But just don’t ask me to land the thing.” Bevan wiggled his cigarette, the equivalent of a grin, then made a show of stubbing it out, ready to do business. “Full throttle,” he ordered blithely. Annabel had no idea how they made it to Rarotonga.

By some fluke she coerced the Dominie into the air and, apart from a few bumps, managed to keep her at the appropriate altitude. As they approached, Bevan radioed for clearance and cheerfully informed Annabel that he would talk her down. “Land her? I can’t!” she protested. “Most popular words in the female dialect,” he goaded her. “Come on. It’s no big deal. Anyway, we’re low on fuel, so we can’t muck around up here for too long.” “Oh, great!” Annabel glared at the gauge and turned accusing eyes on him. “You’re paid to make sure that doesn’t happen!” “And it hasn’t. We’re here, aren’t we? Watch your back pressure.” “Bevan!” Her hands began to shake. “Keep your nose up,” he said blandly. He continued firing instructions at her, and there was no time to do anything but obey. Putting her anger aside, Annabel concentrated on her landing transition. They came in with a resounding thud and veered waywardly along the strip while she tried to sort out her rudder control. When they finally stopped, back-to-front and off the runway, she let out a whoop and collapsed over the controls with relief and exhilaration.

“Well done, old girl.” Bevan shook her hand with British formality, and Annabel felt her anger dissolve. “I really did it,” she marveled as they taxied across the tarmac. “I flew a plane!” Bevan’s mechanic, known universally as Smithy, was waiting for them a few yards from the hangar. A wiry little man of indeterminate age, he set the chocks and released the hatch. As they descended, he doffed his cloth hat to Annabel, saying gallantly, “Nice to see a lady at the controls.” Once on the tarmac, Bevan instantly lit a cigarette, revealing a stress level belied by his casual demeanor. “Last time I talked a novice down was in ’Nam,” he said, quickly exhaling. “You fought in Vietnam?” Annabel eyed him suspiciously. “God, no. Not a British war, old girl. The Aussies and the Kiwis joined you folks, of course, under the ANZUS alliance. I ran supplies. A spot of black market here and there.” “Racketeering,” she said, shocked. He blew a modest smoke ring. “Beats slaughter any day. You sleep a whole lot better, too.” Annabel said nothing.

“Oh, by the way...” He fished around in his pockets. “I picked this up yesterday.” He handed her a folded notice. “Compliments of the local constabulary.” Annabel opened the sheet and stared, knuckles whitening. “But it’s—” She fell silent, willing herself not to leap to any conclusions. “Thought I recognized one of your guests.” Bevan sucked calmly on his cigarette. Annabel examined the photograph and the caption underneath. Cordelia Grace Stanton. “The police…” she murmured. “Seems they’re concerned for her safety. Sounds like she did some kind of runner, and the folks back home have their knickers in a twist.” Annabel’s brow creased. “Have you told anyone she’s here?” He shook his head. “She’s your guest.” Annabel slid the poster into her bag. “I’ll take care of it,” she said with more confidence than she felt. * Back on the island later that afternoon, Annabel paced agitatedly about the Villa. Her brains felt scrambled, her nerves on edge. Part of her wanted to

rush straight over to Cody and ask her what was going on, another told her to mind her own business. The poster said information was wanted by her family. Perhaps they were incredibly possessive of her, Annabel reasoned. Perhaps she’d had to disappear just to get a little privacy. Some families were like that. All the same, Cody did not seem the type of woman who would vanish without a word, leaving people worried for her safety. And if she had, surely it would be a good idea to get in touch with them so they could give up bothering the police and pasting up wanted posters. Annabel made herself a double espresso and examined the poster for about the thousandth time. What was it Cody had said the day before about something she regretted, something that made her feel guilty? This must be it, Annabel decided. She had lost her lover and her job and she needed space. Without really thinking it through, she had picked an island in the middle of nowhere and fled. Her family, knowing she was upset, had panicked. Or maybe her family knew nothing about her lesbianism and therefore would not understand what she was going through. It was probably asking a bit much for anyone to come out to her parents when her lover had just left her for a

man. Annabel sipped her coffee and chewed her bottom lip. She wished Cody would open up to her. All she really knew about her family was that her parents had separated when she was much younger. She had no idea whether Cody got along with her mother, whether she had sisters or brothers, or anyone else close to her in Wellington. With a sudden pang, she wondered whether they needed to get in touch with her because of some emergency. Someone might be sick, or worse. Annabel’s thoughts strayed to her own aunt and she frowned again. It was all very peculiar, she decided. But Cody would be around soon and no doubt she would have a simple explanation for everything. * With reluctant fingers, Cody tore open her mail and stacked her letters in an orderly pile. There were several from Janet. These accompanied a large bundle Janet had tied together to forward. Protruding from the stack, a long, white envelope with a distinctive embossed logo taunted her. Deciding to read the bad news first, Cody plucked it from the pile.

The letter was polite and to the point. It told her how much her employers had regretted the need to downsize and how they wished her all the best in her next career move. She was not to hesitate if they could assist her in any way with obtaining a new employer and to that end a reference was enclosed. Disbelief mounting, Cody read the said reference and told herself to breathe. It was full of glowing comments about her skills, reliability and selfmotivation. It promised any prospective employer that they would be getting a good deal, and it said nothing whatsoever about ninety thousand missing dollars. They didn’t know, Cody realized with a shock. It was almost anticlimactic. Here she was convincing herself that she would have to leave the islands—probably in the dead of night in a cargo boat—change identity, dye her hair, get a tattoo. But no. Those incompetents in the accounting division hadn’t even noticed the discrepancy. How typical! Almost drunk with relief, she leaned heavily into the sofa and took a moment to breathe. She could stay! Maybe they would just write the discrepancy off as some mysterious accounting glitch, and it would be swallowed, like most things inexplicable, in the mists of time.

“Fat chance,” she muttered to herself. Come the audit, they would leap on that extra zero like a shoal of piranhas and that would be the end of Cody Stanton’s life of crime. Shuddering, she wondered how long she had. Janet’s letters were mostly gossip and complaints about the miserable winter weather. Cody was reaching the end of them when a name leapt out at her. Margaret. She had phoned and asked for Cody’s address. She wants to see you, Janet had written in her scrawling purple ink. She says there’s something she needs to talk about. According to Janet she seemed upset that Cody had gone without discussing her plans. Cody snorted. Since when did you call your ex-lover —the one who had just traded you in for beefcake —and say, By the way, dear, I’m so traumatized about

the way you’ve treated me that I’m leaving for a month’s peace and quiet on a tropical island. Here’s the address. What a nerve! And to cap it off, Scott, her bloke, also had an opinion to share. Margaret says Scott is truly concerned. He cares about you, too. Janet had written puke! next to this in big purple letters, along with the

comment, I told her to go fuck herself, of course. Cody felt like ripping that page up and ritually burning it. Scott cares, too…How touching, how very liberal of

him. What a prince. “Jerk,” she said, and wondered all over again how a woman of Margaret’s intelligence could have been taken in by a BMW and a bunch of smarmy platitudes. Scott Drysdale was about as plausible as the Animal Liberation Front browsing a fur shop. What did Margaret want? she wondered. Their coffee machine, or maybe half the bed linen? Perhaps she’d discovered her precious Ferron tape missing. Cody allowed herself a smug little smile. As it happened, a few of Margaret’s most cherished collector’s items had found their way out of the boxes of music she had packed and into the stuff Cody had donated to the City Mission before she left. Shame. Petty, a little voice prodded, very petty . Ignoring it, Cody continued reading her mail. There was no other long, white envelope, no court summons, no letter from a law firm. Nothing. Cody wished the queasy feeling in her stomach would leave. It was ridiculous. She had some breathing space. They hadn’t found out yet, but she almost wished they had. At least then she wouldn’t

be faced with another week of uncertainty, of waiting for the ax to fall. The truth was, she was fed up with thinking about the wretched money. None of this trivia should be able to interfere with her holiday, but it did. Here she was, preparing to go round to a new lover’s house for the evening, probably the night, and all she could think about was a briefcase full of banknotes in her best friend’s bedroom. Poor Janet. What if she found out? What if she was somehow caught with the loot? That would make her an accessory. Cody cringed. Theirs was an indestructible friendship, and Janet would love her no matter what—but arrested? That could be pushing her luck. Cody cleared the pile of letters away and went inside. Looking around her bedroom, she couldn’t help but smile rather foolishly. The bed was a shameless mess, mattress askew, sheets untucked, and duvet languishing on the floor. Annabel’s tank watch and some small pearl studs sat on the window ledge and Cody examined them with careful fingers. She sighed, felt a telltale wetness between her legs and poked her head out the window to search the sky. She wanted to go ’round to Villa

Luna now. She wanted to hold Annabel, bury herself in her. The strength of her feelings struck her like a physical blow. It’s a holiday romance , she tried to tell herself, a brief intense encounter, safe because it

offers no future. She had never had a fling, although there’d been no shortage of offers. Her only other lover apart from Margaret had been her first—May, thoughtful, introspective and academic. They had met as students, both in Women’s Studies. May had offered to help Cody with an essay, then calmly seduced her. Their relationship lasted nearly two years until May returned with her parents to Canada. By that time they were more like close friends than lovers, and Cody was not even entirely sure how the transition had occurred. She had never fully understood the dynamics of that relationship. She had nothing to measure it against. May never asked for monogamy, but Cody hadn’t imagined anything else. At first she had been shocked to find May had other lovers, and she was also puzzled at her choices—always a new lesbian. “It’s my duty,” May had told her very seriously. “Women coming out need careful handling, a happy introduction to lesbianism. It’s the least I can offer.”

It sounded hilarious but May had been deadly serious. In retrospect, Cody, too, was grateful for that careful handling. May had a child now, a three-year-old daughter. She lived with her lover in Montreal. Come and see us, she had written to Cody earlier in the year. Cody thought about that invitation. It was summer over there now, she supposed. Montreal sounded like a great place to visit, and with Canada being a Commonwealth country, she would be able to get an extended visa. It wasn’t such a bad idea. She tried to picture herself sharing May’s spare room with whatever waifs and strays were passing through her home at the time. People borrowing her jeans, her CDs, her car keys. Helping themselves to her vitamins, eating her personal cache of ice cream. I’m too old for that shit. She and Margaret had just saved enough for a house, and over the past few months Cody had started looking at real estate, thrilled that they could stop renting at last. But Margaret had emptied their savings account the day before she left. If she and Scott were going to buy a place together, she would need it, she said when Cody confronted her. It was not like Cody could afford

a mortgage on her own, anyway. Margaret would pay it back as soon as she could, which—knowing her ex’s spending habits—would be when hell froze over. Cody knew she should hire a lawyer, but the thought of having to recount the sorry truth of her own stupidity to a stranger was too humiliating by far. Feeling angry with herself over this feeble cop out, she gathered up her bikini and headed off to Passion Bay. She would have to make a few tough decisions about Margaret before much longer. Meanwhile, she had just enough time for a swim before she went to Annabel’s.

Chapter Thirteen “So here you are!” Cody rolled over and squinted into the fading sun. “How was Avarua?” she asked. “Hot.” Annabel lowered herself onto the sand. She wore her dark glasses and big shady hat. Cody couldn’t see enough of her face to tell what she was thinking, but her voice seemed strained. All that flying backward and forward. It was no wonder. “Why don’t you take some time off?” she suggested, “Couldn’t Bevan fill in for a few days?” “Bevan has enough to do. It’s not his job to run the island as well.” “What about the other owners? If people want to rent their places out why should you have to be responsible?” Annabel’s mouth tightened slightly. “It’s a long story. Right now, I don’t feel like going into it. Okay?” Cody shrugged and backed off a little. “I guess I was just wondering why you have to fly into Rarotonga with some man all the time. I’m jealous already.” This drew a brief smile. “You’re welcome to come along any time you want. We could do with the extra ballast.”

Cody cringed dramatically. “Forget it. I’ll only be flying in that antique when I absolutely have to.” “It’s not so bad,” Annabel defended. She was about to add that she had been flying the Dominie herself but thought the better of it, envisaging Cody torturing herself with lurid plane crash fantasies. Extending a hand, she caressed the flat plane of Cody’s stomach, hooking her thumb into the narrow bikini briefs. “Nude sunbathing is allowed here, you know.” “You don’t say.” Cody lifted her hips slightly to enable the briefs to be discarded. Her top soon followed and Annabel stretched out alongside her, sliding her hands the length of Cody’s body. “You’re delicious,” she murmured, stifling an unwelcome pang of guilt. She had come down to the beach to show Cody the poster and ask her what was going on, not to make love to her. But the air was very warm and a mild breeze rustled the palms. The shadows were deepening around them. Soon the sky would flush pink and the first stars would appear. Annabel didn’t want to let precious hours slip away talking about something she already knew would only raise another barrier between them. They had so little time left together, she was loath to spoil the mood. The thought jolted her. So little time…

“Cody,” she paused in between kissing her shoulders. “When do you have to go back home?” Cody’s gray eyes took a moment to focus. “Home?” She sat up, gathered her towel about her, and examined Annabel’s face with a guarded expression. “I’m leaving the island in fifteen days.” Annabel groaned inwardly. So much for not spoiling the mood. She slid an arm around Cody’s shoulders. “Sorry, that was about as romantic as a tuna sandwich before bed.” “It’s okay,” Cody said. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.” She tried to sound blasé. “You know the kind of thing. Will we ever see each other again or are these just a couple of weeks we won’t be telling our grandchildren about in years to come.” She got to her feet, tied the towel around her waist and shook the sand out of her hair. Her skin had already tanned a rich caramel brown, except for her breasts, which clearly showed the marks of her bikini. She was upset. Annabel sensed her change of mood and felt her own confusion surface. “Cody.” She scrambled to her feet and reached for her arm. “This is not just a holiday fling for me. I want you to know that.” Cody turned to face her, eyes darkening to rain cloud gray. She started to say something, then seemed

to change her mind and shrugged half-heartedly. “Let’s not make this complicated.” The words sounded odd, stilted, “I mean, this is the grownups.” “What are you saying? That you want nothing more than a meaningless affair?” Cody lowered her gaze, screening the feelings her face invariably betrayed. Her silence frustrated Annabel. “Cody, I don’t want to say goodbye to you in a week or so and never lay eyes on you again.” “Well, what do you want then?” “I want to give whatever is happening between us a chance.” She tightened her grip on Cody’s arm. “Why are you being so defensive? I’m not Margaret.” Cody stared down at the fingers and shook her head slowly. “Oh, Annabel. It’s just so complicated.” “I wish you would trust me.” Annabel drew closer. She wanted Cody to speak to her, tell her of her own volition whatever had to be told. Annabel could sense an internal struggle in her, something hidden. It raised a wall between them that would have to come down if they were to have any chance of building something more than a holiday romance. And Annabel wanted that chance. She wanted it badly. But she was pushing Cody too hard, she realized,

demanding a level of trust there had not been time to establish. And, not surprisingly, Cody was running in the opposite direction. That was what the mixed messages were about. Annabel loosened her hold and reached up to stroke Cody’s hair. This was one woman she didn’t want to frighten off. The police notice could wait and so could the deep and meaningful conversation. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is hard for you. I just want to help. That’s all.” “I know.” Cody’s shoulders relaxed and she leaned against Annabel, linking her hands in the small of her back. “I have to figure some things out for myself. One day, when it’s all ancient history, I’ll tell you about it.” “So, you’re planning on us knowing one another past next week then?” A flash of wicked humor erased the despondency from Cody’s expression. “Only if you’re good,” she said. Laughing, Annabel imprisoned Cody’s wrists behind her back. With her mouth impossibly close to Cody’s, she said, “I think we both know I can be very, very good.” *

“Where did you grow up, Cody?” Annabel asked later that night. “On a farm,” Cody responded drowsily and nuzzled Annabel’s breast. “Near a little town called Waipukurau. Until I was twelve.” “And then?” “In Wellington city. The place with the permanent wind machine.” “Your family moved?” “No. My mother did, when she separated from my father.” “Any sisters or brothers?” “Just one brother,” Cody said quietly. “He was killed in a car accident when I was eighteen.” Annabel felt her stiffen, caught the unmistakable edge of grief in her voice. Instinctively she tightened her embrace. “You were close?” “Twins,” Cody said. “When my parents separated Charles stayed with dad, and we only saw each other on the holidays. It was awful. Up ’til then we had done everything together. We had a lot of fun.” She smiled, memories flooding. “One thing we used to do was dress up in each other’s clothes and fool people, even our teachers. We looked so alike, you see.”

“That must have been incredible.” Annabel was clearly fascinated by the idea. “Did you notice any difference in how people treated you when you were dressed as a boy?” “Hell, yes! One thing that really got me was putting up my hand in class. When I was dressed as Charles, I always got picked to answer questions or volunteer. Normally I could have chopped my arm off and thrown it at the teacher and she wouldn’t have noticed me.” “They say boys get more teacher time,” Annabel said. “What about at home?” “We couldn’t get away with it around Mom. She always knew. But it was a different story with Dad.” She thought about her father, always distracted with something. Back then, when Cody had asked her mother why she was leaving him, she had said it was because of her hair. She’d had dyed it blonde. But what’s wrong with that? twelve-year-old Cody had demanded.

Your father doesn’t like it. So who cares what he thinks? Cody had stamped her foot. Anyway it’s been like that for months now. That’s the whole point, Cordelia, her mother said in

her quiet way. He only just noticed. Cody shook herself back to the present. “Dad was always too busy to spend time with us. I suppose back then men didn’t anyway. You know, they left the kids to their wife.” “Not always,” Annabel said. “My Dad used to take me out to all kinds of places and sometimes we went on vacation without Mother. She’s not an outdoors person. So if it involved boats or camping, she always stayed home.” “Do they know you’re gay?” Cody asked. “Yes. It wasn’t the best news they ever had, but I think they’re coming to terms with it.” Abruptly, as if uncomfortable talking about her family, she returned the conversation to Cody. “Tell me, what was it like growing up in your country?” For a moment Cody hesitated, wanting to know more about Annabel’s world. But she was worried her questions might seem intrusive, so she replied, “I’ve never given it much thought. New Zealand’s a small place, and Waipukurau is what you might call a onehorse town. It’s the kind of place the film crews hire to make retro commercials and they don’t have to change a thing.” She snuggled closer and ran her hand over Annabel’s warm curves. “It’s a beautiful country,

Annabel, all green and natural. Tourists go wild about it, but I guess when you live there you take it for granted. We call it Godzone.” “And you’re called Kiwis aren’t you, like the fruit?” “That’s right. But in reality the Kiwi is a rather fat flightless bird that sleeps all day and comes out at night.” “Sounds like half of San Francisco,” Annabel quipped. “So what sort of things did you do as a kid?” “God, that’s so long ago...I went to school on a decrepit bus that stopped at the farm gate. There were only sixty kids in the entire school, and show and tell usually meant bringing your pet lamb or demonstrating how to make cheese. Later on I went to a girls’ boarding school, which is where my father thinks I got these lesbian ideas—as one does.” “You had a crush on the sports captain?” “ I was the sports captain.” Cody laughed. “I think maybe the best part of my childhood was playing with my brother. We did the usual stupid stuff—like trying to blow up the neighbor’s mailbox with fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day, and driving Dad’s Land Rover into the river when we were ten.” “Guy Fawkes Day?” “It’s a British thing. Four hundred years ago a bunch

of Catholics tried to blow up the English Parliament along with King James. Their leader was Guy Fawkes. He got caught and they executed him in the usual gruesome manner and ever since, people celebrate the whole deal. We build bonfires and burn effigies. There are all kinds of fireworks and parties. No one’s really sure whether it’s the poor bastard’s execution we’re meant to be celebrating or his attempt to overthrow the government.” “Astonishing,” Annabel said. “And you do this even though you’re not actually in England?” Cody nodded. “It’s one of those colonial hangovers. Lately it’s been going out of fashion because New Zealand banned fireworks. But it was bigger than Christmas when I was a kid. Kind of like the Fourth of July for you folks.” “Your childhood sounds amazing.” There was a wistful note in Annabel’s voice. In the moonlight her expression was hard to fathom, but Cody had a strong sense of some deep, unspoken sorrow. Not everyone had happy memories of childhood, she reminded herself, even people like Annabel who seemed to be born with the world served up on a platter. “How about you?” Cody asked the most innocuous

question she could think of. “Were you born in Boston? ” Annabel opened her mouth to say yes, but paused as that image repeated in her consciousness—herself on a woman’s knee, playing with something shiny. “I’ve lived there ever since I can remember,” she answered. “Were you happy?” “I had everything a child could want.” Annabel thought of her huge doll collection, her pony, her vast wardrobe of expensive dresses. She felt her eyes sting suddenly. “Mmmm,” Cody nodded sleepily. “But were you happy?” “Happy?” Annabel felt her heart thump erratically. Of course she was happy. She had the perfect family, didn’t she? The beautiful people, Clare had always called her parents. Annabel had the kind of life that was the envy of most children, certainly nothing to complain about. She had always scorned the poor-little-rich-girl syndrome. She was lucky and she knew it. But happy? “Not really,” she admitted in a whisper. “No, I wasn’t happy.” “It must have been a drag being an only child,” Cody said. “That was part of it. I tried too hard to be a good girl, I think. There wasn’t much room for fun.”

Cody did not reply, and listening to her deep even breathing, Annabel knew she had fallen asleep. For a long while she lay there, restlessly revisiting the past. Plagued by that image of the faceless woman with the shiny object, she turned onto her stomach and cuddled her pillow. The longer she spent on the island, the more she learned about Annie’s past, and the greater the uneasiness that lurked in the back of her mind.

Chapter Fourteen Cody dug her toes into the wet sand and gazed at the horizon. The beach was deserted, the sun too newly risen to have gathered strength. Wading along the water’s edge, she was lost in thought. A week. She and Annabel had been lovers for a week, and already Cody could not conceive of a future without her. But what kind of future did they have? Since that uneasy conversation on the beach a few days ago, they had avoided the topic entirely. It was as if they had reached an unspoken accord to live only for the moment. They spent most of their time together and found that they had the oddest things in common. They both liked their eggs barely cooked and without salt, they had both broken their collarbones when they were eight, each had stamp collections they could not bear to part with. Cody was often conscious of Annabel’s lavender eyes on her, a question in their depths—and something else. Sadness? She could not be sure. Cody felt confused, torn. When she was with Annabel she was gloriously happy, her flesh singing. When they made love she surrendered herself totally to the experience, feeling a powerful sense of belonging.

Sometimes she fancied irrationally that she had been waiting for Annabel all her life, that nothing mattered until now. In those moments she knew with startling clarity exactly what she wanted, marveled at the meaningless trivia of her life, hated herself for doubting the future, for all the fears that surfaced every time she was alone. “I’m falling in love with her,” she said to the ocean as a wave broke around her feet. “What shall I do?” She had lost count of the times she had framed a sentence, rehearsed her story, preparing to tell Annabel about the money. But somehow the moment never seemed quite right. There was always some reason to put it off. Some excuse, Cody corrected. Coward, she thought angrily. It was not that she didn’t trust Annabel—or was it? When Margaret left, Cody had felt the trust seep out of her, leaving a hollowness deep inside and a compulsion to protect herself. Now she had spent the past week exposing herself physically with an abandonment that shocked her. Yet all the while she knew she was pushing Annabel away emotionally. She couldn’t carry on like that if she wanted their relationship to have a chance. It was time she stopped hiding behind the excuse of the money secret and

started being honest. Cody paused and stared into the blue horizon. In that moment she knew with absolute certainty what she must do. * “I need to come into Rarotonga with you today,” Cody announced over coffee. A flutter of apprehension stirred Annabel’s insides. “Fine,” she said calmly. She resisted the urge to ask Cody why. Having sex with a woman did not mean owning her, and at the moment sex seemed to be all she did have with Cody. A reticence surfaced in her every time Annabel attempted to come close, and she had learned that confronting her only exacerbated the situation. With unsteady fingers, she poured another aromatic cup of coffee and wondered what Cody planned to do in Rarotonga. “I need to drop by home and pick up a few things before we leave.” Cody said, hastily draining her cup. Annabel felt that familiar churning in the pit of her stomach as she watched Cody slip into her sandals. She was wearing outrageously short shorts and a

clinging white T-shirt that emphasized her perfect torso and the deep tan she had acquired since coming to the island. Her limbs were smooth and muscular, and Annabel was suddenly flooded with images of her naked, of the two of them entwined in fierce passion, of her face saturated with sweat and Cody. Don’t leave me, she implored wordlessly, then felt humiliated. Nothing had prepared her for this—she felt almost dependent. It was an unexpected development and one she did not welcome. Annabel wondered if it was some kind of sex addiction. It happened. And after all, she’d been celibate for almost a year before coming to the island and she was still withdrawing from the adrenalin highs of her job. She didn’t need to repeat that addictive pattern in her relationships. It was destructive and ultimately unsatisfying—short-term gratification, nothing more. Not that there was anything wrong with having sex for plain enjoyment, no strings attached. But she had been there and done that. She wanted more this time. She wanted to be close to Cody. She wanted the intense intimacy they experienced in lovemaking to extend to other levels. Yet for that to be possible Cody had to trust her, and Annabel was beginning to despair of that ever happening.

Sometimes she felt like grabbing her and shaking her, yelling that she wasn’t the only one who was scared. That she didn’t have the monopoly on baggage from past relationships, that nothing she was hiding could be any worse than some of Annabel’s less appetizing exploits. Annabel could not shake a sense of unease about Cody’s sudden decision to come to Rarotonga. It had to be something serious. She would not make that dreaded flight on a whim. Fearing that whatever potential their relationship had was about to be lost on some stupid technicality or false assumption, Annabel said, “Please tell me what this is about.” Cody gazed at her blankly. “What do you mean?” “If there’s an errand you need to do, maybe I can help… you know, spare you the flight from hell.” Cody shook her head. “No, thanks anyway. I need to do this myself.” “I’m not stupid, Cody.” Annabel struggled to dampen down her frustration. “I know you have stuff to resolve, and I don’t expect you to discuss your personal affairs with me. But maybe there’s something I can do.” “You can’t. Trust me.” Was it all about pride? Annabel wondered. Was Cody stubborn about accepting help because she did

not want to feel beholden? Sensitive to the disparity in their situations, Annabel had told Cody almost nothing about her true financial position. She knew Cody perceived her as having resources—a nice house, a profession—but nothing that could create an impasse between them. From their conversations she knew Cody saw a similar future for herself, only she would have to buy her house instead of inheriting it. She had teased Annabel about this, but it was light-hearted. Yet if Cody had a financial problem, Annabel wanted her to know she could help. Taking a risk, she said, “If you need some money—” “I don’t.” Cody flushed. “I know things can be tough financially after a breakup,” Annabel said. “I’m only saying I could lend you whatever you need.” “Thanks. That’s really nice of you. But I’m fine.” Cody avoided looking directly at her. Dropping a quick hard kiss on Annabel’s mouth she said, “See you at the strip.” * Looking for distraction in the two hours she had to kill before the flight, Annabel decided to sort out once

and for all why Aunt Annie had insisted that she come to Moon Island. She had allowed herself to become so absorbed by Cody over the past week, she had given the mystery little time. And, if she were completely honest with herself, she had been relieved to have an excuse to abandon those uncomfortable forays into her aunt’s private world. No matter how much she told herself that Aunt Annie wouldn’t have written that letter if she hadn’t wanted Annabel to do what she was doing, it still felt underhanded and voyeuristic. With reluctant fingers, she opened the diary to where she had hurriedly closed it a week ago.

I am so fed up with this great big stomach and constant rushing to the bathroom. Rebecca is very patient with me, the dear angel. No matter how crotchety and unreasonable my demands, she is all tenderness. Sometimes I feel so frightened about having the baby and I hate the way my body is out of control. The doctor says I have only a week or so to endure this discomfort and I have certainly reached the stage where I shall sing and dance the day I feel my first pains. Rebecca has already engaged a nurse for the baby and we have chosen a list of

names, all girls’! Annabel slid a bookmark into the diary and dropped it heavily onto her knee. Her heart was racing. She felt dizzy, a little nauseated. Aunt Annie had had a baby. She couldn’t believe it. What had happened to the child? Was there a child? Agitated, she began flicking through the pages to catch phrases, words.

… took so long ...weak… The baby is so beautiful, the most beautiful baby in the world… Rebecca is besotted. We are calling her Lucy… leaving for Moon Island tomorrow...so tired but Lucy is a vision… The entire diary was full of Lucy. Lucy’s first smile, sitting up, eating solids, first words, starting to walk. Annabel’s hands were shaking uncontrollably by the time she reached the final page. Her whole body felt slippery with perspiration. Lucy! She had never heard anyone mention a cousin. They’d be the same age this year—thirty-three. Annabel felt momentary outrage, quickly followed by pain. She thought of her huge toy-filled bedroom, the

inanimate playmates that had substituted for other children, the desperate loneliness of her growing up. From the time she was a small child, she had been so painfully shy about her appearance that she had trouble making friends. People had never meant to be cruel. She came to realize that eventually. But their comments and stares had made her profoundly selfconscious. The sensitive child she had been was forced deep into a protective shell. How different it would have been if she’d had a sister, a cousin, to grow up with—Lucy . Annabel bit her lip and located her aunt’s next diary. For a moment she sat just holding it, a curious heaviness settling on her chest. When she opened it, she could not put it down and read solidly until the sound of an engine intruded on her consciousness. “Damn.” She got to her feet and peered out the window. The Dominie made a low pass over the Villa then out above Passion Bay, wheeling westward for the approach to the Marama Bay landing strip. Annabel pictured Cody waiting at the strip and felt a flare of anger. Her taciturn behavior this morning had been downright hurtful, and Annabel was not in the mood to spend the next two hours sitting in silence with her. She could delay going into Rarotonga, she

decided. There were plenty of supplies and she had more important things to do. If Cody didn’t like it, too bad. She hadn’t exactly welcomed Annabel’s attempts to treat her like she was more than a fling. In fact, she seemed to be going out of her way to ensure their relationship would never exist outside the bedroom. Resolutely Annabel marched into the kitchen and lifted the hand-piece from her radio set. * “Annabel won’t be coming,” Bevan Mitchell informed Cody as she tossed her bag into the cabin. “You’re invited to dinner with her when you get back.” Cody raised her eyebrows. “Thanks,” she said stiffly. She could not help but glance across her shoulder in the direction of Annabel’s house. Was she all right? It was not like Annabel to skip her chores on Raro. Conscious of a curious pull, she was tempted to abandon her plans and head straight for Villa Luna. But common sense got the better of her. If Annabel wasn’t well or needed her, she would have said so. They weren’t joined at the hip. Telling herself to act maturely, Cody clambered aboard the Dominie. “Business in Rarotonga?” Bevan observed as he

taxied the plane around to prepare for takeoff. “A little.” She caught his quizzical look, but would not be drawn, instead making a show of reading her book. She had no idea what it said on the page. All she could see was Annabel’s face, shadowed with misgiving. She should have answered her questions, Cody realized belatedly. She owed her some kind of an explanation, even if it left out crucial details. Every time Annabel tried to reach her, Cody was aware that she withdrew, keeping an artificial distance between them that denied her own emotional reality. This she justified in terms of keeping her secret safe. Yet she knew there was another reason. The truth was she was afraid of making herself vulnerable, of Annabel somehow finding her wanting and rejecting her. They were from such different worlds. Cody was acutely conscious that she had almost nothing to offer a new relationship—Margaret had torn so much away from her, materially and emotionally. Gazing down at the watery infinity far below, she was gripped by a tugging sensation so intense it made her gasp. It was as if she were bound to Annabel by some mysterious force. The strain of parting wrenched at her gut, unleashing a flood of sense memories—of Annabel wetly astride her, of their bodies sated,

entwined, yet still craving. She slumped in her seat, the paperback sliding from her hands. She knew she had a choice—either she could run away, deluding herself that it was for the best, or she could take the chance Fate had thrown her way. A woman like Annabel happened once in a lifetime. Only a blithering idiot would slink off into the night, paralyzed by some temporary loss of self-confidence. She could not allow the past to impact so profoundly on her future, whatever it might hold. When she got back to Moon Island later that day, she would speak to Annabel. Maybe she wouldn’t tell her absolutely everything. But she would be honest about her feelings and her fears. What did she have to lose? Cody managed not to scream or otherwise make a fool of herself during the rest of the flight, however she did gulp a much needed breath as they touched down. “There. Not so bad now, was it?” Bevan pronounced with the confidence of a dentist extracting a tooth. Cody grunted a response and refrained from kissing the ground. “I’ll see you back here at four then,” he said as she headed for the terminal. It seemed to take forever to buy a return ticket to Auckland.

“For tomorrow?” The agent seemed suspicious of her haste. Cody figured most people made their travel arrangements a little further in advance. “It’s a family emergency,” she said. “The outbound flights are full. You’ll have to go on standby.” “Fine.” Cody knew she sounded as doleful as she felt. He took a long hard look at her, then said, “Just a minute,” and vanished with her passport into a room behind the counter. Cody’s stomach gurgled with nerves. Was this it? she wondered. Was she about to be handcuffed and read her rights? Did criminals have any rights here? She flicked a sweeping glance around the terminal, tempted to make a break for it. Bevan knew these islands. She could ask him to fly her somewhere she would never be found. Maybe she could pick fruit or dive for pearls or something. “We found a cancellation and you’re booked,” the clerk said keying in data. “Check in is at four p.m.” He asked all the usual questions, then handed back her passport and asked her to check the itinerary before he printed out the tickets. There was no sign of nervous agitation in his demeanor, no hint that he might be

setting her up. Feeling like she had just slipped through a dragnet, Cody paid her money and stuffed the tickets into her bag. With a polite thank you, she fled the terminal, heady with relief. To her surprise, Bevan was already at the Dominie when she got there. He had said he would be in Avarua picking up their fruit order, but it looked like Smithy had already completed the chore. Puzzled, she watched him stacking cargo in the hangar instead of the plane. “We won’t be going back today,” he answered her unspoken question. “Fuel problems. Looks like there’s water in it, and God knows what else. Someone forgot to clean the barrel out. Happens all the time.” “Can’t we get the fuel from somewhere else?” He rolled his eyes eloquently. “We could, but the problem is that we’ve already refueled. So the lines are contaminated. I just tested her and—” He slid a finger across his throat. “But I have to get back today.” She didn’t add that her flight to New Zealand left the next morning. “There’s no chance of that. I have to drain the fuel lines, filter the damned stuff, and test-run the motors for at least half an hour. We’ll be lucky if she’s airworthy before tomorrow lunchtime, and Smithy’s off shortly.”

Cody raised frantic eyes. “Can’t I help? I know something about motors.” Bevan shook his head. “She’s not a car. I’ll book you in at The Rarotongan and give you a call tomorrow when we’re ready to roll.” “Damn it! I don’t believe this.” Cody surveyed the little silver plane with disgust. “Does anyone else round here fly charter?” “Not to Moon,” Bevan said. “And I already checked to see if I could get you something on spec.” “Shit.” Cody wiped away the sweat that was gathering across her brow. “Sorry, kid,” Bevan said. “Even if we could get her going today we’d be flying at night and there’s no way we could land. You’ve seen the strip. There’s not a marking on it, much less lights.” Cody pulled a deep shaky breath. “I know. It’s just that I’m leaving for New Zealand tomorrow morning, and I really need to speak to Annabel before I go.” Bevan’s face was impassive. “There’s a short-wave transmitter here. We could try radioing her.” Cody gripped his arm. “Thank you. Yes! The radio!” She hovered impatiently as Bevan signaled, “Moon. Moon Radio. This is Dominie two-one-eight-five. Come in please. Come in Moon. Do you read me…

Repeat do you read me? Over.” There was nothing, just an occasional pulse of static. He tried again. “Looks like Moon is out of range today,” he noted. “It depends on the weather. Why don’t you keep trying while I finish getting this stuff in the hangar?” He showed Cody how the radio worked and left her to it. After a fruitless hour, she flopped into a chair and stared listlessly out at the day. “No luck?” Bevan joined her, taking a couple of beers from a decrepit refrigerator and handing one to her. “If they had decent phones out there I could call her,” Cody muttered. “But no. That would be too simple. That island must be the only place on earth that still has those ancient crank handle things.” “Miss Adams liked to keep things the way they were. The simpler life… you know.” “Island madness,” Cody said. “I always wondered what that term meant. Now I know—no phone, no TV, and no clue what’s going on in the rest of the world.” Between sips of beer, Bevan radioed the island a few more times then said, “I’ll take you over to the hotel.” Cody hesitated, then gave in. There didn’t seem to

be any alternative.

Chapter Fifteen It was first light when Annabel finally stopped reading through her aunt’s letters and diaries, but the beauty of the new day was lost on her. Dazed, she went into the kitchen and mechanically brewed a pot of extra strength espresso. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had registered something odd about yesterday. Her eyes strayed past the handset on her bureau, and she remembered. The Dominie. She hadn’t heard it return. It was possible she had been so absorbed in her reading she hadn’t noticed the familiar throaty hum of the flyover, but she doubted it. Besides, Cody hadn’t arrived for dinner, and Annabel couldn’t imagine her just not turning up. With stiff fingers she poured coffee into her mug and carelessly gulped the hot, bitter liquid. She felt curiously numb, assailed by a sense of unreality. Her eyes swept the living area, halting at a large portrait of Aunt Annie. Why? she asked wordlessly. Craving some fresh air, she stalked out onto the verandah and stood propped against the rail, gazing absently out to sea. The morning breeze was unexpectedly cool, making her skin goosebump. She took a deep breath, drawing

in the rich, honey musk scent of frangipani and the sweet sharpness of lime. On the slopes below, spires of rose-tinted creamy flowers clouded the mango trees, rising like clusters of spicy candles from the glistening wine-tinted leaves. This place was drowning in flowers, she thought. Her head felt foggy with fragrance, overcrowded with a crush of fragmented memories. Her father. Poor Ann… more unstable by the year . Her mother. Don’t be so hard on her, Theo, she’s had a difficult time. A “difficult time”. Understatement of the year. Engaged to a man whose advances she detested and who had finally raped her, resulting in a pregnancy—in Lucy. Annie had moved to Moon Island after the baby was born and for almost two years she and Rebecca had lived in absolute bliss. Her diaries so clearly documented her happiness, her absolute passion for Rebecca, the magic of their time together. Just after Lucy’s second birthday, Rebecca reluctantly traveled to New York for her brother’s wedding and to attend to what Annie had described as “family matters.” Annie had wanted to accompany her, but Lucy had just recovered from a fever and the two women decided the long trip by steamer and airplane

would be too difficult for the toddler. Two months later Rebecca was killed in a car accident, only days before she was due to return. By the time Annie learned what had happened, her lover had already been buried. Rebecca’s family contested her will, in which everything had been left to Annie. And they won, for Annie was so devastated she simply couldn’t face a legal battle. Fortunately for her, the “family matters” Rebecca had mentioned included transferring Moon Island and a substantial portion of her investments entirely into Annie’s name, transactions uncannily completed in the week before her death. Much of Annie’s wealth had originated with these assets. Shattered by her loss, Annie traveled back home to Boston. What happened there Annabel could only guess. Her aunt had left no diaries for almost ten years. Annabel turned the house upside down, opening roll after roll of letters, skimming through every paper she could find. It was as though the missing years did not exist. And, worst of all, it seemed that Lucy had disappeared off the face of the earth. The child was never mentioned again. Annabel gazed into the glare of the morning, hands pressed to her throbbing temples. She felt choked, but

unable to cry. She could remember times with her aunt, stilted conversations over dinner, her parents looking on with mask-like smiles and another emotion in their eyes. Anger? Fear? Aunt Annie had once invited her to Moon Island, but her parents had forbidden the trip, and the invitation had never been repeated. On one of the rare occasions she had been alone with her aunt as a child, Annabel could remember glowing with pleasure at her kind words, her support. They had talked for hours, Annabel confiding her worst fears about being shunned because of her albinism, about feeling unloved and unlovable. She remembered now what Annie had said. Love is always there for us. But we

have to look it in the face, expose our tender self. Sometimes it’s easier to hide. As time went by, Annabel developed a special bond with her aunt and made it her business to see her as often as she could. Annie divided her time between San Francisco and her beloved island, and after graduation, Annabel became her aunt’s frequent guest at the Russian Hill apartment. It was Annie who shared her grief over the breakup with Clare. Yet never once had she mentioned her own tragedy, her life with

Rebecca, her child. Annabel felt oddly hurt by this. Annie had loved her, yet apparently she had not trusted her enough to share these secrets. Did she think Annabel would judge her as harshly as others had? Why was Lucy never spoken of? Had something awful happened to her? Exhausted, Annabel took a shower and crawled into bed. Despite the coffee, she could not keep her eyes open. She would sleep, she decided. Then she would go find Cody. It was time they talked. * Annabel glanced about her and realized her feet had carried her automatically to Hibiscus Villa. “Cody,” she called. The door was locked. Annabel sat down on the verandah. They must have stayed in Rarotonga for some reason, her common sense informed her. What if they hadn’t? What if something was wrong? A wild panic gripped her and she bolted back along the path. She was panting hard by the time she reached her front door. Heart pounding, she rushed inside and radioed Bevan Mitchell. The response was immediate. “Moon Radio. This is

Dominie two-one-eight-five. I read you. Over.” “Where are you?” Annabel burst out. “Over!” “At five hundred feet. Twelve o’clock high. Out.” Annabel slammed down the set and marched outside just in time to see the little plane circle her house and then carry on to the airstrip. Furious, she stalked back indoors, gathered up her riding gear, and headed straight for Kahlo’s stable. * “Where the hell have you been?” She glared at Bevan. He pulled on his cigarette. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d gone and committed suicide out there. I’m touched.” Annabel bit her lip. She was behaving like an idiot. Distractedly, she demanded. “Where’s Cody?” Bevan removed the cigarette and Annabel noticed him stiffen. “She left this morning,” he said quietly. “Left?” Annabel’s mouth went dry. “We tried to make radio contact with you yesterday and again this morning, but we couldn’t raise you.” He felt about in his shirt and produced a folded slip of paper. “She asked me to give you this.” Annabel stared down at it for a moment, then stuffed

it into her pocket. “She seemed upset,” the pilot added carefully. “Did she—” Annabel tried to frame a question. “She was traveling back to New Zealand,” Bevan told her. “That’s all I know. I’m sorry.” Annabel gave him a nod, then, on shaking legs, mounted Kahlo and reined her toward the beach. “I won’t be coming tomorrow,” she told the pilot. “There’s just one guest to meet. Can you handle everything?” “No problem.” He started unloading the plane. “I’ll radio when we get here.” With a brief wave of thanks, Annabel rode off. Cody had gone. Right when she needed her. I’ve gambled and lost, Annabel reflected bitterly. It had probably been naive to expect any degree of commitment from someone who was still getting over the breakup of a long-term relationship. All the same, she felt let down. Cody had no doubt intended to come back to Moon Island last night—if only to collect her stuff from Hibiscus Villa. They would have spoken of course, and Cody would have invented some bullshit reason for her hasty departure. Whatever was really going on for her, Annabel felt sure she would be kept in the dark. Tears stinging, she whipped Kahlo into a gallop,

weaving in and out of the surf until she reached the familiar crescent of Passion Bay. She slowed only as they neared the track to Villa Luna, tethering Kahlo in the late afternoon shade of a palm. “I’ll be back soon, girl.” She patted the mare and strolled down toward the water’s edge, reaching into her pocket for Cody’s letter. It was empty. Frowning, Annabel stuffed her hands into every other pocket, then ran frantically up the beach. The crumpled note she finally retrieved from the tide was soaked through. A wave flopped across her feet as she peeled it open. She stared in disbelief, then she tried to laugh. But the only sound that emerged was harsh sobbing. Cody’s writing was dispersed across the page in a mass of inky rivulets. Only the first line was legible.

I’m sorry Annabel. I wanted to tell you, but…

Chapter Sixteen Cody woke up in a small crowded room, its windows wet with condensation, the sky beyond them a lethargic gray. Shivering, she closed her eyes and willed her surroundings to disappear. Janet was still asleep, her cheeks rosy and her long brown hair tumbling across the pillow. Studying her best friend, Cody felt a rush of affection and wished for a moment that she could have fallen in love with Janet. Life would have been so uncomplicated. Janet was calm, happy, a great cook and enthusiastic gardener. They liked the same music, movies and sports. Their backgrounds were similar and they lived in the same city. What more could a woman want? Cody conjured up a vision of making love with Janet. It seemed to revolve around cuddling her and stroking her hair. It felt comforting instead of exciting. She stretched out an experimental finger and touched Janet’s cheek, then wriggled a little closer so she could put an arm around her. Janet opened sleepy eyes, smiled at Cody and moved into her arms with a sigh of contentment. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said and kissed Cody’s cheek.

“I’ve missed you, too.” Cody gently kissed her mouth. Their eyes met. Cody caught the uncertainty in Janet’s, but she still slid her hand under her friend’s pajama jacket and stroked her back. She felt so different from Annabel; she was rounder and softer. Cody continued her exploration and kissed her again. “Cody!” Janet pressed her hands flat against Cody’s chest, pushing her away. “What are you doing?” Cody’s heart thumped and her head felt heavy. “I—” She wavered. What indeed? “I want to make love to you,” she said flatly. Janet examined Cody’s face. “Are you sure? I mean, I’ve had more romantic propositions.” Cody frowned. “I—” she began. “Oh, damn.” She rolled restlessly onto her back and heaved a profound sigh. “Hell, I’m sorry, Janet. I’m just being a schmuck.” Janet laughed. “Well I’m about to be nominated for the idiot of the year award. If this gets out I’ll be a laughing stock at the club. The only dyke in Wellington fool enough to turn Cody Stanton down. Ever since word got out about you and Margaret, the phone’s been running hot with desperates offering me bribes to fix them up with you.” “You’re joking!” Despite herself, Cody grinned. “With me?”

“False modesty never did suit you,” Janet said pertly. “If I could sell timeshares in your body, I’d be a rich woman.” She paused, pulled Cody into an embrace and kissed her sensually. “See,” she said against her mouth after a moment. “Nice, but… nothing. Who is she?” Cody met her friend’s amused brown eyes candidly. “Her name is Annabel, Annabel Worth. And she...we...” “I see,” Janet said, with expressive eyebrows. “Tell me more.” She got out of bed, hurriedly pulling on a thick chenille robe. “Talk to me while I make coffee.” Cody threw on some clothes and padded after her. The sight of Janet’s pink Formica kitchen table and padded chrome chairs made her feel safe somehow. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight?” she said, plunking herself down. “Lots of times.” Janet cranked up the coffee grinder and shoved thick slices of cinnamon bread in the toaster. “Especially with Helena Bonham Carter.” “God.” Cody knocked her forehead playfully against the table. “I mean with someone you can actually smell. ” “Twice,” Janet said. “And as you know it was a very bad idea both times.”

“Suzannah and Connie, right?” “Don’t let’s go there. I’ll only want to cut my wrists. So… would this be some roundabout way of telling me you’ve met the love of your life?” Cody sighed. “She’s wonderful.” “Which explains why you propositioned me so charmingly a few minutes ago,” Janet said with cool irony. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?” “The toast’s ready,” Cody muttered. Janet buttered the hot slices and stacked them on a plate. Pouring coffee into their cups, she said, “If she’s so wonderful what the hell are you doing back here?” “It’s a long story.” Cody sipped her coffee, thankful to feel the caffeine kick in. “Promise you won’t yell at me. There’s something I need to tell you.” “It’s that briefcase, isn’t it?” Janet’s eyes narrowed. * Two hours later cody dialed the Personnel Manager at her ex-employer’s and booked an appointment. “Did you tell her?” Janet asked. “Not over the phone. I don’t want to get there and find a paddy wagon waiting.” Janet laughed. “I’m sure the boys in blue have better

things to do, like maybe catching muggers and rapists. ” Cody grinned at her. “Let’s do lunch.” “Can you afford it?” “I have exactly two hundred, forty-two dollars and sixty cents to my name.” She and Janet surveyed the neatly stacked banknotes lined up along the kitchen table. Both women sighed audibly. “Ninety thousand dollars,” Janet said. “It doesn’t look like that much, does it?” “Just a lot of paper,” Cody said quietly. * Annabel paced her verandah restlessly, a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She hadn’t smoked in years and had coughed and spluttered for the first few drags. She’d found a half-full box in one of her Aunt’s cupboards and figured they must have been left by a guest; one of Annie’s lovers, perhaps. In recent years Annie had a few, Annabel recalled. Perhaps she felt Rebecca would not have wanted her to be alone all this time. Annabel wondered if any of them had stayed on the

island and decided it was unlikely. Annie would not have brought another woman into the home she had shared with the love of her life. How did that feel? she mused. To find the love of your life. Was there only one? Did you just know when she came along that there would be no other like her? Ever. Or was it all just a myth? Could you spend your entire life looking for her, only to find somehow you missed one another —that something went wrong in the universe the day you were destined to meet? A plane was delayed or it rained and she caught a taxi instead of walking through the park where your paths should have crossed. Was it the luck of the draw, and nothing more? It was three days since Cody had gone, and Annabel had given up wondering what else her note had said. She had interrogated the staff at the Rarotongan and lied through her teeth to Air New Zealand officials. All she had managed to elicit was that Cody Stanton had left for Auckland, New Zealand. She had given no forwarding instructions for her mail and had paid cash for her hotel room. Annabel had contemplated going to the police but, thinking of the poster, she held back. If Cody was in any kind of trouble the last thing she wanted to do was make things worse for her.

As it happened she had little choice in the matter, for the police, finally discovering Cody had been on Moon Island, contacted her. After offering condolences on the death of her Aunt—the donor of a sea rescue craft to the local station—the young sergeant was remarkably forthcoming. He even phoned his Wellington counterparts for more information. “A relative, Miss Margaret Redmond, wishes to contact Miss Stanton,” he explained to Annabel. “She believes Miss Stanton may be depressed, possibly suicidal. A family dispute it seems.” Annabel kept her face impassive. “Really? Margaret Redmond?” What was Cody’s ex doing going to the police with a story like that? “Miss Redmond said something about arranging a reconciliation,” the officer said. Annabel felt the blood drain from her face. A reconciliation? That explained everything. “Well, there’s nothing more for us to do now that Miss Stanton has returned home,” he said, obviously pleased to have ‘solved’ the case. “I’ll notify Wellington. Thanks for your help, Ms. Worth.” “My pleasure,” Annabel said, her voice laced with irony. The days that followed were a nightmare. Trying to

force Cody out of her mind, Annabel had gone over her Aunt’s diaries again, scouring for more clues about what had happened after Rebecca died. In her mind she constructed version after version of the truth.

Annie had gotten a job in Boston and Lucy had died tragically of some obscure illness. Annie and Lucy had gone to live with relatives in Europe and Lucy had been killed in a drowning accident. Lucy’s fever turned out to be meningitis and she had died soon after Annie reached Boston. If only Cody had stayed, Annabel thought distractedly as she stubbed out her cigarette. More than anything, she longed to discuss the whole mysterious business with someone else, gain another woman’s perspective. There was something blindingly obvious she was just not seeing. And somewhere in the back of her memory a faint chord registered, a phrase ran through her head over and over: She need never

know. Who had said that? Her brows knitted as fragments shifted in and out of focus. The letter Jessup had asked her about—addressed to “Lucy”; the uncanny sense of déjà vu that had beset her ever since she set foot on the island; the missing diaries; the family

silence around Annie’s life and that of her child; the inheritance. Annabel churned it over and over, poured another scotch, lit another cigarette. She was becoming obsessed. Pull yourself together , she ordered sternly. She had to stop thinking about it, creating a soap opera out of her life. Abruptly she froze, choking on a mouthful of scotch. It hit her with such blinding clarity she almost fainted. “No,” she whispered. It wasn’t possible. It simply couldn’t be. But every cell in her body knew.

Chapter Seventeen Janet saw Cody off at the airport. “Well, you can’t afford a taxi, can you?” she joked innocently. Cody held her close, “I love you.” “Oh, Cody!” Janet clutched her. “I hope everything works out.” Cody squeezed back tight. “Me, too.” She handed Janet a tissue and waited for her to mop up, then bent to kiss her. “I still can’t believe they bought that story about you not looking at the amount on the check.” “Well, I guess they figured no one in accounts noticed, so why would I?” “You were dead lucky.” Janet slowly shook her head. “I don’t know what you were thinking. You could have gone to jail.” “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Cody said. “I’ll tell you what’s a good idea. Making your scumsucking ex give you back the money she stole. It’s time you stopped being so damned nice. That woman would take the cane from a blind man.” “I will. Honestly. As soon as I get back,” Cody promised, entertained by her friend’s choice of phrase. Now that Margaret had proven herself to be a rat, the

gloves were off. Janet could badmouth her as much as she liked. “Be safe, and come home soon.” Janet gave her a long hard look, then smiled. “Bye for now.” “Bye sweetie.” Cody planted a kiss on her cheek and walked through the departure gate without looking back. * Mopping sweat from her face, Cody slung her cabin bag over her shoulder and strolled toward the cargo hangers. Heat shimmered in waves across the tarmac. There was no sign of the Dominie. She checked her watch, surprised. “You lookin’ for someone?” A small weathered man in white overalls approached her. “Yes, is Bevan Mitchell about?” she asked politely. “Not ’ere,” she was told. “Lad’s gone ’ome. His mum passed on.” Catching Cody’s startled eyes, he added, “He didn’t take the Dominie. She’s still ’ere. I’m the mechanic.” He wiped a hand on his overalls and held it out. “Name’s Smith. Round ’ere they call me Smithy.” Cody shook hands gingerly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. er… Smithy.” She shot a quick uncertain look at the

sky. “So, um...who’s flying the Moon Island shuttle?” “The lady ’erself. Miz Worth.” Cody blanched. “Annabel?” It came out more like a loud squeak than a question. The mechanic nodded as though humoring the simple-minded. “Miz Worth’s been flying ’er the last few days. Cap’n Mitchell taught ’er. Says she’s a natural.” “A natural,” Cody repeated dumbly. Born to fly. And Bevan had taught her. Bastard. The thought of Annabel flying that dilapidated apology of a plane… The old mechanic rambled on in his thick cockney English. “Nothin’ wrong with lady fliers—’Melia Earhart, Amy Johnson, Jean Batten. ’Course Cap’n Mitchell said she weren’t to fly on ’er own, but you know Miz Worth.” He seemed to laugh and cough all at once. Cody ran a nervous hand over her hair. “Is she expected this afternoon?” “Guess so.” He glanced up toward the sun. “Due any time, I’d say. You can rest yer bones over there.” He indicated a small bench in the shade of the hanger. Fanning herself, Cody gratefully occupied the seat. She could barely sit still knowing she would be seeing Annabel any minute. Her stomach rolled and fluttered with anticipation. Indelible images crowded her mind

—Annabel on Kahlo, her hair streaming back from her face… Annabel lying asleep beside her, flushed with passion spent. This would be a whole new beginning. No secrets, no half-truths. She didn’t have to wait long before she detected the familiar whine of Bevan Mitchell’s pride and joy. The little silver plane landed elegantly and taxied off the runway and over toward them. Cody watched the pilot jump out and her heart turned over. Annabel wore a thin silk shirt tucked into khaki pants and a battered bomber jacket. This she removed as the heat greeted her, but she kept on her dark glasses and thin leather flying gloves. Cody could hear her talking to the English mechanic but couldn’t make out a word they were saying. Annabel appeared to be indicating something on one wing and Smithy was poring over the flap. She looked very assured, hands on hips, attention totally absorbed by the plane. Then, as if she sensed she was being watched, she turned around and stared toward the hanger. “Annabel!” Cody waved and hurried across the hot tarmac, overwhelmed. “Thank God. I mean—” “Well, imagine seeing you here,” Annabel drawled softly. “Coming over today?”

Her tone was so cool and impersonal, Cody flinched. “Yes. If you’ll take me.” “Sure. I’ve got to pick up a few supplies first. But I won’t be long.” “I could give you a hand,” Cody offered. “Thanks,” Annabel said cursorily. “But Smithy’s coming into Avarua with me. I’m sure we can manage between us.” She sounded polite and disinterested. Small shock waves rippled through Cody. She wished she could see Annabel’s eyes but she hadn’t removed her glasses. In fact she had barely glanced at Cody. “Let’s go, Smithy.” She signaled the mechanic as she peeled off her gloves and tossed them into the Dominie. “Sit in the plane, if you want,” she told Cody in a flat tone. “But it’s probably cooler in the hangar.” With that, she strolled off with the mechanic. As they moved out of sight, Cody rounded on the hapless Dominie and delivered a swift kick to its undercarriage. “Shit,” she muttered to herself. “Looks like you blew it, kid.” * “I didn’t know you could fly,” Cody commented once

they were safely off the ground and leveling off. Sitting next to Annabel, she was dazzled by her seemingly effortless control. “Officially I can’t, but these are the Cook Islands. They see it as a form of driving. So long as you buy the local license and drive a cop from the police station to the roundabout and back, to prove you know the difference between the brakes and the accelerator, you’re legal. In my case Bevan vouched for me and voilà.” “Remarkable.” Annabel didn’t seem to notice the irony in her tone. Cody tried again. “So how are you?” “I’m fine. You?” Cody’s throat felt tight. “I’ve had better weeks.” She stretched out a hand, resting it on the warmth of Annabel’s thigh. “You look stunning as a pilot,” she told her truthfully. Annabel didn’t reply and Cody became aware of a tension in the other woman’s body, a rejection of her touch. Self-consciously she withdrew her hand. “Is something wrong?” she asked shakily. “Let’s talk when we reach the island. I need to concentrate on getting us there in one piece.” The next ninety minutes were spent in silence,

Annabel intent on her task, Cody trying to control her rising panic. She only had limited time left on the island now, she thought with dismay, and she could not afford to extend her vacation. Maybe her letter hadn’t struck quite the right chord. Annabel was obviously still upset about her leaving the way she had. Cody could only hope they would be able to resolve their differences before she had to leave. “Would you like to come up to Villa Luna for a coffee?” Annabel asked as she secured the plane after a textbook landing. She could have been talking to a stranger, Cody thought miserably. But she accepted anyway and, lugging a box of supplies, followed Annabel’s athletic figure through the banana palms. Annabel was obviously determined to keep her at a distance. What did it all mean? “Annabel,” she blurted the moment they entered the villa. “Is there someone else?” Annabel halted. “I don’t know. Is there?” “For me?” Cody was confused. “Of course not!” “So what in hell was it that sent you rushing back to New Zealand so fast you couldn’t even say goodbye?” She stalked into the sitting room, Cody hot on her heels.

“Didn’t you read my note?” “I would have. If you hadn’t used a damned fountain pen.” Cody felt like some giant hand was squeezing her gut. “I don’t understand,” she said unevenly. “It got wet. I was riding along the beach and it was in my pocket and…” Annabel started to pour herself a drink then slammed the bottle down. “Oh, what’s the use? Even if I had read it, how do you think I would have felt having you disappear on me like that?” “It wasn’t my fault the bloody Dominie broke down and I couldn’t get back.” “Oh, and I suppose if that hadn’t happened, you were planning to tell me all about Margaret.” She broke off, looking flushed. “Margaret?” Cody’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about?” Annabel folded her arms. “I’m talking about your cozy reconciliation.” “Jesus, Annabel!” Cody flung herself onto the settee. “I haven’t laid eyes on Margaret since the day she walked out on me. Where the blazes did you get that idea?” Annabel crossed the room and located a sheet of paper. “Here.” She thrust it at Cody.

Cody scanned the flyer. “Where did this come from?” “The police. They told me ‘family’ were trying to get hold of you for a reconciliation. And when I asked, the family turned out to be one Margaret Redmond.” Cody stared down at her own face and nearly cried with relief. A wanted poster. Her worst nightmare. And it had nothing to do with the money. She wiped a hand weakly across her forehead and willed her heart to slow down. “I went back to New Zealand to sort out some urgent business,” she said quietly. “But it had nothing to do with Margaret. I hope you believe me.” She reached out and took Annabel’s hand. “Oh, Annabel. I was so upset about not getting back to the island that day, and I have such a lot to tell you. I want us to spend every minute of this week together.” Annabel stiffened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Her voice was tight and still a little distant. “You see, I’m flying back home tomorrow. I didn’t know what was going on with you and I needed to do this. I couldn’t delay any longer, so…” “Home?” Cody whispered. “Home, as in Boston?” “That’s right.” Annabel pulled free of Cody and moved across to the liquor cabinet. “Like you, I have some urgent business to attend to. But the difference

is, I’m letting you know before I disappear.” She sipped at a scotch and Cody watched her through narrowed eyes. She’d never seen Annabel drink in the afternoon, and as much as she tried to tell herself it was none of her affair, it bothered her. The “urgent business” was obviously a stressful subject and Cody sensed Annabel was in no mood to discuss it. “When will you be back?” she asked, trying not to sound like she was pressuring her. “I don’t know. It depends on what happens. At this stage I haven’t booked a return.” She sounded offhand, as though she couldn’t care less whether she came back at all. Cody felt cold. It couldn’t be true. She knew it wasn’t. Maybe Annabel was applying for a job, she speculated. Or was there a woman in her life, after all? Cody got to her feet. “Annabel, last week you said you wanted something more than a holiday fling with me. I want that, too. That’s why I did what I did. To clear up a few problems back home so I could concentrate on us. ” She stood in front of Annabel and deliberately took the drink out of her hand. Annabel raised shuttered eyes, and Cody had the impression she had somehow walled herself round with glass. Her body exuded

control, tension. Her face was a cool, detached mask. Cody trailed a finger down her cheek and across her mouth, feeling an involuntary response there. She stretched her hand around the back of Annabel’s neck and soothed the taut muscles with gentle fingers. “Please don’t be angry with me any more,” she begged. “I made a mistake and I’m sorry. If I had known the plane was going to break down, I would never have gone without talking to you.” “You were planning to talk to me that day?” “Yes!” She could still feel resistance in Annabel’s body and tried not to be hurt by it. She couldn’t believe Annabel had gone cold on her over a silly poster and a misunderstanding. There had to be something else going on. Whatever it was, it had deeply disturbed her. Wanting to comfort her—and also just plain wanting her —Cody slid her arms around Annabel’s waist and pulled her close, shivering at the memory of her body. “Cody, I—” Annabel began, but Cody claimed her mouth, kissing her into silence. She could feel the resistance draining from Annabel’s limbs, and smiled against her mouth. “Relax,” she whispered. “We can talk later.” She kissed her again, this time moving from her

mouth to her throat, losing herself in the scented expanse of her skin, wanting to take her time. Annabel felt ripe and smooth beneath the silk of her shirt. Cody unfastened the buttons and slowly eased the garment out of the way, quickly following it with her lace bra. Stepping back a little, she absorbed Annabel’s milky tautness, the hollows above her collarbones, the womanly fullness of her breasts. Pink stained the skin where Cody’s mouth had been, reminding her of the first time they had made love. She had discovered then that Annabel’s skin could be tinted by the slightest pressure. Her kisses caused tiny clouds of pale rose, her bites, dark crimson pools. Where her fingers traveled, color washed a blushing trail. The memories brought with them a surge of desire and Cody felt a slow sinking in her belly. When their lips met she tasted salt and saw that Annabel was crying. “Annabel, honey, what’s wrong? I wish you would tell me.” Annabel shook her head and stretched her arms up around Cody’s neck to pull her closer. As Cody grazed a nipple with her teeth, she felt Annabel’s hands in her hair, guiding her steadily downward to the firm flesh of

her stomach. “You like this?” Cody murmured between bites, and proceeded to divest her expertly of her khaki pants. Sighing, Annabel twisted Cody’s T-shirt impatiently, then gasped as fingers slid under the silk of her French knickers to tease their way along her labia. She snatched Cody’s hand away and pulled her toward the bedroom, dragged off her T-shirt with impatient hands and threw it on the floor. “God, I missed you,” she said thickly, squirming as Cody’s fingers found her clitoris through the damp silk. Cody discarded the rest of her clothes, and Annabel opened her eyes to take in her nakedness; the welldefined muscles in her arms and shoulders, her dark tan, the hollows and curves that were still so new to her. A sudden rush of feeling made her mouth tremble and her heart race. She wanted to hold Cody and never let her go. Cody eased them both back onto the bed, her fingers sliding Annabel’s knickers out of the way, her mouth making sweet demands. They lay facing each other for a long moment, Cody’ face oddly serious as she read the wanting in Annabel’s. “We don’t have to make this so hard for ourselves,” she murmured. “I’m crazy about you. Don’t you know that?”

Taking one of Annabel’s hands, she caressed the palm, the fingertips, the wrist with delicate kisses then she guided it down to the wetness between Annabel’s legs. “You’re so wet,” she whispered. “You feel exquisite.” She pulled the hand back to her mouth, slowly licked the juices off Annabel’s fingers and gathered her close. “I hate that you’re going away.” “Me, too.” Annabel sighed. “Then stay,” Cody urged between kisses. “Please.” “I can’t. This can’t wait.” She seemed very naked then, her eyes asking more from Cody than the fleeting mirage of intimacy lovemaking would confer. Cody relaxed her weight onto Annabel, separating her thighs. Feeling Annabel’s legs lock around hers, she said, “If you ask me to wait for you, I will.” She felt Annabel’s fingers slide through her hair to cup her face on either side. “I’m asking.” There was an undisguised vulnerability about her Cody had not seen before. She felt a rush of protectiveness. Annabel’s sophistication could be misleading, she had discovered. Like everyone, she had her insecurities. Cody sensed that in some way she was confronting these right now. “I’ll be here, I promise,” she said. “And I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As the minutes went by, a breeze stirred the palms like the rustle of a ball gown, and the late sun filtered through the crystals in Annabel’s window to cast rainbows across them. Shadows deepened, birds returned home and, as night fell, the moon turned the ocean silver. Cody stirred in Annabel’s arms, but was too soundly asleep to hear the stifled sound of her weeping.

Chapter Eighteen “Annabel, darling. What a surprise.” Laura Adams Worth moved forward and pecked the air next to Annabel’s cheek. “You look well, Mother,” Annabel observed. Thin and elegant in a pale linen dress and single strand of pearls, Laura never seemed to age. All her life Annabel could remember her mother looking like this: poised and expensive, as distant as a Cape Cod horizon. The smell of her perfume brought memories flooding back and Annabel felt suddenly gauche, clumsy, unattractive: a stuttering twelve year old tasting blood as braces gouged into her gums; a fifteen year old filled with shame when her period leaked at Thanksgiving and her mother had called in the maid to remove the gory chair. Even now she could feel Laura Worth’s critical blue eyes rejecting as crass and juvenile her choice of black tights, pink sling back pumps and huge pink Tshirt. Why did she do it? Annabel wondered. Whenever she visited her parents, some strange perversity made her pass over the respectable clothes that dominated her wardrobe in favor of those she knew her mother

would most deplore. Childish attention-getting. Annabel knew that. Silly underground game playing. No wonder her therapist drove a Mercedes. “Tea, my dear?” Her mother was already calling Doris, her Filipino maid. Annabel nodded with resignation and flopped down onto a pristine peach leather sofa she’d never seen before. Obviously her mother still enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with her decorator. “Where’s Daddy?” “Playing golf in Newport,” Laura replied without a flicker of interest. “I’m not expecting him back all week. ” “I guess I’ll miss him then.” At least she shared some interests with her father. They could talk Wall Street, politics and horseflesh. And Theodore Worth made no secret of the fact that he worshipped his daughter. Not once had Annabel ever been made to feel guilty for not being a son. Her father had taken her everywhere, taught her to trade commodities while she was still at prep school, put her at the helm of his yacht almost before she could walk, and allowed her to work at McDonald’s on her vacations even though her mother acted as if Annabel were selling herself on Times Square. Annabel had always sensed an ally in her father, and

the thought of facing her mother without him distressed her. She clasped her clammy hands together and, suppressing a wayward urge to ask for milk, watched Laura pour the tea and add a curl of lemon to each cup. “Are you enjoying Anne’s island, dear?” “It’s beautiful.” Annabel sipped her perfectly brewed tea. “You should visit.” Laura avoided her eyes. “I hope you’ve placed the estate in the hands of competent people,” she said with a hint of censure. “I’ve retained Aunt Annie’s lawyers.” Annabel tried not to sound defensive. Her mother lifted a lightly penciled eyebrow. “Really? I never suspected you of sentimentality, my dear.” She gave a short brittle laugh and examined Annabel with a patronizing expression. “I take it the urbane Mr. Jessup is still in good health?” Clearly Walter Jessup had prepped at the wrong school, Annabel thought. Then again, when did anyone from the West Coast ever measure up to her mother’s standards? She promptly decided to keep him on—so long as he could produce a female law partner, that is. “He sends his regards,” she said coolly. “And this…” She reached into her satchel and dropped an

envelope on the occasional table in front of her mother. It was the one addressed to Lucy. “Mr. Jessup hasn’t been able to trace this person. I wondered whether you might have some idea who she is.” Laura glanced down at the envelope then looked at Annabel without blinking. “Lucy?” she toyed with the name. “No, I don’t think I can help.” “I’m surprised,” Annabel commented dryly. “I would have thought you might know the whereabouts of your niece.” Laura returned her cup to its saucer with an uncharacteristic clatter. One hand strayed jerkily to her pearls. Annabel was certain she detected a flicker of emotion in her mother’s light blue eyes. Fear? Guilt perhaps? In a voice as tight as piano wire, she asked, “What do you know about Lucy?” “That’s what I’m asking you, Mother.” Laura Worth deposited her tea on the table, crossed her legs and regarded Annabel with assessing eyes. “Of course!” she said with a slight flutter. “I had all but forgotten. Poor little Lucy…” She shook her head sadly, and Annabel felt suddenly insecure, as though she were walking on quicksand, her reality as insubstantial as a mirage. “Poor Lucy?”

she queried. Laura seemed to relax a little. “Anne’s child.” Lowering her head, she folded poignant hands in her lap. “A tragic business, absolutely tragic. She made me promise never to tell a soul, but…” She eyed the envelope with an air of troubled resignation. Annabel immediately felt like a jerk. Her mother’s message was loud and clear. Laura was being asked to dishonor a promise—and to a dead woman. How could Annabel be so insensitive? “Mother, I know Aunt Annie had a baby after she called off her engagement. And I know she lived with that child and a woman called Rebecca on Moon Island until Rebecca was killed. Then she came to Boston, didn’t she?” Laura paled and Annabel saw her hands were no longer folded but had balled into two tight fists. “How do you know this, Annabel?” she asked with a hunted expression. “Aunt Annie left me a letter and—” “Anne told you!” There was no mistaking her mother’s agitation. Annabel felt her pulse begin to race. “I know a great deal about Aunt Annie,” she said quietly, and watched dull red wash over Laura’s porcelain features.

Her mother rose and moved across the large room to stare out at her gardens, hands gripping the window ledge. “Anne did not want to have the baby,” she said in a strained voice. “Hardly surprising under the circumstances,” Annabel retorted, recalling Annie’s desperation about the rape. “She gave birth in the Back Bay house,” her mother went on as though she hadn’t heard. “It was a difficult birth. She was very weak. Afterward she and… Rebecca… stayed for a short time then left for that damned island.” Laura paused, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Apparently this decision still inflamed her. “Can you believe it? Taking a sick mother and brand new baby to some God-forsaken place in the middle of nowhere. No decent hospitals, no refrigeration, not even running water.” “What was she like?” Annabel interrupted. “Who, the baby?” “No. Rebecca.” Her mother stiffened. “She was a Gardner—the shipping people. Anne met her at Wellesley and they became close. Whenever she came home for a weekend she always had Rebecca in tow. I thought they were best friends. Very naïve. Rebecca was a wild

type of girl.” Annabel could almost hear it. Led poor Annie astray, turned her head. “After college she went to Europe. She fancied herself as an artist.” Laura frowned, her lips compressed. “Anne followed her and… Oh, she was such an innocent and Rebecca’s crowd was very bohemian. You can imagine.” “They became lovers?” Annabel translated boldly. Her mother shuddered. “Father was ill, and eventually Anne had the decency to return home. We all thought she had finally come to her senses. After a few months she became engaged to Roger Lawrence, a very nice Harvard boy. He’s a surgeon now, of course.” “Of course,” Annabel said. “Specializing in gynecology, no doubt.” The acid jibe appeared to go straight past her mother. “Everyone was amazed when Anne suddenly broke off the engagement.” “She was raped,” Annabel said succinctly. “Annabel!” Laura Worth looked outraged. “Roger was her fiancé. He loved her.” “Funny way of showing it.” “You know nothing of these matters,” her mother said indignantly. “Anne was a highly-strung girl and young

for her age. She had little understanding of adult emotions, and physically she had been a late bloomer. Roger certainly wasn’t to blame for what happened.” “Oh, please. He was old enough to understand the word “no,” surely.” “Anne was a decently brought up girl. Roger mistook her reticence for the shyness of an inexperienced young woman.” Annabel gasped. It was plain her mother was determined to cling to a sanitized explanation of what had really occurred between Annie and her Harvard fiancé. “Of course we tried to change her mind about breaking off the engagement,” she continued, ignoring Annabel’s reproachful stare. “But she simply couldn’t see what a mistake she was making.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “I’m guessing she was never permitted to forget it.” Laura heaved a long-suffering sigh. She seemed determined to finish the whole story now that she had started it. Annabel guessed she must have been holding on to enormous resentment, bottling up a family secret like this over the years. “When Anne found she was expecting, she was hysterical. Mother tried to reason with her. Roger would have taken her back. I mean, the poor boy nearly went

out of his mind.” Laura’s burgundy-penciled mouth tightened into a thin straight line. “But she had already written to Rebecca, and within a month they set up house together. Anne refused to see Roger at all and insisted he be told the child was not his. That was Rebecca’s doing, of course. She was always extremely possessive, accustomed to having her own way.” The more Annabel heard of Rebecca, the more she liked her. “So in the end they all went to Moon Island?” “Yes,” Laura said. “We didn’t see Lucy again until that dreadful accident.” “By which time presumably I was a toddler?” Laura nodded, her eyes distant and focused somewhere beyond Annabel’s shoulder. Her expression made Annabel uneasy. “So what happened when they came back here?” she prompted. “Anne was very depressed. She simply refused to speak with anyone, even the child.” She turned to stare out the window for a long moment. “Poor little Lucy. She was just a baby. She didn’t understand why her Mummy wouldn’t hold her.” Annabel’s eyes widened. She could have sworn there was genuine emotion in her mother’s voice.

Laura folded her arms and paced absently back and forth across the garden view. “She stayed like that for months, silent and wasting away. We tried everything. We took her to the best people. I think she saw every expert on the East Coast. They prescribed drugs, but Anne would not take them. She refused to help herself at all.” She sounded unreasonably angry, and Annabel suddenly wondered what it must have been like for Laura, the competent organizer and socially active young Boston matron, having to cope with a younger sister’s despair. Despair over a lesbian lover, and a secret life no one could be told about. “In the end we were desperate.” “Desperate?” “Yes.” A defensive note. “It was decided Anne would benefit most from full-time psychiatric care.” “You put her in a mental hospital?” Annabel asked slowly. Her mother lowered her head a fraction, and suddenly Annabel noticed her age; the stoop of her shoulders, the chin sagging slightly. “We did what we thought was best,” she said wearily. “And Lucy?” There was a long pause. Annabel tried to read her

mother’s expression, but her eyes were veiled, her face as fixed as a portrait. “Lucy became unwell and died.” It was said blankly, and something in her tone jarred. Annabel felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Lucy died,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “Then why did Aunt Annie leave this letter for her?” She lifted the envelope and her mother flinched. “Didn’t she know?” “Anne was disturbed,” Laura said quietly. “When she came out of the hospital she said she didn’t want to talk about Rebecca or Lucy ever again. She was not herself.” Annabel watched her mother carefully, recognizing that there was something not being said. “How long was Aunt Annie in the hospital?” Laura was silent for so long, Annabel found herself concentrating on the subtle noises around her; the whisper of the cooling system, the faintest tinkle from a chandelier prey to the vented draughts. When Laura finally answered, it was reluctantly. “Nearly five years.” “Five years?” Annabel got to her feet and stalked across the carpet to confront her mother. “You let her stay there for five years!” “Lower your voice, Annabel,” her mother protested. Annabel was enraged, fiercely, blindly angry. She

took her mother by the arm and spun her around. “How could you?” she demanded. Laura shook her head dumbly. “Was that the big white house we used to visit?” Fragments of a memory danced before Annabel. High spiked iron gates and a curving driveway, vacant-eyed strangers wandering across the lawns. She was never allowed outside to play and had to sit in a hot room filled with plants while her parents sipped tea with Aunt Annie. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. She had thought it was her aunt’s home. “You don’t understand,” Laura began, but Annabel was not listening. “You kept her in a mental hospital while you raised her daughter!” she shouted, tightening the grip on her mother’s arm and shaking her slightly. Laura’s face drained chalk white. “No,” she gasped. “Lucy died.” “Don’t lie to me, Mother,” Annabel sputtered. “I want to know the truth. You owe me that much and you owe Annie.” “Annabel darling. Please don’t—” Laura’s voice wavered on a sob. Annabel could feel her trembling. Somewhere in the

back of her mind she was deeply shocked at her own behavior—shouting at her mother, handling her roughly. This was not what she’d planned at all. Somehow she had imagined… What? A civilized little chat? She would produce the envelope and Laura would immediately pour out the truth after thirty years of secrecy? This was real life, she reminded herself. But feeling angry and frustrated did not give her the right to use her mother as a psychological punching bag. Laura was crying openly, and with shattering clarity Annabel realized it was the first time she had ever seen her mother show such emotion. Ashamed, she released her grip and instead placed a tentative arm around her thin, hunched shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said huskily. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” Laura covered her face with her hands. “I can’t tell you,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how to begin.” “It’s all right.” Annabel led her to a settee and sat down beside her. “I love you, Mom,” she said, and felt a profound shudder move her mother’s body. Laura looked up, her eyes pain-filled. “Lucy was such a beautiful little girl,” she began, and Annabel took her hand, pressing it encouragingly. “She was an angel. She loved everyone and

everything. The moment I first saw her I knew she was special. Anne was barely conscious during the birth and Rebecca was concentrating only on her. So the doctor gave Lucy to me and I held her and I...” She gulped, tears streaming down her face. “I loved her. Then they left, and I didn’t see her again until the accident. It was terrible. The one baby in my life gone where I could never see her.” She looked at Annabel with eyes that were suddenly soft and loving, and Annabel felt her own tears begin. “By then I had lost four babies of my own, stillborn or miscarried. Lucy was so healthy and beautiful. I suppose I was bitterly envious of Anne. It seemed so unfair. I’d done everything right. I married Theo, I kept myself fit and ate properly, I took vitamins. And Anne behaved scandalously her whole life and even lived with a woman...as husband and wife.” She blew her nose indelicately into a fine lace handkerchief, then tossed the sodden thing onto the floor. “You can’t have any idea how empty my life was,” she said brokenly. “I felt like a nothing. Not even a woman. There seemed no point to my existence. All I was any good for was bridge. And, you know, it’s hard to convince oneself that playing cards is the full extent of God’s divine plan for one’s life.”

She managed a watery smile and Annabel gently squeezed her shoulder. “I understand more than you think,” she said softly, remembering the mindlessness of her life until she left for Moon Island. “I’m not judging you. I just want to know the truth.” Laura met her eyes and seemed to take strength from the genuine support she saw there. “When they came home after the accident, I didn’t know what to do. Anne was beside herself, inconsolable. She said she didn’t want to live without Rebecca.” She paused, a haunted expression in her eyes. “They were so much in love, you see.” Annabel nodded. She knew from Annie’s diaries how all-consuming that passion had been, even till the day she died. Her final entry bore stark testimony…

My love, my love. At last together again. “Poor Lucy. Anne hardly responded to the child and Lucy forever ran about the house searching under chairs and covers. When I asked her what she was doing she would say, “Looking Becca.” I tried to comfort her. I took her everywhere with me. Theo wanted to engage a nanny but I refused. I wanted her all to myself.” She clutched at Annabel’s hands with sudden desperation. “I didn’t deliberately take her away from Anne. You have to believe me.”

Annabel stroked her hands soothingly. “Of course I believe you,” she said, wiping her own tears. “Then Anne tried to kill herself, and she had to go to the hospital. The doctors told Theo she needed psychiatric help, but when we found out what was involved, we were horrified. The treatments seemed barbaric. Naturally we refused. But then she stopped speaking even to Lucy. It was as if she had gone away into another world and had merely left her body behind. I used to put Lucy on her knee, and she would play with Anne’s big gold locket.” “I remember…” Annabel said sickly and again the image flashed before her. But this time she could see the face. Annie’s face. Annie, her mother. “In the end we met a young doctor, a woman. She had heard about Anne from a colleague and asked if she could examine her. She was very frank with us and revealed herself as a woman who was… of Anne’s persuasion.” “She was a lesbian?” Annabel inserted dryly. “Yes. She was a lesbian.” Annabel knew what it must have cost her mother to say that. “She took Anne to Belletara, a private clinic. It was only meant to be for a week but Anne wanted to stay.”

“And Lucy?” “We visited Anne most weekends, and Theo and I treated Lucy like our own daughter. As time went by she started to call us Mommy and Daddy and it became very easy to forget that we weren’t really her parents.” “So Lucy didn’t die?” Annabel pressed. Even though she knew the truth, she needed to hear it. Laura shook her head slowly. “No. She thrived. Oh, Annabel. I tried not to love her, become too attached. But when Anne asked us whether we would consider adoption, I was ecstatic.” “Annie asked you?” Annabel’s mouth went dry. “It was after a year. She said she didn’t think she could raise Lucy, and she had no idea when she would feel ready to leave the clinic. Theo took over her affairs along with Rebecca’s lawyer, Maisie Jessup of San Francisco… that’s her son you deal with.” As an aside, she added, “Maisie made all the legal arrangements for the adoption and—” “Why did you change my name?” Annabel asked. Laura looked slightly ashamed. “We were frightened. I was frightened. Roger, your natural father, knew of your existence under the name Lucy, and he had inquired after you when Anne first arrived. I was

afraid he would sue for custody.” “So you made Lucy vanish?” Her mother nodded. “Annabel was your second name.” Annabel sighed deeply and sagged back into the couch. “Why?” she said after a long pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Laura Worth looked oddly calm, her body more relaxed than Annabel had seen it in her lifetime. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t. At first I told myself it was to protect you, so you wouldn’t feel abandoned. Then, when Anne finally discharged herself, we made an agreement never to tell you. That was my doing. You see, I was so terrified that Anne would come and claim you back. I never stopped being afraid all through the years. Sometimes I was almost too frightened to love you, in case you were snatched away from me.” Sorrow drowned her eyes, and Annabel remembered with deep grief the coldness, the way her mother had kept her distance. “I thought you didn’t love me,” she said quietly. Laura blanched, placing horrified hands to her face. “Oh! If only you knew. I feel so angry with myself now. When you live a lie it’s like digging a grave. The longer you dig, the deeper it gets until you can’t climb out any

more, even if you wanted to. In the end you find you’ve buried yourself.” She paused and shivered. “I tried to find a way to tell you when you were growing up, but even then I was too cowardly. I thought that if you found out you would leave me and go to Anne, that you would hate me…and I couldn’t bear that.” Annabel’s heart thumped painfully. “I don’t hate you,” she said very gently. “How could I? I love you too much. ” “Oh, my darling girl.” Her mother moved toward her, and they held each other as never before. * Hours later, when she felt much calmer, Annabel opened the letter to Lucy.

My beloved daughter, I wish I could be with you as you read this. Now that you understand my life, can you also understand that I’ve always, always loved you? For many years I was lost to myself and the world, and to you. When I returned, it was too late to turn back the clock. I wanted you to have the life you

deserved, with two parents who loved you and all the advantages of ‘belonging’ in a world that can be harsh to those who do not fit. There have been many times when I wanted to tell you the truth. But I could not break my promise to my sister. She was never sure of herself as you and I are. I hope you intend to live on Moon Island. Please understand that although it is owned by you under the laws of this age, by rights it also belongs to the Cook Islanders. It is an ancient place held sacred by the people who knew its mysteries long before white men set sail for far lands and glory. Respect their rights, and they will respect yours. I always dreamed that we would sit together one day on the verandah at Villa Luna and I would tell you about the life we had—you, me and my Rebecca. This letter is a poor substitute, but I hope it expresses what I never could—that I was your mother and I love you most dearly. Annie

Chapter Nineteen “Moon. Moon Radio. Dominie two-one-eight-five at two thousand feet. Four miles southwest. Do you read me? Dominie to Moon. Come in please. Over.” She would never get used to the conventions of radio communication, Cody thought as she lifted the handset. “This is Cody,” she said. “Um… over.” “Company on its way,” Bevan Mitchell said. Cody’s heart leaped. Annabel! “ETA fourteen hundred hours. Can you meet us? Over.” “I sure can. Fourteen hundred hours. That’s now!” Cody sprinted to the window to see if she could spot the Dominie. “Five minutes, Moon,” Bevan said, but Cody was no longer listening. She grabbed her hat and shades and frantically shoved cushions back into their usual places. As she ran out the door, she heard Bevan’s voice crackling over the radio, but didn’t bother to wait. All she could think about was his passenger. Annabel had been away for almost a week. It felt like an eternity. Restless and fretful, Cody crammed every day with a succession of distractions. Annabel had left her with the task of supervising the cottages around the island. This meant delivering food supplies and

checking in on guests. There were three other women on the island. Two were friendly, sensible types who had chosen the seclusion of Moon Island because they wanted ‘time out.’ The other was a problem child who was only here because some relative had fully paid for the holiday but had to cancel at the last minute. Apparently she had expected Club Med. Cody might have felt sorry for her if she had any manners at all, but she was a whining, spoiled brat. Cody hastened her steps along the trail, pushing aside milky green banana palm leaves and stems of frangipani. The jungle was intense all over the island, tropical flowers and sinuous vines forming a fleshy tangle beneath a canopy of coconut palms, breadfruit, mango, and guava trees. A blanket of torpid air clung to the jungle floor, pungent with the smell of over-ripe and rotting fruit. The airstrip was situated west of Villa Luna on a promontory overlooking Marama Bay. Like many small airstrips in the South Pacific, it had been built by the Americans during World War II and had fallen into decay. Annabel had said something to her about rebuilding it one day. From all accounts the impecunious Cook Islands government had long ago

abandoned all responsibility for the island’s amenities. There was no proper electricity—only a couple of noisy generators, no modern telephone service, and no television. For a moment Cody lapsed into her favorite daydream: she and Annabel staying together on Moon Island for a few months, shutting out the world. It would be heaven. Impatiently, she paced alongside the Dominie waiting for the hatch to open. When Bevan appeared and lowered the steps, she grinned up at him, brimming with expectation. Instead of the blonde hair she was looking for, a coppery head materialized. “Margaret?” Cody’s lips felt like they’d just been shot full of Novocaine. “Cody. Hi!” Margaret threw herself into the arms Cody had stretched out to receive a box of pineapples. The fruit rolled haplessly around the tarmac while Bevan looked on quizzically. Cody detached herself as quickly as she decently could. “Well,” she said weakly. “Um… what a surprise.” Margaret grinned. “A nice one, I hope.” She looked Cody up and down and whistled softly. “Sweetheart! You’re looking hot. The tan is amazing.” Before Cody could prevent her, she planted a big wet kiss squarely on her mouth.

“I guess you two don’t need an introduction.” Bevan lit a cigarette, his expression cryptic. In response to a look of desperate enquiry from Cody, he added, “No sign of Annabel yet.” Cringing inside, Cody extricated herself from her ex’s unwanted embrace. “You’re staying on the island?” she asked, trying to gather her wits. “For two whole weeks,” Margaret enthused. “Isn’t that great, darling?” A rush of hot blood made Cody’s knees feel flaccid. She could scarcely take in the reality of Margaret’s presence. Her ex was gazing around as if enraptured. “I’m so excited,” she gushed. “It looks like paradise.” Grabbing Cody again, she slid caressing hands beneath her T-shirt, compelling her into a more intimate clinch. Clearly the presence of a man meant nothing to Margaret. Avoiding her eager mouth, Cody drew back, disgusted. “For God’s sake,” she hissed, “get your hands off me.” Making like he hadn’t witnessed any of this, Bevan tossed Margaret’s luggage down to her. “Everything under control?” he queried dryly. Does it look like it? Cody wanted to shout. Instead, she pasted a phony smile on her face and said, “I’ll

manage.” With a discreet nod of comprehension, Bevan lifted another box. “No need for you to hang about. I’ll take care of the supplies.” As soon as he had vanished back into plane, Cody turned to Margaret. “Have you got your booking slip?” She masked her agitation with a stoic calm. Margaret produced a voucher. Hibiscus Villa, Cody read with a sinking heart. Margaret would be just ten minutes walk from Annabel’s place. How had this happened? Before she left, Annabel had said something about releasing the villa for guests since Cody would no longer be using it. Telling Cody she would get a refund, she had notified the travel agent who handled reservations, and that was the last Cody had heard. She should have paid more attention to the stuff Annabel told her about the booking process. Reservations were received by an agent in Avarua, and most days Bevan collected these and brought them over. A pile lay unopened on the kitchen counter. If she’d known her ex would be loony enough to track her down and turn up here, she would have read them. It was too late to cancel the booking now. Numbly she lifted Margaret’s luggage. “It’s a bit of a

hike to the Villa you’re staying in,” she said in a discouraging tone. Margaret looked charmed by the prospect. “Lead the way.” As they followed the trail Cody became increasingly alarmed—alarmed at her sense of disorientation, her feeling that she barely knew this woman. Was it really Margaret? She stole a look. Same short, curly auburn hair, same laughing eyes and wide mouth, same voluptuous body, large breasts, narrow waist. This was Margaret, the woman she’d lain with for nearly five years, whose body she knew almost as well as her own. “Where’s Scott?” she asked abruptly. Margaret stopped in her tracks, looked up at Cody, and smiled her most provocative smile. “That’s all over. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Scott who?” Cody felt distinctly queasy. “That was quick.” “I’m so connected these days, I trust my instincts to tell me whether a situation is right or wrong. As soon as I moved in I knew I’d made a mistake.” “Your instincts didn’t reveal this when you started fucking him?” Cody kicked a papaya brutally off the path. Margaret did not respond, and they continued in

silence to the clearing around Hibiscus Villa. There they stopped, Cody dropping the luggage, Margaret rushing up the steps to the verandah. “Oh, this is gorgeous!” she squealed. “All these flowers and the quaint thatched roof. Oh my God, look at the view. It’s so romantic.” Cody opened up the villa and all but shoved Margaret in. The place reminded her unbearably of Annabel and she marveled at the sick joke fate had played by sending Margaret instead of the lover she was yearning for. She felt tears prick and automatically wiped them away with the back of her hand. Margaret must have mistaken her obvious emotion for something else, for she dragged Cody into a hungry embrace. “Darling,” she whispered urgently. “I’ve been desperate to see you. I feel like such a fool. I can’t believe I did this to myself—to us.” Her small hands made circles on Cody’s back, making her skin prickle in response. Then Margaret was kissing her and it was like being jerked back in time. They were lovers. It was a hot afternoon. Her body remembered every sensation. The sweat, the taste of Margaret’s mouth, a clock ticking on her

dresser, the roar of a plane overhead. “I must have been out of my mind,” Margaret was saying. “Every night, lying there with him, it was you I was thinking about.” “Uh huh.” “It was,” Margaret insisted. “Even when we made love, I couldn’t—” “I don’t want to know,” Cody said. “I’m just trying to tell you how it’s been for me.” Margaret sounded snippy. “I made a mistake. Is that a crime?” With a jolt Cody realized she was being undressed. She caught Margaret’s hands and drew back, watching puzzlement alter her ex-lover’s features. “I need to get going,” she said. “Going? Why? I was thinking we could stay here together.” “That’s out of the question,” Cody said. “We’re not together, Margaret.” “But I said it’s all over with Scott. The whole thing was a disaster. The moment we started living together he acted like he had ownership papers. He was so unreasonable. He even expected me to go on the pill… can you believe that? He said condoms ruined the aesthetic, he—”

“Puh-leeze!” Cody arrested her with a groan of distaste. “Spare me the gory details.” Margaret had the grace to look embarrassed. “Look, I know you’re upset. And I can respect your feelings. But this experience has been incredibly important for me. It’s really helped me resolve confusion about my sexuality.” “You were confused during our relationship?” Cody felt stunned. Was Margaret making up justifications as she went along, or had Cody just spent the last five years with a closet straight woman? “I know I should have told you sooner. But I felt so guilty about being attracted to men. You know how it is. ” “Not really.” Margaret cast her an accusatory glance, as if Cody were being intentionally obtuse. “I tried to rationalize it as het conditioning and all that. But when I gave myself permission to explore my feelings without guilt-tripping myself, when I let go of buying into all that political crap —I finally got to know myself.” “I’m happy for you,” Cody said without expression. Margaret seemed encouraged by this. “I was so selfhating until I accepted that it’s perfectly okay to have feelings for men as well as women. We’re all one

human race. My rebirther says that if we reject our feelings for men, we reject the male in ourselves.” “The male in ourselves.” Cody contained herself. “And is your rebirther a dyke?” Margaret looked puzzled. “No, although she’s very woman-oriented.” “Uh huh.” Cody was stunned. Right under her nose Margaret had been pining after men—plural. She was bicurious. She needed to explore her sexuality by having sex on the side. It sounded like a personal ad. Had she been blind, Cody wondered, or just plain stupid? “So what’s different now that you’ve had this epiphany?” she inquired. Margaret smiled fulsomely. “I’m really at peace. I feel connected to myself at a much deeper level. I’ve accepted who I am, and I don’t care what society thinks. I’m going to live my life without lies.” “Lesbian and proud, eh?” Margaret looked a little taken aback. “No, bisexual. Bisexual and proud.” Cody took a deep breath and studied the woman in front of her, taking in the subtle changes she had missed at first. Margaret was thinner, her hair redder than usual and growing out of the close-cropped style

she had always worn. She wore light-pink cotton knit pants and a designer T-shirt with a greenie slogan. Her nails were painted the same dark pink as her pants, and her blue eyes looked heavy in her small face, mascara caking in the fine creases beneath them. “Why have you come here?” Cody finally asked. Margaret’s expression radiated mute appeal. “To be with you of course.” The hurt, little girl voice that once would have quickened Cody’s pulse now sounded ridiculously phony. “I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks. I even went to the police.” “So I gathered.” Margaret tugged at her arm, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Please don’t be angry at me,” she wheedled. Cody took a step back. “I’m not angry,” she said. It was true. Looking at Margaret she felt virtually nothing but vague disgust and a sense of disbelief that she could have contemplated spending her life with her. Her answer appeared to please Margaret who promptly grabbed her around the waist and pressed into her body. “I knew you’d be able to let go of this stuff and see the bigger picture. I was a bit worried when I talked to Janet. She was really unhelpful, even when I explained she had no right to interfere in our

relationship. She had to know how important this was for both of us, but she still wanted to control you. It’s really unhealthy.” She looked up at Cody as though expecting some kind of endorsement. Yet again Cody wondered how she could have missed Margaret’s jealousy of her deep friendship with Janet. “Did it occur to you that if I wanted you to know where I was I would have told you myself?” Cody asked. “People do things on the spur of the moment. I knew you were angry. I could see this was about punishing me.” “Actually this was not about you, Margaret,” Cody said. “It was about me. I made a decision for my own well-being. Apparently you could not respect this, and… here we are.” Hardly a new experience, Cody recognized. When had Margaret ever respected her wishes? Margaret rolled expressive eyes. “If I really believed you wanted it, maybe I would have accepted it. But I know you better than that, no matter what Janet said.” “Janet has nothing to do with this. I specifically told her not to tell you where I was,” Cody said. “I trusted her to respect my wishes because she actually loves me.” Cody tried not to betray the extent of her bitterness.

She would be damned if she was going to let Margaret know how much power she’d had. But a trace of it seeped out anyway. Margaret looked wounded. “You’re still angry, aren’t you?” Cody put some distance between them by going into the kitchen for a glass of water. She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. Couldn’t Margaret hear herself? Didn’t she have any idea how Cody must have felt during this voyage of self-discovery? What it must have been like, after five years of living together, to have your lover walk out for a man she’d only just met? Now she was hearing their entire relationship reduced to little more than youthful experimentation for a woman confused about her sexuality! “Christ, Margaret! What in hell did you expect? That I would be waiting around for you, desperate for whatever crumbs you might toss me? That you could kick me in the teeth, shit on my feelings, and come crawling straight back when the bubble burst?” Margaret went pale, her flirtatious looks replaced by a cautious, darting stare. She studied her hands miserably. “I thought you cared about me,” she mumbled. Cody deposited her glass on the bench with a

restrained thud. “I did,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I’m not the one who walked out, remember? I’m not the one who lied and manipulated.” Margaret leaned against the door jamb, twisting her T-shirt in her hands. “But I explained everything,” she said in a whiny tone. “I told you I needed some space. I told you I was confused about my feelings for Scott.” “How exactly is leaving me and moving in with him getting some space?” Cody shouted. Margaret put a hand to her mouth and looked beseeching. “I don’t like it when you yell at me.” She pouted like a child. “My rebirther says that as long as I am completely true to myself, those who really love me will support me. She says it is cosmically impossible for anyone else to be hurt if I am acting for myself.” “I get it. You do whatever you like, and if anyone is hurt by it, that’s our problem. Do I have that right?” “Sort of. It’s all about owning our own stuff. The thing is, I now process at a higher level, so I can let go of guilt.” “Don’t you mean responsibility?” With forced patience, Margaret said, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to hear this. I’m just trying to explain that I had to let go of my destructive patterns around men before I could come to terms with who I am. My

rebirther says—” Cody raised a hand. “Enough of this shit. My rebirther says...” she parroted. “When are you going to switch your brain back on? Your fucking rebirther is charging you sixty bucks an hour to tell you exactly what you want to hear! Can’t you get that from your mom for free?” “Cody!” Margaret lifted martyred eyes. “I’m finding this conversation very negative. I’m feeling very unsupported by you.” “Unsupported!” Cody laughed harshly. “Give me a break! I didn’t ask you to come here. For God’s sake, you haven’t even acknowledged how much you hurt me or said you’re sorry for your shitty behavior…nothing.” “I know that all of this has brought up unresolved stuff for you, and I’m truly sorry if that process has been painful. I know you felt abandoned when your parents divorced and your brother died. I acknowledge that. But my rebir...I think it’s really important that we take responsibility for our own stuff, not other people’s.” “So you decide our relationship is over because you’re finally ready to shack up with the toyboy you’ve been seeing behind my back. And if I feel terrible about all the lies and the betrayal, it’s because of some old

stuff of mine and has nothing to do with you? Is it just me, or is there something wrong with that picture?” Cody knew she should end this ludicrous confrontation right now, but she had so much anger bottled up inside, she could not simply allow Margaret walk away. At some point her ex had to hear that her actions had consequences. Margaret folded her arms stiffly across her body. “This conversation is getting us nowhere,” she said as if it were Cody’s fault. “No kidding.” Cody’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You’re just not hearing me,” she continued selfrighteously. “If your feelings for me were truly evolved you would be able to hear that I meant no harm to you. You would support my right to grow even if you don’t like the learning paths I choose.” “Evolve!” Time to walk out and not look back . Margaret had lost her mind. She was always a little flaky, but she sounded completely brainwashed now. Had she joined a cult or something? Margaret glared at Cody, then that old sparkle lit her eyes. “You know, you’re beautiful when you’re angry,” she said with a giggle. Cody looked at her incredulously. “Margaret, I’m not going to bed with you. Not now, not ever. I don’t love

you any more.” Even as she said it she was aware of a heady relief, a lightness in her heart. She didn’t hate Margaret. She cared for her still. But the Margaret standing in front of her was not the woman she had fallen in love with. She met her gaze squarely. “I don’t want to fight with you, or play games. And you don’t need my support to do whatever you want to do. You’ve got your rebirther and your boyfriend, not to mention the church, the state, and society at large.” “Here comes the lecture on political correctness,” Margaret muttered. “Cut the crap, Margaret. You’re not the first person to want all the emotional goodies you can get from women and to fuck blokes at the same time. Call it bisexual if you like—after all it’s trendy, isn’t it? But don’t pretend you’re on some ‘higher path.’” “If you ever did any work on yourself you would have some respect for my process and how much courage it took for me to leave!” Margaret’s cheeks were bright crimson. Cody was stunned into silence, then she couldn’t help but laugh. “Courage…” she mused eventually. “Well I guess that’s subjective.” Her anger had ebbed, and she was left with a new understanding of Margaret as essentially a woman of weak character.

Margaret had spent five years with her because it was convenient. Someone had to keep a roof over her head so she could continue in school for another two years. Maybe she had really loved her once. Cody wanted to believe it, but she no longer felt certain of anything, least of all her own judgment. Deciding she owed it to herself to close this chapter of her life without mincing her words, she said, “You lied. You betrayed a person who loved you, and you stole her savings. By any standards that’s shameful. I really doubt unethical conduct is a ticket toward a higher self, but I can see you need to be in denial. And you know what? That’s your stuff, not mine.” “You’re leaving?” Margaret asked dully. “Hell, yes. And I won’t be coming back.” “Is there someone else?” “If there is, it’s none of your business.” “I see.” Margaret examined her nails. “Your broken heart recovered pretty quickly.” Cody’s temper flared briefly again. “Let’s say knowing you walked out on me so you could live with your soul mate helped speed up the healing process,” she said coldly. “Then of course I discovered I had also donated my hard-earned savings to your vision of selfgrowth.”

“I said I’ll pay you back,” Margaret said sullenly. “I won’t be holding my breath.” Cody did not press the point. Whatever had happened, she had spent five years with this woman and had once loved her. It was time to say goodbye with dignity. “Let’s stop now,” she said. “I’m willing to be a friend to you, and that’s why I’m being honest about what I think.” Margaret’s bottom lip quivered, and Cody touched her arm lightly. “As a friend, I want you to do something when you get back home.” “What?” “Go and get some counseling, and I mean with a real professional. I can get you the name of someone good. ” Margaret looked dubious. “I’ll think about it, although I find the lesbian perspective very narrow and limiting.” “As opposed to the liberating and value-free heterosexual perspective?” Cody opened the front door. “Flights leave for Rarotonga every second afternoon. Just phone me when you’re ready to take one.” She indicated the old party line telephone in the hallway. “Turn the handle once and wait.” “I understand,” Margaret said in a low voice. Cody escaped out the door and jumped lightly off the verandah. Turning briefly, she searched her former

lover’s face. No, she didn’t understand, Cody thought with a rush of sadness. Margaret had no idea why she had not been welcomed back with open arms. * Three days later, Cody was on page 90 of her thriller, and Annabel still hadn’t returned. The sky was as blue as ever but there was a curious heaviness in the air, and the gulls seemed noisier than usual, wheeling expectantly over Passion Bay and gathering in shrill cliques along the beach. Amanda Valentine, Private Eye, was in a tight spot with some drug-crazed psycho.

“Blowing you away won’t exactly break my heart, dirtball,” she yelled, crouched low behind the forklift. She hoped Jesse Brown wasn’t expecting company. She’d wasted a round already and at six bucks a throw that was one too many for scum like him. “So whatcha waitin’ for, bitch?” the quarry bellowed. Amanda caught a blur of denim behind a container to her left and followed it, bracing the Smith & Wesson against her rock-steady forearm.

Punks like Brown could sometimes be egged into mistakes. Bearing that in mind she tightened her finger around the trigger and taunted, “You better hope your brain’s bigger than your dick, sonny.” Then she squeezed. A shadow fell across the page. Startled, Cody looked up. It was Margaret. Her heart sank. “Hi,” she greeted her, lukewarm. Mumbling a hello, Margaret sat down on the sand and removed her sunglasses. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said flatly. “I’m going to spend the rest of my vacation on Rarotonga.” “Okay.” Cody returned her attention to her book, making it clear she had no interest in further conversation. Margaret squinted out to sea. “I thought about what you said,” she began in a rush. “And I’d like the name of that therapist.” Cody laid her book face down on the towel, conscious of Margaret’s extreme unease and the telltale puffiness around her eyes. For a moment guilt stabbed at her. Perhaps she’d been too hard on her. “Sure,” she said gently. “I’ll drop Janet a line and ask her to call you. She has the details.”

“Thanks.” Margaret trickled sand between her fingers. “Cody, I don’t know what to say.” “I think we’ve said enough.” “You’ve every right to hate me. I behaved like a deadshit. I’m so sorry.” “Thank you.” Cody accepted the apology at face value. She gave Margaret’s hand a quick squeeze. “I was very hurt.” “I know, and I know I can never make up for the way I behaved. But I’ve been doing some thinking. I still feel confused about my sexuality, but… Oh, Cody.” Hope brightened her eyes. “Could we…” Cody shook her head. “It’s too late. There’s no going back. In some ways I feel like a different person now and I’ll bet you do, too.” “I feel older, I’m not so sure about wiser, though,” Margaret joked weakly. Cody felt a surge of relief at that hint of her ex-lover’s old sense of humor. “We had some great times together,” she said, wanting to acknowledge their bond. “Five years doesn’t vanish overnight. I still care about you, Margaret.” Margaret stooped forward, shoulders heaving. “I don’t know what went wrong,” she sobbed. “It was like one day I woke up, and I just couldn’t get any vision of

the future, of us as old people. All I could think of was husband and wife, parents, children, grandparents, nuclear families—and I’ve been terrified ever since. I don’t want to be lonely when I’m old. I need people...family.” “Of course you do.” Cody put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not a crime to want that, Margaret. Role models of old lesbian couples and lesbian families are in short supply. Anyone would think we spontaneously combust at age fifty or something.” “Yet there are masses of older women around,” Margaret said. “Some of them must be lesbians.” “Of course they are. But older women are invisible at the best of times, especially in terms of their sexuality. Many are very closeted, and I’m sure some are not even aware they are lesbian.” “At least it won’t be that way for our generation,” Margaret said. Cody tried not to show her skepticism. “I hope you’re right. We certainly do have a few more options about how we choose to live now. They may not be easy options, but they’re what we’ve got, and I guess if we want anything to change, it’s up to us, isn’t it?” She gave Margaret a hug. “Thanks for talking with me. I’m sorry this has been so rough.”

Margaret gave her a watery smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Will you phone me when you get back?” “Of course I will.” As she watched Margaret trudge off down the beach, she released a profound sigh. Since their conversation when Margaret first arrived, Cody had rifled through her feelings again and again, seeking the slightest evidence that she might want to give the relationship another chance. She could find none. If anything, seeing Margaret once more confirmed what she knew in her heart. It was over. No matter what happened with Annabel, Cody realized, she would never go back to Margaret.

Chapter Twenty Annabel gazed up at the leaden sky with illconcealed frustration. “Looks okay to me,” she said. Bevan shrugged impassively. “At the moment.” “We’ve got hours before it hits, and I have to get back to the island and batten down the hatches.” “I radioed this morning and Cody’s got all of that under control.” “Cody—” Annabel bit back the urge to ask about her. “Smart cookie, that one,” he said. “The place has been running like a well-oiled machine.” Annabel frowned at him and tried not to feel irrational envy at the idea of anyone having seen Cody regularly for the past two weeks, especially a man. She indicated the Dominie. “So how long before she’s ready?” Bevan waved his mechanic over. “The lady pines to fly the silver sky, my friend. Are we making any progress?” Smithy wiped his hands on the rag dangling from his back pocket and sucked in his breath wetly. “’Bout another two hours guvnor, and that’s without testing ’er. ” “You hear the forecast?”

“Yep. They reckon it’s the big one this time.” “Hurricane Mary,” Bevan mused out loud. “She’s five hundred miles northeast and nowhere to go but here.” “The gulls are in,” Smithy said, indicating the squabbling ranks congesting the tarmac. Bevan lit a cigarette and turned to Annabel. “We won’t be flying today,” he said bluntly. As Annabel glared across his shoulder at the forlorn Dominie, he explained, “Even if we get the new struts welded we’re not going to have enough time to test her before the storm hits.” “There’s always some damned thing wrong.” Annabel cursed, coming to the rapid conclusion that she would soon have to buy a decent plane. “How long does testing have to take, for God’s sake?” “We’d have to circle Raro a couple of times, put down and inspect her. That’s at least another two hours on top of repair time. It’s not happening.” Annabel glanced at her watch and scanned the sky again. The horizon was condensing into a deep bruised purple and the air felt thick and humid. Bevan was right. They would never get to Moon Island in time. The hurricane would be there long before it reached Rarotonga. She wondered briefly whether Silk & Boyd had a freighter leaving and contemplated heading into

Avarua to check them out. Bevan seemed to read her mind. “All shipping’s canceled,” he said dryly, “And air traffic’s been diverted. You’re lucky you got here when you did.” Annabel snorted. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it. A hurricane fetishist would be thrilled. Isn’t it unusual to have one at this time of year?” she noted with a frown. “Sure is,” Bevan agreed. “Round here most of the action happens November to March.” “That’s mid-summer in this part of the world?” Bevan nodded. “Mid-summer to autumn, the wet season.” “So how long before it gets here?” “Depends how fast she’s moving. The tide’s way up. By early evening the outer winds will be here. She’ll hit Moon Island before then, of course.” Annabel shoved her hands into her pockets and paced in frustration. If only she had left Boston a little sooner—not that traveling to the Cook Islands was exactly a garden party. It had taken two days and four changes of plane. For a moment she felt a pang of homesickness. It had been so reassuring to slip into the comfortable routine of a Boston week, catch up with friends,

wander the Freedom Trail like a tourist. Somehow the city had seemed more relaxed than she remembered, or perhaps it was just her. Boston was beautiful in the summer, the cobblestones mellow and warm, yachts bobbing on the Charles River. To Annabel’s surprise she actually enjoyed herself spending whole days in her mother’s company. She survived shopping expeditions to Newberry Street and lunch at the Ritz Carlton with Laura and her cronies. She had listened to her mother complain about the Desecration of Our National Heritage in Back Bay without once defending her own apartment. For the first time in her life, Annabel was aware of feeling totally relaxed around her mother, unafraid to be herself. She sensed it was different for Laura, too. It was as though each of them was taking tiny tentative steps toward the other, creating safe passage across uncharted emotional territory. As they drew closer, it pained Annabel deeply to look back at her childhood and realize how much she had missed out on, how badly she had been affected by an agenda she had known nothing about, a lie lived by the people who loved her best. The veiled comments and underground messages had not been her imagination. She was not paranoid or hysterical.

There was nothing wrong with her. There never had been. Annie was gone. She grieved for her—for the relationship that might have been. Yet at the same time, she began to feel curiously light. It was such a relief to know the truth. That she was Annie’s daughter. That Annie had loved her and had tried her best to do right by her. The times were very different back then. Now, as she came to terms with her past, she suddenly saw a future she could never have imagined and a relationship with Laura on a whole new basis. How strange it was, she thought. In losing a mother, she had found one, too. When Laura had kissed her goodbye at the airport and said to come home soon, Annabel knew she meant it and had said impulsively, “I’d like to bring a close friend.” Her mother had looked a little nervous. “A woman friend?” “Yes. Her name is Cody… er Cordelia.” Laura gave a quick nod. “I shall look forward to meeting her.” It was a little stiff, but the genuine openness in her eyes had both startled and touched Annabel, and she hugged her mother warmly.

Recalling that hug, Annabel felt a rush of emotion for Laura—her mother. Love. It was the simplest truth of all. She looked again at the congealing horizon and cursed the weather. Short of swimming, there was no way she could get to Moon Island now. Damn it all to hell, Annabel thought, and her stomach lurched. What if something happened to Cody? Bevan must have glimpsed her expression, for he delivered a comradely slap across the shoulders. “She’ll manage,” he said and something in his voice caught her attention. He knew. Annabel was immediately uncomfortable. She stole a second glance at the pilot and comprehension slowly dawned. Bevan was gay. The man he lived with on Atiu was his partner. Annabel felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t it clicked sooner? Stereotypes, she thought cynically. Bevan was a tough flier with a past she knew better than to inquire about. He was tall and lean, a kind of dog-eared version of Robert Redford. What had she expected a gay man to look like? She knew plenty of them back home, and none conformed to the hairdresser stereotype. For that matter, what was a lesbian supposed to look like? Annabel thought about her own appearance

and almost laughed. “Let’s go hole up at the Banana Court,” she said with cheerless resignation. “Sounds good to me.” Bevan stubbed out his cigarette and paced around the Dominie. “Time to tuck her up, Smithy.” The wiry little mechanic shook his head. “I’ll carry on if yer don’t mind, guvnor. I’d like to see ’er airworthy before the storm ’its. You never know,” he added obscurely. Annabel pulled off her jacket and tossed it over her bags in the rear cabin. “Smithy’s right,” she said briskly. “Let’s get her in shape. The Banana Court will still be there tonight.” An apprehensive silence descended and they looked at one another then laughed uneasily. “Tempt fate, why don’t you,” Annabel muttered. Bevan fiddled with the radio set against the wall, and Annabel felt her heart leap as she caught the sound of static, then Cody’s voice drifting in and out of range. “Moonbase to shuttle Dominie. Moonbase calling Dominie, do you read me?” “Roger, I read you Moonbase. Over,” Bevan responded. “When do you expect touchdown Dominie? The natives are getting restless. Over.”

Annabel exchanged a look with Bevan and hurried over to take the handpiece. “Not today Moonbase,” she said huskily. “We have a gravity problem. Over.” More static, then, “Annabel! Oh! Are you really here? ” “Seems like I’m just in time to be too late. We’re grounded here. Over.” “What does that mean. When are you coming?” Cody sounded panicky. Annabel was aware of the handpiece sliding in her wet palm. She felt sick at heart, desperate to be on her island, to be with Cody. “We’re not going to make it before the hurricane hits. Are you okay? Over.” There was a pause. The radio whistled and Annabel frantically twisted the dials. “I wish you were here,” Cody’s voice faded in and out. “Me, too,” Annabel said hollowly. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Over.” “Oh, Annabel,” Cody said. “I’ve missed you so much. Over.” Annabel noticed Bevan had moved discreetly to the plane and was helping Smithy with a welding iron. “I have to go help the others,” she said, controlling her voice with difficulty. Trying to inject some confidence, she added. “We’ll be there as soon as we can get off

the ground. What are your plans for the storm? Over.” Cody immediately sounded businesslike. “It raining here on and off, and the wind is getting pretty bad.” A wave of static swallowed her next few words, then the transmission become miraculously clear. “Mrs. Marsters went back to Rarotonga yesterday, and I’ve evacuated all the guests to Villa Luna. We’re going to spend the night in the Kopeka Cave. I walked Kahlo in with the supplies this morning, and now we’re all loading up to leave. Over.” Annabel heaved a sigh of relief. The cave was a perfect shelter. It was only a little more than an hour’s walk from Villa Luna across the makatea, a fossilized coral reef now covered in jungle. Like many on the neighboring islands, the cave was a nesting place for hundreds of tiny Kopeka birds. Cody and Annabel had picnicked there one day and Annabel had been amazed at the chambers full of stalactites and curious limestone formations. There were even some human bones stacked neatly along the walls of a small antechamber, and Mrs. Marsters had explained that some of the caves were ancient burial sites for the one-time inhabitants of Moon Island, and very tapu, or sacred.

“The cave is a great idea,” Annabel said. “Be careful, won’t you. The makatea is sharp.” “We will,” Cody promised and said something else that was lost in a flurry of static. Annabel quickly adjusted the frequency. “Cody…” She felt awkward. “I know this is silly, but if anything goes wrong I just wanted you to know you mean a lot to me. Over.” Through the fading signal, she could not make out most of Cody’s reply, catching only, “—be careful. This is hard.” Hoping Cody had heard what she said, she found a positive note to end on. “Have fun camping out. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, darling. Over and out.” Both women sat for a long moment staring at their crackling radio sets and wanting to cry. Overhead the sky darkened and a few hundred miles away, above a warm oily sea, Hurricane Mary gathered strength. * “There’s no way we can take all that.” Cody pointed at a set of luggage stacked on the verandah next to the supplies and bedding rolls they would be taking to the Kopeka cave. This time they would be hiking in and

could only take what they could carry. Dawn, the young Australian staying in Frangipani cottage, stamped a belligerent foot. “Well, I’m not leaving it here. What if this place blows down? Anyway,” she pointed a finger at one of the other guests, “she’s taking an extra back pack.” “Yes, but she’s carrying it herself.” Cody held her temper in check. What they didn’t need right now was to have their well-organized evacuation thrown into chaos by some bratty teenager. “I’m storing everyone’s personal gear in the basement. We can only take what we absolutely need.” For Dawn’s benefit, she added. “Water and toilet paper are more important than your make-up kit, in other words.” Catherine, the woman Dawn was glaring at, opened her pack and offered, “I can probably squeeze a few extras in here if there’s something you really don’t want to leave behind.” “Don’t worry about it,” Dawn said with such ill grace Cody wanted to slap her. Catherine, a high school teacher, was unfazed. Obnoxious teenagers were nothing new for her, Cody supposed. “We’re not going to be there long,” she said in a reassuring tone. “Maybe a couple of days at the most.”

“Do we have a first aid kit?” inquired an older woman, sitting on the verandah steps tying her bright orange shoelaces. Brenda was an accountant from Wisconsin, Cody recalled. So far her approach to the crisis had been calm and pragmatic. Cody handed over the saddlebag she was packing. “It’s in here. Want to look it over?” “One of us should in case anything happens to you.” Brenda extracted the case and opened it, inspecting the contents like someone who knew what to look for. Catherine stood over her, also taking an interest. Sounding exactly like every teacher Cody could remember from her school days, she said, “Show of hands, girls—how many of us have done first aid training?” “I can do CPR, but that’s all,” Dawn said as the other three women raised their hands. “Looks like we got it covered then,” Brenda slid the kit back into the saddlebag and returned to her load. Catherine gazed up at the brooding sky. “How long have we got?” “Four hours before it turns really stormy. Maybe five.” Cody said, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about. So far she hadn’t been able to get

anything more accurate and radio reports mostly referred to Rarotonga, not to the more far flung islands of the Cook group. A gauzy rain veiled the island, and she wanted to set off before it got any heavier. Already the trail was slippery, a menace when you were crossing the makatea. Coupled with the poor light, their progress was going to be slow. They could not afford to risk injury—the first aid kit was not designed for anything more serious than minor cuts and sprains. Gathering Dawn’s luggage together, Cody hauled it beneath the verandah into the basement and dragged a plastic sheet over everything. Because of its elevation, Villa Luna was not built on stilts as were many island homes, especially those in low lying areas. Storm surges were a frequent occurrence in this region of the Pacific, so the locals built their homes to cope with an inundation of salt water. The villa must have survived plenty of severe tropical storms, Cody thought. Hopefully this would just be one more. She wondered where Annabel would take shelter. Most of Rarotonga’s buildings were single story to reduce the danger of collapse. Remarkably the island had emerged unscathed from most of the cyclones that had flattened its neighbors in recent years. This

knowledge provided no comfort. Annabel was miles away and in peril. Cody had never felt more powerless.

Chapter Twenty-One “I remember Tracy,” a loud Australian slurred. “Back in seventy-four. Crikey mate, smashed Darwin to bits. Christmas bloody Day, too.” “Peace on earth, eh?” A man near him mumbled into his Fosters. Annabel sipped her coconut water and peered gloomily out across the main street to the lagoon. The sea looked unusually murky and already the tide was up. It was the usual Friday night carnage outside: drunken drivers jockeying their Subarus around the Post Office roundabout, Honda two-strokes polluting the air faster than you could breathe it, and the occasional Banana Court patron collapsing in the middle of the road in a stupor. At intervals the police showed up and transported these barflies to Avarua jail to sleep it off. The Cook Island News informed Annabel that a panty thief at large in Avarua was found to be Mr. Jimmy Tuara’s goat, and that New Zealand’s newly elected Prime Minister was a thin woman who climbed mountains and had a husband but no children. From the tone of the article, this fact appeared to be of grave concern.

Local radio was ordering everyone under cover and inland. Meteorologists predicted the hurricane might bypass Rarotonga and that the island would only experience its fringe winds. But Bevan was not convinced. “I think it’s time we got to the hotel,” he told Annabel above a cacophony of paté drums. Normally show time at the Banana court happened much later, but faced with the looming financial disaster of early closing, management had rustled up some dancers for a happy hour show. Tourists hung over the decorative wooden surround that protected the performers from wandering hands. Lithe male dancers worked the audience in a dance of pumping eroticism, while women wearing leafy green garlands egged them on with sensuous hand and hip movements. As the dance reached its conclusion, several members of the audience were pulled on stage to prove that white people don’t have the rhythm. Annabel had never seen anything like it. Distracted by the acreage of smooth flesh and jiggling coconut halves held mysteriously in place over rounded breasts, she contemplated waiting the storm out here. But she could see Bevan was restless. “I wonder how Cody is doing,” she said, belatedly

guilt-ridden at the thought of her huddled in the Kopeka Cave while she and Bevan were partying in one of the last old-time South Seas bars on the planet. Thank God they’d made radio contact. Ironically, that was one debt they owed to the freak weather conditions, according to Bevan. Normally Moon Island was consistently out of range. Bevan climbed onto a chair. “Rarotongan Resort Hotel,” he shouted into the melee. “Anyone need a lift?” A woman materialized at their table as they were preparing to leave. “Do you have room for me?” she asked nervously, and Annabel caught her breath as she recognized the accent. The woman was a New Zealander, and very attractive, with curly red hair and wide dark blue eyes. “No problem,” Annabel said. The woman followed them outside. “By the way, I’m Margaret,” she said as she climbed into the back seat of the jeep. Annabel shook hands and made an obvious remark about the weather. The woman lifted panicky eyes to the sky and shuddered. “We get a lot of wind back home. But never a hurricane.” “You’re a New Zealander?” Annabel asked

conversationally. “Yes. I’m from Wellington. That’s the capital city.” Wellington. Annabel’s eyes darted to the woman. “What do you think of Rarotonga?” she inquired cautiously. “It’s beautiful,” Margaret enthused. “Although I liked Moon Island better.” “You’ve been on Moon Island?” “Yes. I just spent a few days there.” She sounded wistful and Annabel tried to ignore the sudden alarm that squeezed her gut. She exchanged a look with Bevan. If this woman had been on the island, he must have flown her there. Yet he was acting like they’d never met. “There’s another New Zealander on the island,” Annabel began, the germ of a suspicion forming. Margaret’s eyes widened. “Do you know Cody?” she asked. “Cody Stanton?” “Yes,” Annabel said flatly. This woman knew Cody. Her name was Margaret, and she had just spent some time on the island. Annabel tried not to leap to any conclusions, but it seemed obvious that their passenger was Cody’s ex-lover. It had started to rain and the air felt unbearably thick. Gusts of hot wind tore at the foliage around them,

littering the ground with papaya. Annabel couldn’t help but notice the way Margaret’s T-shirt clung to her full breasts and that her hair was curling into wonderful little ringlets. She was quite stunning, she thought, feeling colorless by comparison. “How did you get to meet Cody?” Margaret asked. “I live on Moon Island,” Annabel explained. “I kind of run the place. As a matter of fact, Cody has been filling in for me recently, while I was back home in Boston.” Her voice fell slightly short of normal. Margaret looked at her intently. “Are you lovers?” Annabel nearly spluttered. She shot a pleading glance toward Bevan, who merely raised an eyebrow at her, offering no help at all. If she wanted to tell their passenger to take a hike, evidently she would have to do it herself. Margaret had added two and two. “You are,” she concluded. “That was quick work.” Annabel moistened her lips. Why the hell should she feel guilty? Cody was single. She and Margaret had broken up well before she traveled to the island. And from all accounts, Margaret was not exactly a woman wronged. “I guess Cody has told you about us,” Margaret said. Annabel fastened her safety belt as Bevan pulled

away from the curb. “She mentioned her relationship had broken up. It’s really none of my business.” Wanting to end the conversation, she turned in her seat, facing forward. “I was a fool,” Margaret said, resting her elbows on the seat back. “I came over to get her back.” “I see.” Annabel felt like she was walking on nails. “Look, Margaret, I really don’t feel comfortable discussing this. It’s between you and Cody—” She broke off as they drew up alongside the hotel. Dense sheets of rain had replaced the drops that were falling just moments ago, and the palm trees around the Rarotongan were doubled over in the wind. Hotel staff were taping glass and battening windows. A sign at reception warned guests to stay indoors until further notice, and the lobby was choked with excited tourists capturing the moment on video as if a tropical hurricane was just another thrilling attraction on their holiday of a lifetime. Although she could see Margaret wanted to continue their conversation, Annabel immediately excused herself and escaped to her room, a jumble of thoughts chasing each other in her head. Long-term relationships went through bad patches, everyone knew that. Couples could often heal their

differences and carry on. Perhaps this was the very process Cody and Margaret were going through. Perhaps she should take a step back right now and give them some room. Peeling off her damp clothes, she stalked into the compact bathroom and stood under the shower. Less than an hour ago, Cody had seemed thrilled to hear from her. Why would she have stayed on Moon Island if she had just got back together with her ex? Was she planning to have her cake and eat it too—to return to the cozy domesticity of her LTR after the thrill of a holiday fling? Dismayed by this possibility, Annabel soaped the sweat and travel grime from her body. She had spent the entirety of that hellish trip back from Boston wildly impatient to see Cody—virtually planning a future with her. She had allowed herself the fantasy that their short-lived romance might translate into something more meaningful. Before she left the island, it seemed she and Cody had reached an understanding of sorts —a tacit agreement that they both wanted to explore that possibility. But that was then, and this was now. In an environment like Moon Island, it was all too easy to forget there was a world beyond the horizon, to get caught up in the heat of the moment. Had they just

been swept away by the intensity of their physical attraction and interpreted lust as love? Short flings could be very passionate. Women became infatuated. I’ve been through that pattern, Annabel reminded herself. It was classic rebound stuff—which was why it was a dumb idea to get hot and heavy with someone who had just broken up. She should have known better. Drying herself roughly, she tried to push the memory of their lovemaking from her mind. But the very thought of Cody sent a shock of tingling awareness down her spine. She ached to lie next to her, to feel the sleek strength of that body, to surrender to the strange magic of their union. With Cody she felt more intensely alive than she had ever known. Her world seemed brighter, safer, rich with enchantments. Flowers roared their perfumes at her, birds danced slow ballet in the sky, Cody’s touch lingered in mind and body like a love letter. Whatever might be going on for Cody, Annabel recognized with dazzling clarity what was happening for her. She was falling in love. It would be impossible to see Cody as nothing more than instant gratification. Annabel had experienced the McDonald’s approach to lesbian relationships—eat and run, as she’d once put it to a friend. She knew this was different. Yet it seemed

she was in danger of making a fool of herself. If Cody was willing to run straight back to the ex who had dumped her for a man , what did that say about the depth of her feelings for Annabel? Her stomach lurched. The thought of Cody with another woman bruised her heart. Fool, Annabel said to herself. How could she have let this happen? * Cody twisted in her sleeping bag and changed position, stretching her cramped limbs. The four women in the cave sat wrapped in their bags in a huddle around Cody’s attempt at a fire, and Kahlo was tethered in the adjoining chamber. Outside the sky was black and the noise of the hurricane was deafening. It filtered down from the mouth of the cave with the distortion of an outdoor rock concert. Cody was astounded at the range of sounds, everything from a deep low bass to screams that made “Nightmare on Elm Street” sound like a Mormon Tabernacle Choir rehearsal. Dust fell in clouds from the cave roof, and its resident Kopeka birds clicked and swooped like thousands of tiny bats. “Yuk!” Dawn batted ineffectually at them. “I hate

these creepy little birds. How long is this going to last, anyway?” The young Australian with the blonde ponytail and the attitude problem had complained non-stop ever since they left Villa Luna. “It depends on the size of the hurricane,” Cody responded patiently. “According to the radio, the winds will be at their worst for six hours. After that…” She shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to hope there’s something left of the houses.” “You’re exaggerating!” Dawn accused. Brenda cast a sympathetic look in Cody’s direction. “Since when were you an expert on hurricanes, Dawn? ” she remarked with gentle irony. Dawn prodded the fire and said nothing. Cody wriggled out of her sleeping bag. “I’m going to take a look.” “I’ll join you.” Catherine scrambled up. “I could do with stretching my legs.” “No worries. Are you sure that knee of yours is okay? ” Cody eyed the woman uncertainly. Catherine had fallen as they crossed the makatea, and the razor sharp coral had sliced her leg open in a jagged line from her knee down her calf almost as far as her ankle. Her jeans were stiff with drying blood, and Cody was worried the wound would open again if she moved.

“I think so.” Catherine tested her leg gingerly. “Brenda did a pretty good job of binding it.” Cody took her arm, and they made their way slowly toward the mouth of the cave, halting well within its protection. A steady hail of silt, leaves and twigs rained down on them, but thankfully the cave mouth seemed to be trapping anything larger. Cody stared up at the groaning sky. It was starless, writhing and filthy with debris. “The truth is,” Catherine admitted as soon as they got out of earshot, “I couldn’t stand another moment listening to that spoiled brat. If she says another word about demanding a refund when she gets home, I’m going to stuff her Reeboks down her throat.” Cody laughed. “She’s just a kid. And she’s really scared. I think she complains all the time because it gives her something to think about. It takes her mind off her fear.” “You’re far too nice,” Catherine said, raising her voice to be heard above the relentless cacophony beyond their refuge. “If it wasn’t for you, the silly little bitch would have been mincemeat crossing the ridge. And she’s not the least bit grateful.” “Ignorance is bliss,” Cody said. “Anyway, I think I’d rather have her grumbling and in one piece than

chopped up and screaming.” “You ought to make her piggyback you going back,” Catherine said darkly. Cody shook her head. “I plan to get there.” “Do you think there’ll be anything left… really?” “I honestly don’t know.” Cody squinted up at the swirling chaos overhead. “It’s pretty bad out there. I reckon those winds must be over a hundred miles an hour.” Catherine shuddered. “Thank God for this place.” With some difficulty she lit a cigarette. “Your cottage won’t survive,” Cody said. “It’s too close to the beach.” She thought regretfully of pretty little Frangipani Cottage, the one-person villa in Hibiscus Bay. The beaches on the western side of the island would probably be the worst hit. Catherine had been staying over there for the past week, and Cody had enjoyed visiting her to drop off supplies. To her amazement she had discovered that Catherine, a fellow Wellingtonian, lived only a few streets away from her old flat in Hataitai. Yet they’d had to travel thousands of miles to meet. Catherine looked puzzled. “What difference will it make whether the cottage is on the beach or not? It’s a hurricane. Won’t the wind be just as strong

everywhere?” “More or less,” Cody said. “But it’s the storm surge I’m worried about. That’s a kind of tidal wave that comes in just as the hurricane strikes. They were talking about it on the radio. That’s why I decided to move us all inland. At least it’s elevated here.” “Oh my God. A tidal wave.” Cody wished she hadn’t said anything. Catherine looked so pale, it seemed like she could faint at any moment. Giving her a reassuring hug, Cody said, “Don’t worry. We’re completely safe here.” She tried not to think about the possibility that if tree branches and torn vegetation filled the mouth of the cave, they could find themselves trapped. But Annabel and Bevan knew their location. They could probably survive inside the cave for at least a week on the provisions she had brought in. “So half the island could be under water even when we get out of here?” Catherine was trying to take it in. “What about the runway? What if aircraft can’t get in to rescue us? We could be stranded for weeks with no supplies and no idea when anyone will get to us.” “It’s possible,” Cody conceded. “But if we are, then we’ll just have to make the best of it.” God, she sounded like a Girl Scout leader.

Catherine seemed to get a hold of herself. “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to panic.” “It’s not every day you’re in a hurricane.” “At least we’ve got water. And there’s so much fruit around. We could probably survive for months if we had to.” She laughed suddenly. “That would really give Dawn something to complain about.” They both glanced down into the cave where the young woman was piling extra wood onto the fire. She was speaking to Brenda, but the noise around them made it impossible to hear anything she said. “She says she’s training for the Australian Olympic squad,” Catherine said. “Can you imagine?” “Don’t tell me—beach volleyball.” Cody snickered. “Swimming,” Catherine said. “You’re kidding. Who’d have thought she had the discipline?” “I’ve seen her. She’s out there every morning. Up and down the beach for a couple of hours.” “To think she made me carry her half the way here.” Catherine laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. “My point exactly.” Cody took her arm as they descended once more into the cave. “How does it look?” Brenda asked.

“Dangerous,” Catherine replied, awkwardly lowering herself onto her makeshift bed, her leg extended out before her. Cody handed her a couple of Motrin from the first aid kit and said, “I don’t think we should go up there again until it’s over. There’s a lot of crap falling in around the entrance.” “Will it block the way out?” Brenda asked anxiously. “It might,” Cody said. “But—” “Then how the fuck are we meant to get out of here?” Dawn cut her off. “The youngest and fittest members of the party will go up there and clear a way through,” Cody said coolly. “And that means you and me.” For a moment Dawn just sat with her mouth open. Then, collecting herself, she said, “No way. And you can’t make me.” Cody met her gaze squarely. “Try me.”

Chapter Twenty-Two “That is a horrible sound,” Annabel said, pushing her meal half-heartedly around her plate. It was her new favorite—ika mata, a spicy, marinated fish salad, one of the few authentic Polynesian dishes on a menu clearly designed for carnivorous Westerners. The hotel restaurant was packed, and looking around, Annabel couldn’t help but be reminded of the carnival atmosphere of a “Poseidon Adventure.” She shivered at the idea. “Collective madness,” Bevan remarked, verbalizing her sentiments. “They’re tossing down cocktails like there’s no tomorrow.” The Rarotongans loved a good cyclone, he had told her earlier. As they drove to the hotel, she saw people swarming the shoreline, apparently thrilled by the prospect of fleeing huge waves and howling winds. This cavalier attitude to danger was also embraced by a small minority of tourists who should know better, but behaved as if a hurricane was just another joyride in the theme park of life. “Damned fools,” Annabel muttered. Like most New Englanders, she had a healthy respect for storms. Her mother had been a child in the 1938 hurricane and

returned from vacationing on Westhampton Beach only days before the great gale hit. The family’s house had been completely destroyed, earning Laura the childhood nickname “Lucky” for getting out in time. Family legend had it that the shock of losing her favorite home had been so great for Annabel’s grandmother that it had set her health into a decline. She had died not long after, leaving fourteen-year-old Laura to manage the household. Recently Annabel had wondered how much this experience had contributed to her mother’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility and her obvious insecurity about close relationships. Annabel was conscious of an echo of this pattern in her own reluctance to commit herself. Something her mother said came back to her—Everyone I love leaves. On some level, she expected the same thing herself, Annabel realized. She thought about a little girl called Lucy whose two mothers had left her—one in body, the other in mind. Now she was the one who did the leaving. Since Clare, she had walked away from every woman she became involved with. Was this what she was doing with Cody, too? Was Margaret just an excuse? Frowning, Annabel stared down into her drink. She

did not know what to think. Maybe Cody and Margaret were just friends now. Maybe Margaret’s visit was a total coincidence. “Get real,” she murmured. Bevan nodded agreement. “Let’s hope none of them is called on to make like a hero.” He eyed a particularly raucous bunch of tourists. Annabel followed his gaze and grimaced. Four drunk men were showing off to the women at their table. “Reckon we should leave the sheilas here and go take a squiz down the beach, mate,” one large member of the group slurred loudly. There was general agreement and they got to their feet and lurched off. “Bloody lemmings,” Bevan hissed and pulled out his chair. “You’re not going after them?” Annabel protested, then swallowed her irritation. If Bevan chose to take responsibility for some of the more limited members of his sex, that was his funeral. On the other hand, she needed an experienced pilot. “Just don’t go outside, will you?” she insisted. Bevan stubbed out his cigarette. “You’re the boss,” he said with an impassive expression and strolled from the restaurant.

An hour later, when he hadn’t returned, Annabel tried not to panic. A moribund hush had descended on the revelers, who now seemed transfixed by the awesome roar outside the hotel walls. The band strummed “Staying Alive” with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker’s convention. Annabel stared into her drink and fought off images of Moon Island decimated, Cody maimed, or dead. She should have taken her to Boston, told her what was going on. Suddenly everything that had occurred over the past three turbulent weeks seemed mere soap opera. What mattered most of all was life… and love. Rebecca left Moon Island thirty years ago without Annie, and they never saw each other again. Annabel couldn’t bear to contemplate history repeating itself. She felt tears plop onto her hands. “Cheer up.” It was a woman’s voice and Annabel swung her eyes to a squarish face she did not recognize. A stranger occupied the other chair at her table. She was very tanned, with short, graying black hair and a hardlooking body clad in white shirt and black pants. Very nice, too, Annabel thought abstractly. “I see your guy’s got himself lost,” she observed. Annabel stiffened. “You noticed.”

The woman grinned. “You looked like you could use some company, and I thought I’d beat out the incredible hulk over there.” Annabel followed her gesture and met the bloodshot eyes and salacious grin of a balding man in a Hawaiian shirt. “Oh great,” she muttered and quickly looked away. “My name’s Rose,” said the stranger in a near-Texas drawl. “Rose Beecham.” “I’m Annabel Worth.” “I’ve seen you fly that little de Havilland,” her companion remarked, moving a little closer to make herself heard above the din of the storm. “You have?” Annabel was surprised. “When I first got here,” Rose explained. “I was thinking I’d stay on that island of yours but you were booked out. I thought I’d check again when I arrived, and they said I could find you flying the island shuttle. So I showed up at your hangar and some old dude who couldn’t speak a word of English told me you were out of town.” She was so completely deadpan, Annabel burst out laughing. “That was Smithy,” she said. “And he’s as English as they come. London, no less. “No doubt the confusion was mutual. He acted like I

was off another planet.” Rose Beecham laughed from low in her belly. Appreciative dark blue eyes traced Annabel from head to toe. Could this woman be any more blatant about cruising her? “So who’s the cowboy you were with? Tell me he’s not your husband.” Annabel gave her a measuring look, then told herself not to be so prickly. So what if a dyke tried to pick her up in the middle of a tropical hurricane? It wasn’t as if she had anything else planned. “That was Bevan Mitchell. He owns the Dominie and flies for me.” “And you own Moon Island, right?” Annabel nodded, a little bemused at the third degree. “What can I get you?” Rose summoned the waiter. “Pineapple juice,” Annabel said and Rose ordered the same. “Is your hair natural?” she asked Annabel bluntly, then said, “Sorry. Betcha get real sick of that type of question.” Annabel relaxed. “Mostly people don’t ask. They stare instead.” “Well, I can certainly understand that,” Rose said. “You’re mighty pleasing to the eye.” Annabel could hardly believe such a corny line could make her blush, but it did. Guiltily aware of Cody

trapped on the island trying to keep the paying guests safe, she sipped her pineapple juice and prepared to deliver a gentle but definite brush-off. Before she could frame the right words, an unearthly boom erased every other sound and the restaurant shuddered as if an earthquake had struck. Everything went black and people started screaming. Annabel felt her arms grabbed. In her ear, Rose’s voice ordered, “Don’t panic. Come with me.” Rose had her firmly about the waist and also gripped one hand with fingers so strong Annabel was losing feeling. “Where are we going?” Annabel shouted as they descended stairs. “We’re getting our asses out of here.” Rose seized a door handle. “My room’s right around the corner.” “No!” Annabel shook herself free and staggered back a step. “We can’t go out there in this.” The building shuddered again and she clutched Rose once more. “If we go now, we can do it,” Rose urged, as the gale momentarily lulled. “Otherwise we can head back into that watering hole and get ourselves trampled to death. Take your pick.” Knowing it would almost certainly be safer anywhere

but in a two-story building with a mob of people, Annabel renewed her grip on Rose’s arm and yelled. “Okay. Let’s do it.” Rose inched the door open, assessing the pattern of the winds for a moment. Then she yelled, “Now!” and the two of them ran through driving needles of rain across a short expanse of paved garden to a long single building. Arm locked around Annabel, Rose jammed her key in the lock and they fell into her room, gasping for breath. “Guess the power’s out everywhere.” Rose tried the light switches to no avail. “Probably a good thing. All we need now is live current setting off a fire.” “Do you think we’re safe here?” “It’s hard to say. We’re on a single level and we’re overlooking the gardens not the ocean. Nothing can come crashing down on us other than the roof.” “Great.” Annabel eyed the ceiling. A dark void, it seemed very close. “And if that happens we’ll get in the shower cubicle.” “You’ve thought of everything.” In the pitch darkness, Rose led her into the bathroom and guided her to a recess, “The shower,” she said. “This is crazy. Don’t they have hurricane shelters here?”

“They claim this place is built to survive the average tropical cyclone,” Rose said. “I guess we’ll find out.” They groped their way back into the main room, and Rose steered her toward a sofa. “Have a seat. I’m going to organize some light.” What am I doing here? Annabel thought. Even if they were about to be blown off the island, she should not be in some attractive stranger’s hotel room. It was asking for trouble. She would simply inform Rose she was in a relationship, Annabel decided. Yet was she? Annabel rested her forehead in one hand for a long moment. She wished she could say she was in a relationship. But since Cody had just got back with her ex, where did that leave her? She had no doubt that Cody wanted to see her again, but on what basis? If Cody was looking for an open relationship, why try to keep her and Margaret secret from one another? She didn’t seem the nonmonogamous type, Annabel thought. But what did she know? Cody hadn’t exactly broken down the door to be honest with her. Despondently, she kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her. Sometimes falling in love was one-sided and you had to make a choice, she concluded. Either settle for whatever crumbs you were

thrown or preserve your self-respect and walk away. THREE HOURS LATER, while the hurricane pillaged the Cook Islands with random cruelty, Annabel lay in Rose’s arms and marveled at the twist of fate that saw her confiding her most guarded secrets in a total stranger. “It would make a great book,” Rose said when Annabel finished telling her about Aunt Annie. “Wrong genre for me, of course.” Annabel stirred. “You’re a writer?” “Sure am, honey.” “I’m impressed,” Annabel said. “Is that why you’re over here? To research a book?” “Hell, no. I came for some peace and quiet. And the one-night stand of a lifetime.” Annabel spluttered. “You’re joking!” “Nope,” Rose said. “When I saw you flying that Dominie I said that’s the one, and tonight in the restaurant I knew the goddess had delivered.” “Rose!” Annabel pulled back from the warm circle of her arms. “We’re about to be blown off the island, and you’re propositioning me?” “Yes, ma’am,” Rose said. “The way I see it, truth is stranger than fiction. When they ask you what you did

in the hurricane and you say, I got picked up by some woman and we went up to her room for a quickie, what do you think they’ll say?” Annabel couldn’t help but laugh. “Who’d believe you?” Rose continued in her deep easy drawl. “Last Tango in Rarotonga. What a title.” She rolled to face Annabel squarely. “This is a onceonly opportunity. We can lie here all night wondering what it would be like and worrying about whether we’ll see tomorrow, or we can have some truly excellent sex. Your choice, honey.”

Chapter Twenty-Three When Cody poked her head out of the cave at dawn, she could sense only an incredible stillness. The air smelled green and woody. In the distance the sea pulsed softly. A breeze wandered across the makatea, but nothing moved. She blinked and stepped over a pile of torn branches into the thin light. The jungle had been laid to waste, trees uprooted, palms and undergrowth flattened. It looked as though some giant had kicked a drunken path across the land. Lonely clumps of papaya and banana palms stood dazed in the midst of the carnage like soldiers in a spent battlefield. Birds perched silent and observant on torn branches. Cody turned back into the cave. “You can go outside,” she told the other woman. “But only in pairs and no more than a hundred yards from the cave. I’m going to Villa Luna to check the damage. If I’m not back by tomorrow morning, start making your own way. I’ll leave a trail in the difficult patches. Just remember, once you get over the ridge, head straight for the sea.” “I don’t think we should move until you get back here,” Dawn broke in. “Catherine can hardly walk, and I can’t cross that coral by myself.”

“You’re not by yourself, Dawn,” Brenda reminded her crisply. “You have us.” “Oh, terrific!” a petulant Dawn responded. “A cripple and a granny.” “Dawn!” Cody pulled her up short. “Here.” She thrust a water canteen at the pouting blonde. “You’re in charge of this. Keep it filled. You’ll find plenty of rainwater trapped everywhere.” “Well if that’s the case then I don’t see why I need to fill the damn thing up all the time.” Cody suppressed a strong urge to slap some sense into her. She didn’t want to have to explain her worst fears, that she might find the houses razed and radio contact lost, that there was every chance they could be stranded without water or supplies for days, weeks even, until help arrived. It would all depend on what had happened on Rarotonga, and Cody could hardly bear to think about that. Keeping her temper in check, she passed her compass to Catherine. “Take this as well. Villa Luna is approximately an hour and a half northeast of here. If you have to go it alone, walk slowly and take turns carrying the supplies.” Cody had just finished cleaning and dressing Catherine’s leg wound, and she knew it needed urgent

medical attention. The first aid kit contained only a tiny tube of antiseptic cream and Cody had used most of it already. Besides, they needed something stronger. Wounds could infect overnight in this heat, and Catherine’s looked angry already. It must be painful, Cody thought, wishing she could offer more relief than a few Motrin. “I’ll be all right,” Catherine said, as though she’d read her mind. Throwing her a grateful look, Cody left them standing forlornly in front of the cave, Dawn sulking, Brenda philosophical, and Catherine looking decidedly stressed. Checking her bearings with the sun, she took Kahlo’s reins and led the mare carefully out across the makatea toward the ridge that separated them from the sea. She was almost too scared to climb it. God only knew what she might find on the other side. * Annabel and Rose kissed chastely, as though last night had never happened. The walkway outside Rose’s room was a sea of bags, bedding, and dazed hotel patrons. Windows had smashed in several

rooms, and hotel staff were attempting to remove some of the debris. “I’m going to take a walk,” Annabel said. “I’ve got to find Bevan.” “And I think I’d better line up for the phone.” Rose smiled her slow easy smile, eyes sparkling Kodachrome blue. She took Annabel’s hand. “You’re quite a woman.” Annabel flushed. “So are you. You oughtn’t waste yourself on one-nighters, Rose.” “Was last night a waste?” Rose inquired softly. Annabel could not suppress a smile. “Last night was great. I’ll never forget it.” They kissed again and crossed the courtyard in companionable silence. Last night, Annabel thought. In life, turning points came in many forms. Some, like last night, were unexpected and disturbing. She had chosen to have sex with Rose partly out of hurt and anger, and partly to prove to herself that she could move on without a pang. If she could see her time with Cody as nothing more than a pleasant interlude in a life punctuated with them, she could not be hurt when it ended. But as she lay awake in Rose’s bed, she knew this safeguard was as illusory as the four flimsy walls that

stood between them and nature’s fury. She could delude herself that she was in control, but in truth she was completely vulnerable. All she had proven was that making love with Cody had meaning for her she had never found with anyone else, and perhaps never would. Going back to her old ways was not an option. She had tried with this handsome stranger and it didn’t work. It made no difference that the sex was good. Rose was one of those old-fashioned butch lovers who focused entirely on her partner’s pleasure. She was accomplished, chivalrous and self-assured. A year ago, Annabel would have envisaged a dalliance with her lasting several months. Now, she knew she would never see her again, no matter what happened with Cody. The realization was a shock. Something inside her had changed and there was no going back. It was Cody she wanted and no one else. Annabel had always dismissed the idea of fighting for a woman as ludicrous. Yet she knew all of a sudden that she intended to do exactly that. If Cody needed time to get over her relationship, fine—she would wait. But she was not going to stand aside and allow Margaret to walk back into her life as if nothing had happened.

“Well, this is goodbye.” Rose halted a few feet from the lobby doors. Taking Annabel’s hand for a moment, she said. “If you ever need a friend, look me up. As you know I’m happy to address other needs as well.” Her dry self-mockery precluded any awkwardness and Annabel dropped a light kiss on her cheek, saying, “I’m glad we met. Good luck with the next book.” “I’m feeling inspired,” Rose said. “Goodbye Annabel. It was a real pleasure.” With the briefest flash of wickedness in her eyes, she held open the door and Annabel walked into the noisy fray feeling as if she had just turned the page on part of her life and nothing would ever be the same again. Fighting for elbow room in the mob at reception, she wondered how on earth the harassed staff could be expected to cope with hordes of tourists asking impossible questions. When is the next flight to

Sydney? Was my pearl earring found in the restaurant last night? If I post this letter today when will it be delivered? She was debating the usefulness of leaving a message for Bevan when, from somewhere behind, a woman called her name, and Margaret squeezed her way to her side.

“Is Cody all right?” she asked urgently. “Have you heard from her?” “No,” Annabel said in a frosty tone. This woman had spent five years with Cody, she reminded herself, and they were in the midst of a natural disaster. It was entirely reasonable for her to be concerned for her safety. Forcing herself to be marginally pleasant, she added, “I’m sure she’ll be fine. As soon as I can I’ll be flying out to the island.” Margaret nodded, then looked a little flustered. “I’m sorry about yesterday. Ever since I got here all I seem to have done is open my mouth to change feet.” Annabel shrugged it off. “Forget it.” She wished Margaret would just go away. “You might like to know that I’m going home the minute I can get a plane out of here,” Margaret informed her. “I just wanted to wish you luck.” “Luck?” “With Cody. It’s all over between us, in case you hadn’t worked that out.” Her eyes shone briefly with pain. “That’s what I was trying to tell you yesterday. I came here to get her back and she turned me down.” “Because of me?” Annabel asked. She wondered if Margaret could see how quickly she was breathing. “No. It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re worried

about. I blew it with her. It’s that simple.” Annabel scrutinized Margaret’s face. Why was Cody’s ex bothering to tell her this? As though to answer her, Margaret said, “Last night I wondered if I was going to be killed, or maybe Cody was, and I guess it made me think about a few things, helped me get my priorities straight.” Annabel nodded. “I can understand that.” How could

she have been so wrong? Her heart pounded a wayward staccato against the walls of her chest. What had she done? “Are you okay?” Margaret was looking at her oddly. “I’m fine, thank you. Last night was… quite a night.” Annabel felt color drench her cheeks. “Anyway, I’ve said enough.” Margaret fidgeted selfconsciously. “Give Cody my love. I hope the two of you are happy.” She stepped back and was quickly lost in the anxious crowd choking the lobby. Dazed, Annabel allowed herself to drift back through the crowds around the counter. Her face felt hot and her legs weak. A flood of mixed emotions made it impossible to concentrate on anything but her overwhelming need to get back to the island, to find Cody safe and well. To hell with trying to read the casualty list or leave a

message for Bevan Mitchell, she decided. She would go down to the hanger right now and fly the Dominie back there herself. Pushing through a sea of Hawaiian shirts and screaming children, she had made it to the doors when someone tapped her shoulder from behind. Turning, Annabel gasped, “You!” The object of her wrath grinned sheepishly. “Good to see you, too.” Relief flooded her and she clutched his arm. “Thank God you’re okay. I was worried sick.” “I’m overwhelmed,” Bevan commented. Recovering herself, Annabel gave a snort. “You’re lucky you’re not fired.” She glared pointedly. “Oh my God. You’ve got a black eye!” “You should see the other guy.” Appalled, Annabel shook her head. “Tell me you didn’t get into a bar fight with those morons?” “Not exactly. I told them they had two choices. Stay inside, or stay inside tied up.” With his particular brand of British arrogance, he added, “Being Australian and drunk, the silly bastards couldn’t figure out which was the smarter move.” Annabel rolled her eyes expressively. “Men!” she said with disgust. “We’re getting wiped out by a

hurricane and the boys are playing Rambo. Come on.” She started toward the door. “Let’s get out to the airport.” Bevan lit a cigarette and looked at his watch. “Smithy should be there by now. I doubt we’ll be flying, though.” “Why not?” Annabel glanced up at the sky. “Is it too windy?” Bevan looked at her as if she were kidding him. “Look around,” he said, as they emerged from the torn hotel gardens onto the street. Wordlessly, Annabel stared around her. In the chilling aftermath of the storm, a little boy walked along the road, tears pouring down his face. Next to him was a woman carrying a dead dog in her arms. Medics ran stretchers and shouted instructions. Bulldozers pushed piles of debris aside to clear the road for traffic. Stunned, she took Bevan’s hand as they negotiated their way past overturned cars, uprooted palm trees and smashed walls. “We’ll be lucky if we have a plane,” he said when they finally came to the jeep. “Let alone a runway.” *

“Someone up there was lookin’ out for us, guvnor,” Smithy noted as the three of them inspected the Dominie a little later. The hangar, apart from the loss of half its roof, was in remarkably good shape, and the plane herself was untouched. Annabel ran wondering fingers across the smooth silver fabric of a wing. The area surrounding the terminal was a shambles. Her heart sank when she took in the full extent of the devastation. It seemed impossible to imagine their fragile little plane could have survived the onslaught. “The poor islanders,” she said, thinking about the child and his dead pet, the hundreds of homes razed to the ground. “The tourists can go home and brag about their big adventure at the next office lunch, but what about the locals?” “They’ll get aid,” Bevan said. “It won’t be enough of course. Hundreds of families have lost everything, even their clothes.” “There’s three dead in Avarua,” Smithy commented. “Names?” Bevan peered out from under the plane. “Not yet,” Smithy told him. “Your place?” Bevan queried. Smithy had a little villa southwest of Avarua. “Just lost some shingles. Day’s work, that’s all, guv.”

“What about the other islands—any reports?” Annabel asked him. “They reckon six dead on Atiu.” Bevan’s head jerked up and Smithy spread his hands. “No names yet. Bleedin’ tidal wave flattened the place. Heard nothing from Moon either.” “Can we fly this afternoon?” Smithy shook his head. “Runway’s a bomb-site. Air traffic’s grounded.” “But what about rescue flights?” Annabel insisted. “New Zealand’s sending in a few Army choppers, and Silk and Boyd are heading out for the Northern Group this afternoon.” “But we can’t wait for them!” Annabel paced back and forth, then halted, adding with stubborn determination. “They have to give us special flight clearance. We’ve got tourists to rescue.” “Helpless females,” Smithy noted. They all knew what was being said. The islanders could wait. Foreign tourists were the Cook Island’s livelihood. “You’re absolutely right,” Bevan said very seriously. “I think we should convey that laudable sentiment to our Police Chief without further ado. God forbid we have rich foreign ladies roughing it alone on those

inhospitable shores.” “Shocking,” Smithy agreed. “Could end up with casualties.” “Big insurance companies investigating for negligence,” Bevan added. “It could get damned ugly for the authorities.” “Sleazy,” Annabel commented. “Very sleazy. When can we see him?” * Annabel pulled on her bomber jacket and settled into her seat next to Bevan. “No heroics if we dump her,” the pilot said very seriously. “This runway’s a disaster and God only knows what the strip will be like at the other end. Are you quite sure you want to come?” Annabel threw him a sharp look. At least Bevan knew that Don was okay. A journalist, Don had radioed to say he was on his way to Rarotonga via army helicopter. But so far, no one had been able to make contact with Moon Island. Smithy pulled away the chocks, and they taxied toward an area of runway that had been cleared of large branches and torn metal.

“In a crash this thing will go up in sixty seconds,” Bevan said tersely. “She’s all skin. So if we take a spill, bail out and run as fast as you can. No heroics. Don’t think about me. Got it?” “Got it,” Annabel said coolly. “Same goes for you.” “Sure.” Bevan built the revs, and Annabel closed her eyes and held her breath. She could see how it was that he had managed a successful supply operation in a war zone. Skirting the pot-holes and remaining debris with scorn, he bounced the little place into the air on their first attempt. It was only when they’d safely climbed to two thousand feet that he casually broke the bad news. “We’ve damaged the landing gear. Can you take a look?” Annabel matched his cool. “Will do.” She clambered around in the rear of the cabin, peering out the windows. “One of the wheels is twisted. It looks fairly serious. What are we going to do?” He shrugged. “Land and fix it.” “Land?” Annabel shivered. “But how can we?” “Well, we can’t stay up here all day,” he pointed out dryly. Annabel took their bearings and calculated an estimated time of arrival. “ETA thirteen hundred hours.”

The pilot responded with a grin. “That gives you a whole hour to get your affairs in order.” “Bastard.” Annabel slipped her aviator sunglasses on and relaxed back in her seat like she flew across the Pacific ocean in a crippled war-era biplane every day. When they came in sight of Moon Island she almost cried with relief. It was still there, exactly where the map said. Bevan made a low pass over Passion Bay, and they both peered down at the carnage of broken palm trees and debris piled on the beach. “Christ,” he said. “Lucky we’re carrying enough fuel to get back to Raro.” They climbed and swooped in for a wider pass. From five hundred feet overhead Annabel glimpsed a movement on the makatea not far from Villa Luna, and they circled back for a second look. “Definite signs of life,” she said with relief. “I think I saw two or three of them. They’ll get to Villa Luna by the time we land.” “If we land,” Bevan muttered. They banked steeply over the strip, both gazing down. “It’s not too bad. Looks almost like someone’s cleared it.” There was relief and puzzlement in Bevan’s

voice. “Or else Mr. Big really is looking after us.” Annabel was also baffled. The strip looked like a freshly swept patch of floor in the midst of an expanse of litter. “Weird,” she remarked. “I guess the women must have done it. Good thinking.” Bevan shrugged. “It’s sure as hell going to make the difference between flying and frying with this damned wheel shot. Let’s take her in.” They climbed rapidly and turned into the wind to prepare for landing. Annabel tightened her belt and braced herself as they dropped out of the sky. Bevan seemed to be making the descent at a peculiar tilt, the nose too far up. Annabel started to panic. “Bevan!” she cried. “Straighten up!” He elbowed her roughly away, shouting, “Get down in the plane and get ready to jump.” Annabel obeyed blindly, screaming as they crashed down hard on the tail. The little plane bounced once, then veered into a spin, tried to straighten and bounced again frantically from side to side, wingtips just brushing the earth. As the spinning slowed and Bevan killed the engines, Annabel smelled petrol, released the hatch, and clambered toward the cockpit.

“Go!” Bevan shouted, but she had already released his belt and grabbed his arm, dragging him roughly after her. They jumped in quick succession, rolled, and sprinted for the cover of the torn jungle, diving, then belly-crawling as fast as they could. After a couple of minutes lying with their heads covered, Bevan hissed. “Are you fucking crazy? I told you to get out.” “As if!” Annabel lifted her head indignantly. “Anyway, I want you to teach me how to land on one wheel like that.” “The lady’s gone troppo, old son,” Bevan tapped his head to illustrate the point. “You could try thanking me.” “You could try doing what your captain tells you.” Getting to his knees, he studied the Dominie for a moment, then stood and took a few ginger steps toward her. Annabel followed suit, halting beside him about twenty feet away. There were definite petrol fumes, but so far no flames. “Must be time for a cigarette, eh Mitchell?” she joked, and received a filthy look. After another few minutes they approached the

battered biplane. She had run off the strip and was leaning drunkenly against a palm stump, a large fabric tear on one wing fluttering in the Moon Island breeze like a surrender flag. “You poor old thing,” Annabel said and flicked a propeller with new respect for the game little craft. “I think she’ll live,” Bevan declared as he knelt down beside the undercarriage. “Whether I can fix this is another matter,” he continued. But Annabel was no longer listening. Her eyes were drawn to a figure staggering from the jungle at the far end of the strip, something huge in her arms. “Cody!” She was running before she even became conscious of the fact. The figure lowered her load to the ground and stretched out her arms. “Annabel.” Cody caught her, stumbled back a step and overbalanced, and the two women fell laughing and crying to the ground. They lay there crushed together and gazing into each other’s eyes as though they could never see enough. “I love you,” Annabel said. “I love you, too,” Cody told her. After a long moment just holding each other, they

managed to stumble to their feet. Holding hands, they started across the strip. “Wait. My barrel.” Cody hurried back and hoisted a cumbersome wooden keg into her arms. The top was fractured and several of the struts were loose. “What on earth—” Annabel began. “I found it when I was cleaning up the strip. And since the water pump isn’t working out here, I got kind of worried in case you…” “Crashed?” Cody glanced towards the Dominie. “That landing. I nearly threw up.” Annabel smiled. “Creative, wasn’t it?”

Chapter Twenty-Four Leaving Bevan to work on the plane, Cody and Annabel slowly made their way back to Villa Luna, stopping every so often to clear branches from the jungle track. Walking a little ahead, Annabel was caught up in a description of the damage in Avarua and how petrifying it had been to get off the ground. Listening to the husky sweetness of her voice, Cody felt like a sleepwalker who had stumbled into a dream so wonderful she could not bear to wake. Annabel turned suddenly. “I don’t know why I’m chattering like this. I think it’s adrenalin.” Beaming, she reached for Cody, pulling her close, kissing her with wild joy. “I can’t believe you’re home.” Cody’s words were all but silenced by Annabel’s mouth. Stripping Cody’s T-shirt away, she fell on her hungrily and they sank onto the hot crush of the jungle floor, each frantically removing the other’s clothes. It occurred to Cody that any minute Bevan would probably show up, or one of the women from the cave would stumble across them. But she didn’t care. Grasping Annabel’s breasts, she buried her face

between them, then captured a nipple, tormenting it with teeth and tongue until it grew marble hard in her mouth. Urgently, desperately, she pushed her knee between Annabel’s thighs, pressing hard against her wetness. Backing her up against a fractured tree trunk, reason and restraint lost to some primal imperative, she cradled that sweet slippery core against her palm. With a breathless whimper of pleasure, Annabel arched her back and rocked her hips hard against Cody’s hand, offering herself for the taking, urging her on with hoarse little pleas. Filling her, working into her with hard, rapid strokes, Cody lifted her head, finding her mouth once more, exploring its depths with a craving so profound she thought it could never be slaked. Blood mixed with the taste of salt and sweat, and Cody drew back slightly, uncertain whose mouth was bruised. In that instant she felt Annabel’s fingers dig into her shoulders, refusing to be denied the release she needed. Braced against one another, they seemed merged somehow, locked in a ritual known only to their bodies. With a sense of wonder, Cody felt Annabel clench around her, drawing her deeper. Then she was shaking

uncontrollably, engulfed by a series of contractions that radiated from her womb to the heart pounding against Cody’s breast. Panting, barely able to stand, they rested their heads one against the other for what seemed an eternity. When finally their breathing grew more even, Cody said, “Did I mention I’m happy to see you?” Annabel smiled into her shoulder. “Mmmn… maybe you should tell me again.” * Villa Luna had lost its verandah and part of its roof, but otherwise it appeared to be remarkably intact. Cody and Annabel reached the front door just in time to hear a loud petulant complaint from within. “All I can get is a pile of static. The fucking thing must be broken.” Annabel drew a startled breath. Lifting a hand, Cody whispered, “That would be Dawn.” Obviously the young woman was none the worse for wear. “They must have landed by now,” said another voice. Brenda. “Well, one of us is going to have to find that bloody

strip, and I guess it’ll have to be me.” Could anyone sound resentful and pleased all at once? Dawn certainly gave it her best shot. “Look after her,” she ordered, and Cody felt a stab of alarm. How was Catherine’s leg? The wound was looking inflamed by the time she had left. “That bloody Cody Stanton.” Dawn was on a roll. “She was definitely here. That bed’s been slept in and her T-shirt’s on the floor. She’s probably sunbathing on the beach or something while we’re half dead. Just wait ’til I find her.” Annabel raised expressive eyebrows. “Looks like I’m dog food,” Cody mouthed. “…a bloody knuckle sandwich,” the litany continued. As footsteps approached, Cody and Annabel jumped guiltily into the shadows. A bedraggled young woman emerged from the Villa, hovered for a moment in the doorframe then dropped down onto ground. Picking her way through the wreckage of the verandah, she started into the jungle in the opposite direction from the strip. She was filthy, jeans and T-shirt torn and stained with sweat and jungle. Her wavy honey-colored hair was matted and tied back into a sorry ponytail with a shoelace that looked like one of Brenda’s fluorescent orange specials.

Cody took a couple of paces into the open and called, “Dawn, you’re going the wrong way.” The blonde ponytail bobbed as Dawn stopped in her tracks and spun round. “You!” she burst out. “Where the fuck have you been?” Her face was a picture. Anger, relief and mortification all at once. Cody expected to be slapped, but instead Dawn virtually threw herself into her arms. Completely overwrought, she wailed, “Thank God you’re all right. We were so worried, and Catherine’s leg is all swollen, and we got lost. It was awful.” She wiped her running eyes and nose on her fist, then slapped Cody with both hands, sobbing. “Where were you? You promised you’d come back for us.” “I’m sorry.” Cody stilled her hands and led the hysterical young woman over to Annabel. “I’m here now, and you made it all on your own. That was really brave.” She dragged the wicker chaise lounge from beneath a pile of smashed timber and sat Dawn on it, giving her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Sit out here with Annabel and relax. I’m going inside to take a look at Catherine’s leg.” “We’ve got a full medical kit in the plane,” Annabel said as Cody hoisted herself up into the doorway.

They were both surprised when Dawn scrambled up, dusted herself off, and said, “I’ll get it. Which way do I go?” Annabel opened her mouth to give directions, thought again, and said, “Come with me.” * It was nearly daybreak when Annabel and Cody finally crawled exhausted into bed. Dawn, Brenda and Catherine were bunked down in the guest room and Bevan in the living room. They had patched the roof as best they could with wood and leaves. Fortunately the Dominie’s medical kit was well equipped with local anesthetic, antibiotics and surgical instruments, and Bevan and Cody between them had stitched Catherine’s leg where the wound had reopened. Bevan, Cody had discovered, was often called on by the islanders if a doctor wasn’t available. He was a trained paramedic and told Cody that since flying the islands, he had also acquired a specialty in emergency pig surgery. After Catherine had been made comfortable with pain-killers and the two other women were sound

asleep, Cody and Annabel had met to devise a plan for getting everyone off the island and back to Rarotonga. Bevan made radio contact with Avarua to provide a status update, and within the next twenty-four hours an army medical team would arrive to chopper them out. “What a day!” Cody snuggled against Annabel and sighed contentedly. “I wish I had some energy left.” Annabel stroked her face lovingly. “Me, too. But we need to get some sleep. We’ve got a heap of work to do tomorrow...today.” “I can’t believe all this has happened,” Cody said. “Twenty-four hours just doesn’t seem long enough for a hurricane, a plane crash, and major surgery.” Annabel smiled at the embellishments, then said, “A month doesn’t seem long enough to have had my whole life turned upside down. I haven’t even had a chance to tell you about it all.” “Me neither,” Cody said. “I hardly know where to begin.” “We’ve got plenty of time,” Annabel said and kissed her gently. “I want us to be together always. We belong together.” Cody felt a rush of emotion at Annabel’s words. She’d experienced that same sense. Of belonging with Annabel. Of destiny throwing them together from

continents apart. At times it seemed so bizarre and unlikely that it was almost beyond belief. Cody had been laid off the day Annabel’s aunt had been buried. If Cody’s employer hadn’t made a mistake with zeros she would never have dreamed of “escaping” to an island, if Margaret hadn’t left her...if... “We were meant for each other,” she murmured sleepily. “I tried to run away, but I couldn’t.” “Me, too.” Annabel rocked her slowly, kissed her eyelids closed. “I love you,” she whispered. And while they slept in each other’s arms, an innocent breeze stirred the palms on Passion Bay and the island awoke to an untroubled horizon.

Epilogue A year later in a Back Bay apartment, Annabel Worth slid onto her lover’s knee and bit her neck softly. “What’s the book, sweetheart?” “It’s the latest Amanda Valentine,” Cody enthused. “And guess what. It’s set in Rarotonga! Hey!” she objected as Annabel whipped the book out of her hands and scanned the opening lines.

The second Amanda Valentine laid eyes on Lucy Jones she knew she was looking at trouble. But she liked what she saw anyway. Lucy was sitting two tables down, mutilating a fish. With mounting disbelief, Annabel snapped the book shut and examined the jacket as though it were alive with crawling things. Last Tango in Rarotonga by Rose Beecham, and an artist’s impression of the Rarotongan Resort Hotel on a stormy night. “So what do you think of it?” she asked Cody faintly. “It’s great,” Cody pronounced. “Although a bit farfetched, especially that first scene when she meets Lucy and they jump straight into bed. Right in the middle of a hurricane. I mean, really.” Cody rolled her eyes and Annabel dropped the book

back into her lover’s lap, snuggling closer and smiling at a private joke. “You know, Cody Stanton,” she said, sliding her hands over her lover’s midriff. “I love you.”

About the Author Jennifer Fulton is a best-selling lesbian romance writer who is a recipient of the 2006 Alice B. Readers' Appreciation Award. Born in beautiful New Zealand, the author now resides in the Midwest with her partner and a menagerie of animals. When she is not writing or reading, she loves to explore the mountains and prairies near her home, a landscape eternally and wonderfully foreign to her.

Saving Grace

Champion swimmer and Olympic hopeful Dawn Beaumont flees to Moon Island after a car crash leaves her haunted by guilt over the death of a passenger, her career in ruins, and her body damaged. Scientist Grace Ramsay welcomes her cute new neighbor, imagining Dawn could be a pleasant diversion from her secret mission to evaluate Moon Island for corporate purchase by a chemicals giant looking for a waste dump far from civilization. But Dawn won't play ball, in fact she denies she is even a lesbian. Beset by troubling nightmares rooted in the past, and increasing ambivalence over her job, Grace sets out to prove otherwise. Meanwhile Annabel Worth, the owner of the island, is determined not to sell her home to a chemicals conglomerate. But then her plane goes down in the Pacific under suspicious circumstances.

Second in the Moon Island Series

Saving Grace © 2008 By Jennifer Fulton. All Rights Reserved. ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-066-1E This Electronic Book is published by Bold Strokes Books, Inc., New York, USA Original Bold Strokes Books Ebooks Edition: August 2008 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits Production Design: Stacia Seaman Cover Design By: Bold Strokes Books Graphics

Chapter One It was a typical Sydney summer’s day. Beneath a tyrannous sun, the harbor milled with pleasure craft bearing such clichéd names as Pussy Galore or Freudian Slip. Their decks were plastered with basking socialites and hunky dark-haired waiters. And, trailing raucously in their wakes, gulls squabbled over the occasional jettisoned olive or stunned fish. The Sydney Opera House, Holy Grail of countless camera-happy tourists, loomed against a postcard sky. On the Manly Ferry, locals yawned over cans of Foster’s, and a whimsical breeze toyed with the long, soft hair of a brace of truant schoolgirls. Rearranging her blond ponytail, Dawn Beaumont glumly surveyed the scene. “I’m bored,” she declared. “Is that all?” Her cousin, Trish, studied her with a hint of exasperation. “Isn’t it enough?” Trish heaved a sigh and dug around in her handbag, producing a handful of tissues. Dawn pushed them away. “Oh, what do you care. It’s not your life.” Tears slithered beneath her sunglasses. “Don’t be silly. Of course I care.” Trish placed the tissues in Dawn’s hand, pausing as she mopped her

face. “I know it’s frustrating, but injuries like yours don’t heal overnight.” “Frustrating! That’s the understatement of the year. It’s driving me ’round the bend living at home. Mom keeps on stuffing me full of pasta, and Dad won’t shut up about me swimming in a goddamned disabled team. And there’s all the trophies.” Dawn blew her nose fiercely. “They won’t put them away. I’ve asked.” “Give them time, Dawn. They need to come to terms with everything too.” “You make it sound like I’m dead. I bloody deserve to be.” Dawn gazed at the water churning over the ferry’s bow. Ordinarily she loved the trip across the harbor, the air so clean and salty, the hum of the city drifting discordantly across the water. But these days nothing gave her pleasure. Her life was ruined. “Dawn.” Trish’s voice held a hint of rebuke. “We’ve already had this conversation. It’s been six months since the accident.” She glanced at Dawn’s legs and looked quickly away. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.” “It was my fault.” “We all make mistakes. I think you’ve paid for yours.” “Well, some people wouldn’t agree.” Since the accident she’d heard it a million times.

You were so lucky. It was a miracle. And somewhere, lurking behind the forced brightness, that unspeakable question: How come you survived and Lynda was killed? By rights it should have been the other way around. Lynda was younger, an even better medal prospect for the Olympic squad. And she was sweet, gentle, and kind—everything Dawn wasn’t. Tears plopped off Dawn’s chin onto her hands. “They all think it should have been me. They—” “Now hold on,” Trish protested. “That’s simply not true and you know it. Everyone wants you back on your feet.” She broke off, clearly pained by her own insensitive choice of words. “Well, don’t hold your breath!” Dawn kicked the walking stick propped beside her. “Just look at me, leaning on this bloody thing like a granny. I’ll never swim again.” She choked back a sob. Trish must be sick of the sound of her by now. All she ever seemed to do these days was cry. But Trish took her hand. “You need some time out, away from all of this. From your parents and the reporters and everything. You need to get away from Sydney, go someplace where you can think. Take my word for it,” she insisted as Dawn began a protest. “A

change is as good as a rest. Besides, it’s time you started planning your future. “I don’t have a future. My life is over.” “Nonsense.” Trish gently shook Dawn’s shoulders. “You’re only twenty-two. Of course you have a future. You won’t be swimming in the Olympics, but neither will most of the population, and I think we’ll survive.” “You don’t understand,” Dawn said sullenly. Trish ignored her. “It’s decided then. I’m going to book a holiday for you, a long way from here. I know the perfect destination.” “No. Absolutely not.” Dawn had a bad feeling that she knew just the place her cousin had in mind. Somehow over the years, she had fallen into the habit of doing exactly what her cousin wanted. In many ways Trish substituted as the big sister Dawn had never had. Almost ten years older, she had been a fixture in the Beaumont household, baby-sitting throughout Dawn’s childhood and spending vacations with the family. No matter what Dawn did, Trish was always on her side, encouraging her to do better, protecting her when she needed it. Already she was acting as if Dawn had agreed to everything. “You’re going to love it,” she promised. “Trish, I said no.” It might have been easier to sound

resolute if the idea of getting out of Sydney weren’t so appealing. “But you meant yes.” Trish was already consulting her Palm Pilot, no doubt finding her travel agent’s number. “Darling, it’s written all over your sad little face. Why fight it?” “I suppose you’re talking about that rotten island.” Trish was wreathed in smiles. “Well, you had such a ball last time with the hurricane and everything…” * Grace Ramsay opened her eyes and lay frozen between the sheets, a shrill sound rising from her throat. What should have been a scream was just a sigh, escaping from her lips like gas from a soda bottle. With a concentrated effort, she moved first her hands, then her feet. Then she waited. For what, she was uncertain. The Dream. With shaking fingers, she touched her face. Her skin was clammy. She examined her hands, unsure what she expected to see. In the wan first light, they were pale and unsullied. They dropped to her chest and nestled there. Grace stared around the hotel room. Bland,

uncluttered walls stared back. A full-length mirror gaped on the opposite wall. Abandoning her bed, she drifted toward the tall copper-haired woman reflected there. Dark, shadowed eyes met hers, the pupils huge. For a moment, something flickered in them, the shock of some horror freshly witnessed. Grace gazed intently, willing memory to surface, but there was only that familiar blankness, a sense of groping in the dark for a phantom. She turned away, gathered up some clothes, and retreated to the impersonal solitude of her bathroom. * A few hours later, she was in the downstairs bar knocking back Margaritas and listening absently as the band mutilated a Springsteen song. She detested drinking alone in hotels, evading the calculating eyes of men on the prowl. Worse still, she hated competing with them for women to chat up. Layovers were the pits. If only she had been able to change planes and fly out of L.A. yesterday. But Robert B. Hausmann himself had insisted on seeing her before she left for the Cook Islands. Drumming her fingers, she drained her glass and

signaled for another drink. It was not like the CEO of Argus Chemco to be late. She wondered how far her boss had got with the Moon Island deal. The owners hadn’t shown much interest when they were initially approached. But in Grace’s experience, there was more than one way to persuade people that signing on the dotted line was a smart move. Hausmann played to win. He had not built a billion dollar global dumping operation by being a wuss. It wasn’t easy to find an optimum location for toxic waste disposal these days. Although the U.S. had stymied the passage of rigorous global restrictions at the Basel Convention in 1989, and despite the most ineffectual international policing, third world countries were getting increasingly tetchy about foreign shipments. Of course, thanks to bribery, corruption, and the hefty financial incentives Argus could offer cooperative governments, they could always fall back on the usual suspects—China, India, Pakistan, Brazil. But it wasn’t that simple. For a company taking a long term view, there were all kinds of factors to consider —proximity to habitation, strategic and/or political importance, labor costs, media scrutiny, enforceability of any local environmental protection laws. It was one thing for a host government to ignore the

human rights of its citizens, quite another for a company like Argus to find its operations attracting the kind of negative publicity that had closed down the Colbert brothers in the 1980s. The Colbert’s problem was greed and short-term thinking, Robert Hausmann was fond of saying. If you’re going to ship millions of tons of phosphate, asbestos, uranium, DDT and PCBs all over the planet, you need to pay attention to the letter of the law. God knows, there were enough loopholes to ensure toxic waste could easily be exported out of the U.S. The federal government, a big customer, had seen to that. No one needed to use phony labels or convoluted falsifications of shipping records. And it was just plain common sense not to get sloppy at the other end. Who needed an international incident like Nigeria? Thanks to a bunch of leaking barrels that had originated in Italy, the Nigerian president had not only ordered the Italian government to take back the waste, but he also instituted the death penalty for waste traders. Until that fiasco, Africa had been an ideal dumping resource. Now, the place was barely viable. Argus avoided it like the plague. There were more dependable regions—the South Pacific, for one. A remote, privately owned island was a waste

dumper’s dream come true—no inhabitants, no road access, no nosy reporters, no avaricious local bureaucrats needing constant pay-offs to shut up about birth deformities. Hausmann had been hunting for the right site in the region for more than a year, and he had hit the jackpot with Moon Island. Idly, Grace stirred her drink. The dumping contract could be worth hundreds of millions to the Cook Islands, and it sounded like their Premier was hot for the Argus proposal. Who could blame the guy —responsible for some flimsy banana republic economy totally dependent on foreign currency earnings. The only obstacle would be the island’s owners. But everyone had their price, and Argus was willing to pay serious money for the right deal. “Dr. Ramsay?” Grace tensed as someone spoke her name. A woman with a briefcase stood opposite her. Somewhere in her thirties, black wavy hair to her shoulders, she had smooth olive skin and a body to die for. With an appreciative smile, Grace said, “You’re speaking to her, and it’s Grace, by the way.’’ The delicious stranger shook her hand briefly. “I’m Camille Marquez, Robert Hausmann’s assistant. Mr.

Hausmann sends his apologies. He was called back East.” “Delighted to meet you.” Grace wondered what had happened to Hilda Gruber, Hausmann’s usual defender. Indicating a chair, she offered, “Can I get you a drink?” “Martini, thanks.” Camille’s skirt tightened across her thighs when she sat. She had great legs and crossed them like she knew it, feet slightly to one side to set off her perfectly toned calves. When Grace returned from the bar, Camille delved into her briefcase, extracting an envelope and handing it over. “The latest briefing papers for the Moon Island project.” Grace tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. The purchase of Moon Island seemed likely, but negotiations were, of course, sensitive at this stage. Grace’s assessment of the island was to be carried out with the utmost discretion. She was to confirm as soon as possible the suitability of the site and the likely scope and time frame of the necessary site preparation. Hausmann was presently in negotiations with an important new Japanese client. The sooner he could offer a firm commencement date for dumping activities, the better.

“When is Mr. Hausmann leaving for Rarotonga?” Grace inquired. Camille consulted her Filofax. “He has a meeting arranged with the owner of Moon Island in four days.” That would give her a chance to make a quick preliminary evaluation of the site. “Tell him I should be able to indicate viability by then,” Grace said. “It won’t be a definitive report, of course.” “I’ll let him know.” Camille was busily penning. “Mr. Hausmann will also be interested in any insights you might offer on the owners.” “I’ll do my best. This Ms. Worth—do you have her first name?” “Annabel.” Grace paused. “Funny, I knew an Annabel Worth years ago. Not the same person, I’m sure.” The Annabel Worth she recalled would not be caught dead more than five miles from the nearest Neiman Marcus, let alone operating some ideologically right-on retreat for women only. She almost laughed at the idea. The enchanting Camille closed her memo pad and uncrossed her elegant legs. “I’m here until tomorrow, Dr. Ramsay. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” The invitation in her tone was unmistakable.

A bisexual on the prowl. Grace smiled languidly. She could do worse. “Er…do you have plans for this evening?” she asked.

Chapter Two “Well, here we are.” Trish humped Dawn’s bags onto the check-in scales. “You okay?” “Of course I am,” Dawn said peevishly. She wished people would quit asking her that. They only did it out of guilt because they were relieved she was the cripple and not them. Scanning the faces around her, she caught strangers looking hastily away. When you were young and limped along with a walking stick it changed everything. People either stared or pretended you weren’t there. You couldn’t go to a bloody barbecue without some fool wanting to put a blanket on you. In summer, for God’s sake. Even now, Trish was interrogating the ticketing clerk. Where would she be sitting in relation to the bathroom? No she couldn’t stagger all that way up and down the aisles. What if it was a bumpy flight? Dawn prodded her and said it didn’t matter, but Trish shoved a boarding pass into her hand with the pointed comment that the disabled are people, too. “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” Dawn said miserably as they waited for her boarding call. Trish laughed. “I see you’re determined to have a

lousy time.” “I am not!” “Then cheer up, angel. And don’t worry about your parents. I’ll handle them.” Dawn cringed. Her parents had no idea about this expedition. They thought she was going away for a weekend yoga retreat in the Blue Mountains. As if! Dawn could hardly bear to contemplate their reactions when they found out what she was really up to. Since the accident, it was all they could do to let her use the bathroom by herself. They would have a cow over foreign travel. Trish patted her hand. “If it makes you feel any better, at least they won’t be able to contact you out there.” Dawn’s jaw dropped a notch. She had forgotten how primitive Moon Island was. “You mean they still haven’t got proper phones?” “Just those crank-handle party lines,” Trish said cheerfully. “Great, isn’t it? Peace and quiet guaranteed. ” The prospect was not exactly balm to her troubled spirits, Dawn reflected nine hours later as she hovered outside what passed for Rarotonga International Airport. She was hot and tired, and an announcement had just come over the pager that the Moon Island

connection was running late. Typical! Dawn slouched grumpily against her luggage. It was probably the same wreck of a plane as last time, too. Perhaps it had crashed en route. Ineffectually licking her dry lips, she dragged her sun hat lower. She was a fool to have come back here. She should never have allowed Trish to talk her into it. After the last time you’d think she might have learned her lesson. What a disaster that was. Normally, she would never have holidayed in a place like the Cook Islands. Her idea of a perfect destination was Queensland, where everyone ignored the beach and swam in hotel pools so they didn’t get sand in their pants. But back then, Trish had already booked and paid for the vacation to Moon Island. She’d had to cancel at the last minute when she landed some big photography contract at Ayres Rock and had offered Dawn her tickets. It had sounded great—a tropical island, luxury villas, golden beaches. The sneaky bitch hadn’t said anything about the place being run by weirdos who only let women stay there. It had been two weeks of relentless boredom. No phones, no electricity, no night life, and no men. To top it all off, a hurricane had hit the island and everyone was forced to spend two terrifying nights in the next

best thing to the Batcave with some smart-ass Kiwi playing the Girl Wonder. Cody Stanton. The mere thought of her made something crawl in the pit of Dawn’s stomach. She could still picture that wretched woman loping along the jungle paths with that own-the-world walk. Who did she think she was, anyway? Unzipping her cabin bag, she rummaged crossly for her painkillers. Her legs ached from the flight. Pain was to be expected, the surgeon had said when he removed the plates and screws. An unstable comminuted fracture of the tibia and fibula, compound femoral fractures that had shattered both legs. She was lucky she could walk at all. Dawn steered her mind in another direction. She didn’t want to think about her ugly, useless legs. She just wanted to get to her destination and lie down. Where the hell were these people anyway? Didn’t they want visitors? Fuming, she paid a kid two bucks to mind her luggage and hobbled indoors to buy herself a can of Coke. She snapped the tab viciously, dropped a couple of painkillers and guzzled the contents. The boy and her bags were still there when she returned, and for a moment Dawn was almost sorry. If they had vanished, she would have had the perfect

excuse to return home. But no. God wasn’t doing Dawn Beaumont any favors this week. Sinking onto the nearest bench, she extended her legs, gently massaging her thighs and waiting for the pain to subside. To her frustration, Cody Stanton’s face hovered persistently in the foreground of her mind, dragging Dawn back in time to that final day on Moon Island three years before. After the hurricane, a group of guests had been at Villa Luna, the main house, waiting to be rescued by the cargo boat. Dawn had gone for a walk on Passion Bay, only to find Cody there with Annabel Worth, the woman who owned the island. They were in each other’s arms, kissing exactly like lovers. Dawn had taken one long mortified look and fled. Cody Stanton was a lesbian, she’d realized stupidly. For some reason the knowledge still made her knot up inside. “Dawn?” A voice made her jump guiltily. “Is that you?” A pair of long, neatly muscled legs stood before her. Dawn followed them up past slim hips and an ancient Levi’s shirt, to a wide mouth and a pair of candid gray eyes. Cody hadn’t changed a bit. “Of course it’s me,” Dawn snapped. “I’ve been dying

out here wondering when you’d bother to turn up.” Cody grinned, no sign of remorse. “Hey, it’s great to see you, too. Must say, you’re the last person we expected back here for a return visit. Are these all yours?” She nudged Dawn’s luggage with her toe. Jerking a brief nod, Dawn snatched up her stick and wobbled to her feet. Chin jutting, she dared Cody to make something of her condition. But the taller woman tossed the luggage onto a cart as if eighty pounds weighed nothing, and strolled off across the heat softened tarmac. “Follow me,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s not far.” What a bitch! She might have had the decency to shorten her stride or check if her guest was okay. But no, she barely seemed to have noticed Dawn’s predicament. Glaring after her, Dawn muttered a series of profanities beneath her breath, words her parents thought she didn’t even know. It felt good. She was sick of censoring everything she said just so they could congratulate themselves on having brought their daughter up right. By the time they reached the small, tatty-looking silver plane Dawn remembered from her last visit, she was puffing with exertion and resentment. Firing a

suspicious glance toward the hangar, she demanded, “Where’s your pilot?” Surely they weren’t going to roast out here for the next few hours waiting for some patchup job. She remembered those running repairs all too well. “Bevan’s on holiday,” Cody replied blandly. “Annabel’s flying the shuttle.” “Terrific,” Dawn sniffed, watching Cody stow the bags. Amateurs. Finishing her task, Cody waved to someone. Turning automatically, Dawn faced a stunning platinum blond who looked as if she’d just walked off the pages of Vogue. Annabel Worth, the owner of Moon Island, the woman Cody lived with and kissed on the mouth like it didn’t matter that anyone could see them. “Dawn.” Annabel removed her sunglasses and smiled warmly. “I’m so glad you’ve come back.” Mumbling a hello, Dawn tried not to be startled by Annabel’s porcelain skin and her strange, pinkylavender eyes. You got used to it when you saw her every day, but it was a bit of a shock after all this time. “Let’s get out of this heat.” Annabel tossed her sun hat into the rickety plane, and pulled a decrepit leather flying jacket over her linen shirt. Helping Dawn aboard, she commented—as if Dawn were interested, “The

Dominie’s going like a rocket. We bought a Rapide for spare parts last year and Bevan’s in England now, shopping for a couple of new motors for us.” Dawn shuddered. “I don’t know why you don’t just buy a whole new plane, instead of trying to keep this old wreck in the air.” Waiting for her to get seated, Cody looked like she was about to lose her temper. Annabel was obviously soppy over the stupid plane and maybe they couldn’t afford a better one. Dawn hadn’t meant to be tactless, but she was fed up. Besides, it was ridiculous to run a resort and not have a nice modern plane to transport your guests. She wriggled in her hard little seat, a stabbing queasiness rolling through her gut. The painkillers. She’d taken them on an empty stomach. The warm Coke probably hadn’t helped either. Annabel started the plane and Dawn stuck her fingers in her ears, wishing she could block out the desperate whine of the engines, the foul petrol fumes and the jarring vibration. It would also be nice if Cody Stanton wasn’t sitting so close. She was virtually in Dawn’s lap. Twisting to see if there was an empty seat behind her, Dawn groaned. There were four, but each was jammed with supplies. The plane lurched. Bracing herself, she closed her

eyes. If they were going to end up in the drink, she didn’t want to watch. Several teeth-rattling minutes later, one of her hands was pulled away from her ear and Cody’s voice said, “It’s safe to look now.” Dawn could not conceal a slight start at the contact. Bestowing a dirty look on the dark-haired New Zealander, she made a point of gazing out her window. They were airborne and the propeller noise had tapered off to a bearable thrum. She couldn’t help but marvel at the blue infinity below. But for the hint of whitecaps, the ocean seemed inseparable from the sky. There was no sign of land on the vast, curved horizon. The sun sat high above, gleaming off the Dominie’s silver wings. The plane felt very small and vulnerable as it nosed its way farther and farther from civilization. Despite herself, Dawn began to relax. Three whole weeks on a tropical island. A house to herself, nobody fussing around her needing her gratitude. When you were sick it was lonely and crowded all at once. But she had escaped! Her parents could not make her crazy over here. There would be no more aggravating conversations about disabled athletes. She was thousands of miles from home and could do any damned thing she liked.

She felt like laughing hysterically. Instead she frowned at her heightened elation. The drugs were to blame, of course. They tended to distort her judgment. In the hospital she’d had morphine, and as far as Dawn was concerned the drip never flowed fast enough. Once she was off morphine, there was the refined cruelty of slow release Voltaren or OxyContin. To compensate, she had to take Percocet or Ibuprofen every few hours. In the hospital, she had quickly become a slave to the pill trolley. These days, she mixed her own cocktails and had to manage the process carefully. Voltaren was stomachulcer territory. One a day was the limit. More than that and you spat blood. Sometimes Dawn didn’t care and popped an extra anyway. But mostly she got by on Ibuprofen top-ups. Lately she’d promised herself she would cut back. She didn’t have the willpower to go cold turkey, but she was stretching the hours between doses. It was the best she could do. When you had constant pain, all you could think about was stopping it. Next to her, Cody was hanging over the pilot’s seat, deep in conversation with Annabel. Dawn caught snatches—Bevan had done Shuttleworth, some big plane museum in England. Annabel’s mother was

coming to stay. Her mother! What must she think of Annabel’s lifestyle? Dawn felt sorry for the poor woman. Shifting in her seat, she wriggled her toes to keep her circulation moving, weariness overtaking her once more. Her head ached from the uneven drone of the propellers and the acrid stench of petrol fumes. A dull vibration grinding along her legs reminded her that her pills were only thinly disguising the reality of her pain. What had she been thinking to come here? A mature person would have pulled herself together by now. Dawn was one of the lucky ones, after all. Other people had their spines destroyed and become paraplegic. What right did she have to feel sorry for herself? Why couldn’t she just get on with living her life? Tears stung. Dawn wiped them on her knuckles. For a moment, her eyes were drawn to her hands. They had been pretty before the accident, fine-boned and soft-skinned. Now they were covered in scars. Gingerly she touched the tender new skin, and looked up straight into Cody Stanton’s searching eyes. “Are you all right?” Cody sounded concerned. If anyone asked her that again, she’d scream. Why couldn’t people just mind their own business? “Of course I’m all right,” she retorted.

For a moment Cody studied her, then with a small defeated shrug she turned away. “Passion Bay to your right, folks,” Annabel announced. Dawn told herself she couldn’t give a damn. But she peered down anyway, taking in the white beach, the dense green of the jungle, the unmistakable shape of Villa Luna with its wide front lawn and courtyard garden laid out like a brightly patterned handkerchief in the center. “I hope you know how to land this bloody crate,” she grumbled as they dropped toward the treetops. Annabel swooped low over the landing strip, then suddenly, jarringly, wound on full throttle. They shot straight up into the clouds, climbing giddily while Dawn squealed ineffectual protests from the back seat. Seconds later the world turned upside down and the tiny plane seemed to fall out of the sky. “What the hell are you doing?” Dawn shrieked. “Are you trying to fucking kill us?” Annabel didn’t answer until they’d landed and the motors were finally silenced. Turning in her seat to face Dawn, she said in her polished drawl, “I thought I’d see if this bloody crate could manage a roll or two before we made our crash landing.” Her expression was cool

and unsympathetic. “Oh, and if you’re planning to throw up, would you mind doing it outside? I’d hate to ruin my outfit cleaning up after you.” * “You were a bit hard on her, sweetheart,” Cody said later that evening. “I mean, she’s obviously had a terrible accident.” Annabel glanced up from a folder she was leafing through. “Am I hearing this correctly? Are you really defending the dreadful Dawn?” “She’s not that bad,” Cody objected. “She’s just immature.” “You said that last time she was here, and that was nearly three years ago. When will the excuses run out? When she’s retired, maybe? Or does walking with a cane exonerate one from common good manners?” “You could have got us all killed.” “Now when would I risk your ass, let alone my own?” Annabel smiled sweetly. Cody tossed a cushion at her. “I’ve died a thousand deaths in that plane, and you know it. Anyway, it wasn’t such a bad idea of Dawn’s.” “What idea?”

“Buying a new plane. The Dominie’s over fifty years old. Can’t we just put it in a museum and get a Lear or something?” “Maybe we could, if we wanted to accept this.” Annabel tossed the folder she had been holding across to Cody. “Read it and weep.” Cody admired the leather binding. “What is it?” “Five million dollars in cash, plus another ten or so in shares. Someone wants to buy Moon Island.” Codyfrowned as she thumbed through the pages of legalese. “Who?” “Argus Chemco,” Annabel supplied. “Some big multinational chemicals conglomerate. I’m meeting Robert Hausmann, their CEO, in Avarua later this week to discuss the offer. Evidently they’re planning to expand their South Pacific operations and they want to establish a base in the Cook Islands.” “But Moon Island is miles from anywhere. It seems like a lot of money to pay for an office no one can find. Why don’t they just buy New Zealand?” Annabel smiled lightly. “Good point. Anyway I phoned Hausmann and told him he’s wasting his time. But the guy still wants to make his pitch.” “Well, it’s a free lunch. Maybe you should hear him out.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Annabel frowned. “Do you want us to sell?” “Good Lord, no,” Cody said emphatically. “You had me worried for a moment.” “I love it here. We live in paradise.” Cody tossed the portfolio aside. “A Lear might have been fun, that’s all.” “What can I say, sweetheart.” Annabel reached for Cody. “Apart from anything else the airstrip’s too short for a serious plane.” “We could always land it on Raro and run a chopper for transport to the island.” Cody wasn’t really serious, but still, the idea had merits. “Honey, I am not flying some celebrity ego-crutch across the Pacific. Not even for you.” Annabel’s tone was incredulous. “Is this some kind of mid-life crisis?” Cody stifled a giggle. Annabel was taking her seriously. “I know we’re stuck out here in the tropics,” her lover continued, “But if you really want a new toy, I guess we could get a Harley.” Cody heaved a sigh. “It wouldn’t be the same without paved roads.” Annabel laughed. “You’re just going to have to come to terms with slumming it on white beaches and getting cheap thrills at the expense of brats like Dawn

Beaumont. It could be worse.” Burrowing into her, Cody slid a knee between her thighs. “You know, speaking of toys, we could get that Zodiac for the cruiser.” “Mmnhmn.” Annabel rocked forward slightly, her mouth brushing Cody’s. “Persuade me,” she said.

Chapter Three “So you’re not dead after all.” The voice came from the same direction as a stream of irreverent morning light. Camille Marquez was sitting at a small breakfast table calmly squeezing lemon into two cups of tea. Immaculate in raw silk pants, butter yellow shirt, thick gold bracelets, she gave a deceptively cool smile. Head splitting, Grace elbowed herself upright, taking in the clothing strewn across the floor, the used smell of the bed linen, Camille’s latex dams clinging to the bedspread. Her teeth felt furry. Rubbing her eyes, she caught the unmistakable scent of woman on her hands. “So…” She tried for a kind of cocky nonchalance. The morning after was not her strong suit. “We…er…” “We did.” Camille crossed the room, handing Grace a cup of tea. “You weren’t bad.” “Well, thanks.” Grace choked on her first sip, images flitting across her mind—Camille laughing, the two of them sliding hot and naked amidst a tangle of sheets. “You might have performed better if you weren’t drunk,” Camille put things right into perspective. Grace deposited her tea on the bedside table and tenderly massaged her temples. Evidently she’d made the Big Impression. “I’m not usually such a slob,” she

said, wondering if she’d fallen asleep or something. “And I’m not usually such a bitch.” Camille indicated a neatly folded pile on the dressing table. “I got some fresh clothes for you. Take a shower, and we can get breakfast before you catch your plane.” She checked her watch. “I’m going out now to send some faxes. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.” Time management. The woman was obviously a formidable exponent of it. You had to be, Grace supposed, if you were organizing someone else’s life as well as your own. Easing her legs off the bed, she forced herself woozily to her feet. Camille was sorting papers into files. Glancing at Grace, she remarked, “Great body. Are you always so free with it?” Grace frowned. Was she being called a slut now? “Only with kindred spirits,” she returned tightly. That earned a laugh. “You think I sleep with just anyone?” Camille snapped shut her leather briefcase. “I felt like good sex and I thought you could probably deliver.” “I’m flattered.” Grace was at a loss for words. Apparently Camille orchestrated her sex life as methodically as her work. Right now she was looking Grace up and down like

a used-car salesman contemplating a low dollar tradein. “You fuck around a lot, don’t you, Grace?” she said. “Is that why you avoid having orgasms? You like to stay detached?” Heat seeped into Grace’s cheeks. Before she could prevent herself, she’d folded her arms defensively across her body. “I enjoy myself. Sex doesn’t have to be orgasm-centric, surely?” “Whatever.” Camille shrugged, collected her briefcase and started toward the door. “So if it doesn’t matter, how come you take care of yourself afterwards?” The door clicked resolutely behind her and Grace flopped back onto the bed. “Well, fuck you too, Camille,” she muttered. * Several days later Annabel Worth strolled into the cool of the Rarotonga Resort Hotel lobby. She was right on time. When you get a note from the Cook Islands Premier insisting you meet some big shot on “a matter of importance to the Cook Islands,” you turn up. She had even dressed for the occasion, wearing the kind of outfit she might have power-lunched in back

home in Boston a thousand light-years ago. Here on Rarotonga, a pink Chanel suit was guaranteed to fetch a few boggling stares from locals who seldom saw the owner of Moon Island in anything but chinos and a straw hat. Removing her sunglasses, Annabel checked her French plait and crossed the parquet tiles to the bar. A man rose as she approached. He was sandyhaired, considerably shorter than she, and somewhere in his late forties. Like her, he was formally dressed, his suit and tie making no concession to the tropical surroundings. “Ms. Worth?” At Annabel’s brief nod, he extended his hand. “Robert B. Hausmann. Pleased to meet you.” Ushering her into a chair, he signaled a waiter. With slight puzzlement, Annabel observed him as he ordered their drinks. Robert B. Hausmann? The name seemed familiar. No doubt she had encountered it somewhere in the financial circles she’d once occupied. “You’re from back East, Mr. Hausmann?” she opened politely. “New York.” Annabel wondered about his accent. Highly educated, but rough edges. “Bronx and proud of it.” He confirmed her suspicions. “And you? Boston?”

This was said with the self-satisfaction of a man who knew he was right on the button. Nodding, Annabel contained a smile. She recognized Hausmann’s type—a short man with something to prove. “Beautiful city, Boston,” he remarked expansively. “Nearly lived there once.” His tone suggested Boston’s loss was greater than his. “Have you settled in these parts now, Ms. Worth?” “I spend most of my time here. Although I do keep an apartment back home.” This caught his interest. “You have family in Boston?” “That’s right.” His eyes narrowed. Then, with a snap of the fingers, he declared, “Theo Worth. You’re his daughter?” Annabel tensed slightly. “You know my father?” The response was enthusiastic. Robert B. Hausmann sometimes golfed with her father. He waxed lyrical over her parent’s game, then asked her about the greens on Rarotonga. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I’ve never shared my father’s passion for golf.” Her companion waved an apologetic hand. “Then I bore you, I’m sorry.” Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed her with a calculating expression. “So, what

are your passions, Ms. Worth?” He flashed a set of perfectly even teeth and Annabel wondered whether she’d taken an instant dislike to him because he reminded her of a politician or because he wore too much expensive aftershave. Their drinks arrived, and she sipped her mineral water. “I’m sure we’re not here to talk about our passions, Mr. Hausmann,” she said, keeping her polite smile in place. “No, indeed.” His glance slid past her breasts as if by accident. “I’ll come straight to the point. As you know, we want this deal.” He expanded briskly. Argus Chemco was planning a major expansion of its Pacific Basin operations. This meant new offices around the region, employment growth, and millions of dollars in foreign currency earnings. It was very exciting…he was personally very excited. The Pacific Basin was a growth marketplace for Argus. The next decade would be a boom time as Southeast Asia threw off the shackles of Third World poverty and embraced the consumerism that had made America great. Annabel stemmed his flow. “So what exactly does Moon Island have to do with this vision, Mr.

Hausmann?” “I’ll be frank, Annabel…may I call you Annabel?” He treated her to another brochure-perfect smile, confiding, “I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other very well.” He had the good sense not to pat her knee, but Annabel guessed it was a close thing. “You’ve read the offer. Is there anything else I can tell you?” As Annabel shook her head, he produced another leather-bound portfolio from his briefcase and extended it to her. “Excellent. This is the sale contract. As you will see, I have already signed.” Annabel placed the folder unopened on the table in front of her. She had finally caught on to his identity. Robert B. Hausmann had surfaced during the corporate raids and leveraged buyouts of the Eighties. Considered something of a wonder boy, he had touted his CEO skills around the business underbelly of New York, selling himself to the highest bidder, then generally orchestrating a takeover of his new employers by some shark who would offer him an even bigger package. Argus had done just that, absorbing, under Hausmann’s initiatives, the rival company he headed, only to find that he promptly deposed their own Chief

Executive in a coup that had scandalized Wall Street. Led by Hausmann, Argus had flourished, swallowing competitors, scaling the Fortune 500 list and paying out unprecedented returns on its stock. So who was complaining? Robert B. Hausmann embodied everything Anna-bel detested most about the world she’d left behind. He was spawned by, and promulgated, a value system that routinely destroyed viable companies, chopping up their assets and selling out their employees for the sake of fat fees for a greedy few at the top. As if that weren’t enough, Annabel was sure she had read somewhere that an Argus subsidiary was under investigation for transporting dangerous chemical waste across the border to Mexico. It seemed Argus saw toxic waste management as a growth area and was rapidly expanding its global market share. Frowning as she tried to recall the details, she said, “What exactly is the main focus of your operations, Mr. Hausmann?” “Industrial chemicals. We fabricate, distribute and manage. As you will appreciate, most of our activities are commercially sensitive, and I’m not at liberty to go into detail about our development plans. Suffice to say we would propose a substantial facility for Moon Island.

” “Doesn’t sound like good news for the Cook Islands environment.” “On the contrary,” Hausmann said. “Should Argus invest, as part of our corporate commitment, we will fund a brand new marine preservation unit based in Avarua. I’m thinking a dolphinarium for the tourists, plus a state of the art research center.” Argus must really want the deal bad, if they were willing to throw corporate bullion at the kind of imagebuilding concept normally associated with morally bankrupt oil companies. The thought made Annabel uneasy. “Our offer is very generous,” he summarized in a self-congratulatory tone. “I think you’ll agree that the combination of cash and stock is highly advantageous. I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize the growth we are anticipating in the medium term. The offer is worth around fifteen million at today’s values, but considerably more in the future if you hold the stock.” He paused, perhaps to add weight to his words. “We both know that in some ways private wealth is a secondary consideration here, Annabel. I’m talking about the economy of these islands.” The gall of the man. He had read her like a book.

Annabel even found herself momentarily swayed. The Cook Islands were desperate for foreign investment. The locals needed jobs and the government needed tax revenues. What right did she, a wealthy foreign resident, have to stand in the way of what could be an economic godsend? An ethical person would set her own selfish interests to one side. “I’ve spoken at length with the Premier, and he has assured me of his personal commitment to the project.” Hausmann drove home his advantage. “I know you’ll feel the same way when you consider what this could mean to the local people.” Big finish. Soft-spoken Hausmann was a real carpetbagger. “I appreciate your interest,” Annabel said more calmly than she felt. “But I have no plans to sell the island. It’s my home.” Steely eyes gleamed knowingly across the table at her. Hausmann was in his element. This was his game. No one said yes to an initial offer, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d shown her the color of his money and now it was her job to feign disinterest and force him higher. For a moment, Annabel was tempted to play chicken, but she held herself firmly in check. What did she have to prove to a man like Hausmann? She had

left that world behind three years ago when she inherited Moon Island. She cared about the local people, and this man thought he could manipulate her on that basis. But it would take more than paternalistic lip-service to convince Annabel that a huge multinational actually gave a damn about a bunch of islanders and their environment. Resolutely, she slid the leather folder back across the table. “There’s no point in continuing this discussion. Moon Island is not for sale.” Hausmann grinned, shark-like. “Everything is for sale, Annabel. You and I both know that.” “Perhaps where you come from,” she said with a trace of bitterness. He shrugged. “Take it. Read the fine print. That’s all I ask. If you won’t change your mind, I can accept that. I’m a reasonable man.” Rising, Annabel gathered up the folder and forced herself to shake his outstretched hand. “Very well, Mr. Hausmann. I’ll read it. But my answer won’t change. I’m not selling the island and that’s final.”

Chapter Four When she finally reached the southern end of the Hibiscus Bay, Dawn collapsed beneath a group of palm trees. Her legs throbbed, especially below her left knee where the messiest fracture had occurred. Protruding thin and naked from her shorts, her once powerful thighs scarcely seemed to belong to her. The muscles had wasted and her skin was mottled and faintly yellowish, the legacy of massive bruising. Long, angry scars ran like zippers down each limb. The surrounding flesh felt numb and dead. Determined not to cry, Dawn propped herself against a husky palm trunk and took a long, grateful swig from her water flask. She was screwing the top on when a voice nearby inquired, “May I have a sip of that?” With a start of fright, Dawn craned around. A woman emerged from behind the next palm tree. She was tall and slim, with the kind of fine, straight coppery hair usually associated with pale skin and freckles. Only this woman was very tanned. Surveying Dawn with eyes that also seemed too dark for her coloring, she said, “I’m sorry, did I frighten you? “It’s okay.” Avoiding the stranger’s piercing gaze,

Dawn mechanically handed over the flask and watched her drink. She wore cotton drill shorts, slouch hat, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Over this was a loose khaki vest, its many pockets bulging with mysterious contents. The outfit seemed an odd choice for a day at the beach. Perhaps realizing how out of place she looked, the woman produced a quirky little smile as she returned the flask. “I’m Grace Ramsay. And in case you’re wondering, I’m here working.” Her voice was low and slightly British-sounding. Dawn wished there were some way to avoid the formality of exchanging names. God only knew where it would lead. The woman was probably staying somewhere nearby. Maybe she would expect to form one of those sordid holiday friendships where people confide all sorts of intimate information, knowing that they’ll never see each other again. Dawn needed that like a redback in her bra. But noting the stranger’s expectant expression, she mumbled resignedly, “I’m Dawn Beaumont.” “You’re Australian?” “I’m from Sydney.” “Are you staying around here?” That candid gaze

moved slowly over her body, halting at her legs. Dawn felt as if she’d just been touched instead of looked at. Blushing, she reached for her cane. What a dumb question. Of course she was staying here. Why else would she be wandering along the beach on some desert island miles from civilization? Something of her scorn must have showed, because the copper-haired womangave another wry, uneven grin. “Blinding glimpse of the obvious, huh?” Her smile was so engaging that Dawn returned it despite herself. “I’m staying over there,” she said, pointing back along the bay. “In Frangipani Cottage.” “Really? You’re my neighbor then. I’m only five minutes’ walk from you.” “Great,” Dawn said flatly. At least now she knew which track to avoid. She had come to this place for peace and quiet. That did not include making meaningless chitchat with inquisitive strangers. Conscious of Grace Ramsay’s scrutiny, she pulled herself clumsily to her feet and, leaning on her stick, brushed the sand off her shorts. Grace was not as tall as Dawn had first thought. Her straight, athletic posture simply gave that impression. From behind the safety of her shades, Dawn examined the stranger more closely. She really was

quite striking, and she looked like the type who knew it, too. There was something about her—an unnerving self-awareness. It was then that she noticed a diamond stud beaming expensive light from one of Grace’s earlobes. As Dawn gazed, Grace lifted a hand to toy with the diamond earring. “You’re welcome to drop in some time for coffee.” Dawn’s stomach chose that moment to pitch sharply, and she lifted accusing eyes to the sun. She was feeling breathless and light-headed. Maybe she’d taken too many painkillers that morning. Shifting the weight off her heels, she tried to remember. One Voltaren and four Ibuprofen. Definitely time to cut down. Perspiration gathered around her nose and forehead. She slid a hand inside the rim of her hat to wipe it away. Grace Ramsay’s eyes narrowed slightly at the gesture. “Are you all right?” “I’m fine, thank you,” Dawn replied stiffly. The woman was giving her the jitters. Strangers often had that effect these days. It took such an effort to make them feel comfortable. “I could walk you home if you like,” Grace offered. Dawn took a quick pace back, shaking her head.

“I’m okay. Honestly.” “If you say so.” Something in those charcoal eyes, a detached amusement, irritated Dawn. “Well, I’ll be seeing you then,” Grace added, still leaning casually against the tree trunk. “Soon, I hope.” * Relieved to be by herself once more, Dawn limped along the water line. Soon, I hope. What did the woman mean by that? Was she planning a neighborly visit? Dawn hoped not. Dismissing the conversation from her mind, she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. The beach was deserted. It would have been easy to imagine she was the only person on the whole island. Heaving a pent-up sigh, she flopped onto the sand and pulled off her sweaty shorts and top. Her skin tingled pleasantly as the sun dried the moisture from its surface. She opened her beach bag and subjected her bikini to a cursory inspection. She should put it on, she supposed, but swimming naked was one of the few things she had enjoyed about her last stay on Moon Island. There were nude beaches in Australia, of course, but parading about in front of an audience was not her idea of a good time.

Occasionally Dawn felt dismayed at her selfconsciousness. It was crazy for a swimmer to have a hang-up about showing off her body. When she was training, she virtually lived in a swimsuit, but that was different somehow. At the beach men were such pervs, even the decent ones. If you wanted to be left alone, you had to swim at Tamarama, the gay beach where the men were all busy ogling one another. And, of course, there was always this place with its bizarre women-only rules. Flexing her ruined legs, Dawn was aware of a guilty relief that men were banned from Moon Island. She would be able to wear shorts the whole time she was here. Or nothing at all. Confirming her solitude with another quick glance along the beach, she returned her bikini to her bag and set about plaiting her hair into a thick braid. It sat hot and heavy on her neck, and for a split second Dawn imagined it gone, cut boyishly short like that woman Grace’s. That was a ridiculous idea, she decided immediately. She’d had long hair ever since she could remember. It suited her. Besides, guys liked it. Dawn clambered to her feet and dropped her stick on top of her clothes. It was strange walking without it, like balancing on a wall, scared to look down in case

she fell. Trying not to feel insecure, she forced her eyes off her feet and proceeded along the beach in a cautious gait. Hibiscus Bay was exactly as she had always imagined Robinson Crusoe’s beach might be: timeless, exotic, impossibly tranquil. The sand beneath her feet was hot and yielding. Out beyond the lagoon, a coral reef shimmered like a pink mirage beneath the surface. Dawn waded into the sea until she was buoyed off her feet. Drifting a few yards with the gentle current, she rolled onto her back, closed her eyes, and lost herself in the hollow glub of bubbles rising. The water was warm and soothing. With a small murmur of contentment, she rested her hands on her belly. Despite the lack of exercise, she was still flat and firm. Experimentally, she cupped her breasts. They were slightly smaller than usual—she’d lost a lot of weight since the accident. In fact, her whole body felt light and brittle. She had never realized how much she took her physical strength for granted until it was taken from her. It was scary to feel so fragile. She guessed her mother’s force-feeding regime was a response to the dramatic change. She’d been living at home ever

since she got out of the hospital. What a nightmare. Her parents just didn’t seem to realize that she wasn’t thirteen any more. She no longer had to go to church or have the lights out at nine o’clock. They lived in a shrine of cups, ribbons and newspaper cuttings of their champion daughter. One reporter had been so confused by the way they talked about her, he thought she must be dead. Thank God her mother wasn’t here, Dawn thought, and kicked out tentatively. It was not the first time she’d swum since the accident. Once the plaster was off, her physiotherapy had involved daily exercise in a pool. She’d done routines in a group, everyone grunting and complaining. Down at the other end of the pool were the paraplegics—just in case her own group thought they had problems. Initially Dawn had been thrilled when she finally finished the hospital program. All those maimed bodies, people staggering along on artificial limbs, the constant cries of pain and frustration. Who needed it? Yet she missed her particular group of friends. In the orthopedic ward, they had been in adjoining beds, and with nothing better to do than eat, sleep, read, and watch the soaps, they had spent most of their time talking.

There was Delia, the secretary whose woman boss sent her flowers twice a week and paid the singing telegram people to come and cheer her up. Monique with the three kids and the slob of a husband she wanted to leave. Jane whose fiancé came every day after work with chocolates, then ate them himself because she was on a diet. Dawn had never talked so much with other women in her entire life. It was different without men around. They could discuss anything they liked: sex, politics, their families. She had started to view those women as her only real friends, the only people who understood what she was going through. Immediately after the accident, she’d had numerous visitors, of course. But once the novelty wore off, only her parents and Trish came regularly. Everyone else had their own lives to lead, Dawn reasoned. Yet it hurt to read about things her former teammates did and to realize she hadn’t seen any of them in months. There was no point dwelling on it, Dawn reminded herself and began an idle over-arm, pausing occasionally to mark herself against the bright shape of her towel. To her surprise, she swam the entire length of the bay, picking up speed as she got into her stroke. She was almost reluctant to stop, but common

sense dictated that she slow down while she was still strong enough to swim ashore. Feeling ridiculously proud of herself, she switched to a modest breaststroke, only to have her delight quickly fade. Her legs generated virtually no push at all. She couldn’t even get them in time with each other. Overwhelmed with dismay, she shook the water from her eyes and flipped onto her back, allowing the sea to cradle her. Guilt and bitterness consumed her. It really was true. She had crashed that car, killed her teammate, and destroyed her own swimming career, all for the sake of a few drinks with Nigel Myers. Tears merged with the salt water washing her temples, and she blinked up at the empty sky. How could one dumb choice have destroyed so much? She was fortunate she had not been prosecuted on a DWI rap. Her blood alcohol had been just under the limit. Eventually something brushed her spine and she connected gently with sand. For a few long moments, she succumbed to the balmy caresses of the breaking tide, then she got to her feet and looked around for her towel. It was way down the beach. Served her right for getting distracted, she thought wryly. She managed to limp a few paces toward it when she was gripped by

the same curious light-headedness she’d experienced earlier talking to that copper-haired woman. Shaking her head, she proceeded more slowly. It was no good. Her legs felt like cooked spaghetti. Miserably conscious of her clammy skin, Dawn drew a shallow breath. Why hadn’t she listened to Cody and Annabel’s warnings about the sun? Why was she always so pig-headed? Head spinning, she ventured another a small step. The sand swayed and undulated front of her. Blood rushed in her ears. Overhead, gulls lamented. Dawn stared up at them, watching a bird soar higher and higher. Her eyes closed against the impossible brightness of the sun, and she didn’t even feel her face hit the sand. * Dawn had no idea how much time had passed when she blinked up into a dark, concerned stare. “I’m going to get you into some shade,” Grace Ramsay said in her low clipped way. “Put your arms around my neck.” Dawn hesitated, but the arm supporting her shoulders had already tightened and another slid beneath her knees. “It’s okay”—that teasing smile—“I

won’t drop you.” Dawn felt so weak she could only rest her head against Grace’s shoulder. There was something comforting about being cradled that way, immersed in a mixture of scents—salt, skin, sun on cotton, some kind of spicy perfume. A hint of cloves. At the edge of the jungle, Grace lowered Dawn onto the sandy earth, commenting, “I think you’ve had too much sun.” Her arm was still loosely around Dawn’s waist and her face was very close. It was an interesting face, not beautiful, but arresting. Probably the eyes, Dawn decided. Thickly fringed with long straight black eyelashes, they were the color of wet graphite. Tiny emerald flecks made the color shift. Dawn stared. She couldn’t help herself. Grace stared back, eyes wickedly appreciative. “I see you’re a natural blonde,” she said in a husky purr. Dawn’s cheeks burned. She was completely naked, she remembered. And Grace Ramsay was looking her up and down, calm as you please. Mortified, Dawn wriggled upright. Her limbs felt glutinous. “Please,” she stammered, “get my clothes.” An infuriating grin twitched the corners of Grace’s mouth, but she rose obediently and sauntered across the sand to collect the discarded bag. Dawn could

hardly believe her eyes. It was that walk. The one she hated. The calm swagger she associated irrevocably with Cody Stanton. When Grace returned, Dawn raised an arm to cover her breasts. The protective gesture only seemed to amuse her rescuer. With insolent self-assurance, Grace said, “Don’t worry, Dawn, I’ve seen it all before.” What was that supposed to mean? Something about Grace’s attitude bugged the hell out of Dawn. Lobbing a withering look at the woman, she dragged on her clothes and knotted her belt with shaking fingers. She didn’t like Grace Ramsay, she decided. Not one little bit. Seemingly impervious, Grace said, “I think I’d better walk you home.” “That won’t be necessary,” Dawn snapped. Grace looked unmoved. “That’s what you thought last time. So I’m going to tag along just in case. Can you walk? Or would you like me to carry you?” Vehemently Dawn shook her head. “I said I can manage. See?” She scrambled to feet to prove it. “I’m perfectly all right.” Grace’s eyes flickered with growing impatience. “Are you always so defensive about your disability?” she drawled. “Or have you just taken a particular

dislike to me?” Dawn studied her feet. She was being rude and unreasonable, she supposed. It was no way to treat a stranger whose worst crime was trying to help her. If she had any sense, she would accept Grace’s offer and be thankful. Ashamed, she wriggled her toes, noticing the chipped crimson polish. Too bad, she thought recklessly. Once upon a time she was very picky about personal grooming, but she didn’t have to impress anyone anymore. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she managed. “I just —I’m not feeling very well.” Grace subjected her to a cool, measuring stare. “We’re all entitled to an off day.” Then she smiled, all charm and nonchalance.

Chapter Five It took far too long to reach Frangipani Cottage. The path through the jungle was well trodden but narrow, and the effort of pushing aside the thickly interwoven creepers tired Dawn quickly. Watching Grace stroll ahead of her, she wondered what it was about the woman that got under her skin. Dawn guessed she was about thirty. At a glance she looked younger, somehow boyish. It was a fashionable look, the short hair, long legs, distinct shoulder muscles. Dawn’s eyes were drawn to the neat roll of her hips and she found herself thinking about Cody Stanton again. Grace had the same kind of streetwise air about her. Dawn recalled a conversation she’d had with one of the women staying on the island the last time she was here. Sexy. That was what she’d called Cody. Bothered, she forced her gaze away from the woman in front of her. Maybe they’d gone to the same deportment classes. Or maybe…she fled from the idea. She didn’t want to think about the fact that Cody Stanton was a lesbian. They were nearing Frangipani Cottage. It was set on a slight rise on the northeastern face of the island.

Before the hurricane three years ago, it had been the only dwelling on this part of the island and was surrounded by old frangipani and gardenia trees. Hurricane Mary and its attendant tsunami had devastated both house and gardens, leaving a trail of uprooted foliage and a mere shell where the cottage had stood. The new cottage was built farther back from the ocean for protection from the tidal waves that had claimed its predecessor. A second cottage had been constructed at the same time, even farther inland. In the fecundity of the tropics, the plant life had quickly erased all evidence of Hurricane Mary. Looking at Frangipani Cottage now, it was difficult to imagine any other landscape. Lush greenery surrounded the place, teeming with insects and birds. Bougainvillea meandered across the verandah railings, and everything smelled green and moist. Halting at the verandah, Grace propped herself against a wooden pillar, removing her hat to fan her face indolently. Her hair, bright in the afternoon sun, feathered damply over her forehead. With a combination of guilt and annoyance, Dawn dragged herself up the whitewashed steps. Now that they were here, the least she could do was offer her

visitor a glass of water or something. Catching a hint of challenge in Grace’s expression, she grudgingly invited her in, adding, “Would you like a cup of tea?” Maybe Grace had other plans. Apparently not. In the kitchen she removed her vest and suspended it casually over the back of a chair. The movement parted her white shirt where it was unbuttoned, and Dawn caught a glimpse of tanned breast and dark nipple. Hastily she turned to the little gas stove, and after several futile attempts, managed to light the burner. Grace Ramsay went without a bra. So what? This was Moon Island. There was no one to see, except women. Dawn deposited a couple of mugs on the table. She was absurdly conscious of Grace’s bold eyes tracing her every movement. Was the woman trying to make her nervous? “You’re here alone?” Grace asked in a conversational tone. Dawn mumbled a yes. The kettle still wasn’t boiling. She fidgeted beside the stove. “Me, too,” Grace said. “It’s a great place to come for some time out. How long are you staying?” “Three weeks,” Dawn responded. “So am I.” Grace glanced wryly at her vest. “I wish I

had more free time to enjoy the place.” Determined to avoid drawing out the visit, Dawn refrained from asking what exactly Grace did. Once this was over, she would have made her concession to good manners. She wouldn’t need to see her neighbor again. To her relief the water was finally boiling. She slopped it carelessly into a teapot. “What part of Sydney are you from?” Grace asked. “My family lives in Randwick.” “I worked in Sydney a few years back.” When Dawn did not respond, Grace volunteered, “I’m a scientist.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though there was nothing at all unusual in this revelation, as though a woman scientist was as commonplace and unspectacular as a nurse or a receptionist. Dawn felt slightly piqued, but curious, too. “Is that what you’re doing here on the island—something scientific?” “You could say that.” Grace’s eyes were guarded all of a sudden. “I’m writing a report on coral reef structures in the South Pacific.” She went on to describe some research project she was involved in. None of the technical terms made any sense to Dawn. “It sounds fascinating,” Dawn lied. “I’m enjoying it.” Grace gave a teasing smile, as if

she knew Dawn found the very idea boring and incomprehensible. “I’m usually based in New York, but I get to travel all over.” “Who do you work for?” Again the hesitation. “I’m a consultant. I work on contract, usually for big international companies.” She sounded uncomfortable. Perhaps she was embarrassed about being so successful, Dawn conjectured. Grace was obviously one of those tough, clever women who negotiated highly paid assignments for themselves all over the world. She wasn’t stuck in the suburbs minding kids for a bunch of Westies while they went to their boring jobs. Dawn glanced at Grace’s hands. They were finely boned, the fingers long and graceful in their movements. No wedding ring; not even the telltale mark of one recently discarded. Obviously Grace didn’t have a man to wait on when she got home. She probably lived alone in some big impractical apartment with cream-colored everything. She probably ate out for every meal. She probably owned her own sports car… Swallowing a sigh, Dawn got a grip on herself. What did she care how Grace Ramsay lived? Grace got to her feet, and again Dawn noticed the

way her shirt dragged across her small high breasts, compressing her dark nipples against the fabric. She took in the firm athletic muscling of her shoulders and arms, then wished she wasn’t so fascinated by the sight. What on earth was the matter with her? Was she noticing other women’s bodies all of a sudden because hers was ruined? Exhausted suddenly, Dawn stifled a yawn and followed Grace out onto the verandah. They stood in silence, taking in the view across the jungle to the sea. The air was tinted with a spicy scent. Cloves. It was quite delicious. For a second Dawn wondered dreamily if it was some exotic plant in her garden, then she traced the source to Grace’s shirt, remembering that smell as she was being carried, naked, along the beach. “Well, thanks for the tea.” Grace searched Dawn’s face for a moment, as if seeking the answer to an unspoken question. Bemused, Dawn managed a half-hearted smile. “Um…thanks for walking me home.” It felt awkward, the two of them standing there on the verandah, being so polite. Grace hesitated. “I’ll be seeing you, Dawn.” She touched Dawn’s arm for a fleeting second.

Warmth flooded Dawn’s cheeks and her skin prickled under Grace’s fingers. It was only after she’d watched Grace saunter into the jungle that she realized she had been holding her breath. Taking a sharp, shallow gulp of air, she retreated indoors and sought out her bed. A long time later, staring up at her ceiling, she was engulfed by a clamoring uneasiness. Would she see the overly friendly Grace Ramsay again? Not if she could help it. * It was late afternoon when Dawn awoke from her nap. Drowsily, she rolled onto her back, swallowing the clean fragrant air and listening to the jumbled cacophony beyond her window. The jungle was never quiet. You could almost hear it growing. The sounds of pre-dusk were busy, chaotic, signaling the sun’s impending demise. Insects chirped relentlessly, frogs croaked, and all over the island, creatures recovered from the heat of the day and bustled home, foraging for final tidbits on the way. It was so different from the city. No horns blaring, traffic whining, radios, TVs, hordes of people. Just the ever-present pulse of the ocean and the comforting

sotto voce of nature at work. Dawn left her bed and wandered out to the kitchen, staring disconsolately at the two half-full mugs still sitting on the table. It would be sensible to make herself a meal. The tiny refrigerator was jammed with tempting foods. But she wasn’t particularly hungry. Pouring a large glass of pineapple juice instead, she dragged herself out onto the verandah and flopped into a deep cane chair. She could always read a book. She’d brought a pile of Jackie Collins paperbacks with her. Or she could write a letter:

Dear Nigel, How is training coming along? Thank you for the flowers. I’m having a holiday in the Cook Islands. I’ll phone you when I get back. Or would she? Nigel hadn’t exactly broken records to sit at her bedside. What had she expected? They’d only dated a few times, yet somehow Nigel had meant more to her than any of the other men at the swimming club. He’d always given his mates the impression that there was something between them. He was busy, of course. Olympic selection was only

months away, and he could still improve his times. She was a sportswoman. She could understand that imperative. Knotting her fingers behind her head, she sought comfort in her exercise routine. Lift, flex and stretch, flex and stretch. The distraction tactic failed. She couldn’t avoid thinking about the accident. Even now, six months later, it barely felt real. It had all happened so fast. Someone had offered her a ride home but she’d said no. She had her own car and besides, Nigel had asked her to stay for another drink. Two glasses later he was asking her to come home with him and Dawn was groping for an excuse to decline. She was taking Lynda, she’d said. Someone always had to drop Lynda off—she didn’t drive. Nigel had been surly. He had a right to be, she supposed. She had been saying no to him for months, and she wasn’t even sure why. That night he had called her a frigid tease and one or two other insulting things, and she’d driven off in a rage. She hadn’t even seen the corner. Even now she couldn’t remember what had happened. One minute Lynda was asking her to slow down and the next Dawn woke up in a hospital bed, a drip in her arm and a nurse shining a torch in her eyes. Dawn swallowed the lump in her throat and chewed

at a couple of fingernails. There was no point in reliving the past. What’s done is done, she told herself. Then she started to cry in earnest. She was still sitting there, head in her hands, when a voice she dreaded inquired, “Dawn?” Jerking upright, she met a pair of quizzical gray eyes. “Oh, it’s you.” Cody Stanton took in her tear-stained face without comment. Uninvited, she occupied the other cane chair. She looked so relaxed and happy that Dawn felt like hitting her. “Go away,” she mumbled resentfully. Unfazed, Cody stayed where she was. “Do you want to talk about it, Dawn?” She reached out and took one of Dawn’s hands. “No, I don’t.” Dawn snatched her hand away. “It’s none of your business.” “Dawn,” Cody persisted. “I might be able to help you if you’d let me.” Moving her chair closer to Dawn’s, she added quietly, “I know you and I have never gotten along. And I know you don’t like me or approve of the way I live, but…” Dawn looked at Cody. “That’s not true,” she whispered, conscious of color flooding her cheeks. For a split second Cody’s face registered surprise,

then her expression relaxed into its usual easygoing charm. “Then how about coming back to Villa Luna with me now,” she coaxed. “Annabel’s making something yummy for dinner. We could get drunk and reminisce about hurricanes. Seriously, how bad could it be?” Even as Dawn opened her mouth to decline, she found herself responding to Cody’s enthusiasm with a small, watery smile. Her visitor instantly read this as acceptance. “Great. Go get your stuff, and I’ll wait for you out here.” Torn between irritation and gratitude, Dawn got to her feet. Once upon a time, she would have told Cody to go away, then sat around feeling sorry for herself for the rest of the night. But right now, she didn’t feel like being a martyr. Vacillating for a moment, she said, “I hope you’re not expecting me to walk.” It was worse than that. Their transport was tethered beneath a palm tree and snorted as Cody tightened its saddle. Recognizing the black horse she had shared the cave with during the hurricane, Dawn nearly turned around and went straight back inside. The animal didn’t like her back then. Why would now be any different? “I can’t do this,” she protested as Cody helped her into the saddle. “I

don’t know how to ride.” “No worries. I do.” Cody swung up behind her and reached around, placing Dawn’s hands firmly on a raised leather mound in front of her. “That’s called the pommel. Just hang on to it and leave the rest to me and Kahlo.” Protesting volubly, Dawn made a grab for the saddle as they plunged into the jungle. They seemed awfully high up and the black horse was pulling at the reins and tossing its head like a wild animal. “She’s got some attitude, today,” Cody commented, stretching past Dawn to pat the dark muscular neck. “Terrific. Black Beauty runs amok.” Dawn sat stiffly, trying to keep her distance from Cody—not easy when you’re stuck two-up on a saddle. “I don’t think she likes me.” “Relax.” Cody was infuriatingly blasé. “You might even enjoy yourself. If she senses you’re nervous, she’ll give us a hard time.” Great, as if her day could get any worse. Dawn forced herself to relax the way she used to before a race, breathing deep and allowing the tension to seep from her muscles. The only problem with her new posture was how close it brought her to Cody. She was acutely conscious of the arms on either side of her, the

press of Cody’s thighs, the feel of her body warm and close. Their semi-embrace felt both unnerving and soothing. Lulled by the swaying gait of the horse, Dawn allowed herself to drift, and for one appalling moment she felt herself sinking back against Cody, almost cradled. Abruptly, her mind leapt to the memory of Cody and Annabel kissing on Passion Bay and she jerked herself upright, a peculiar gnawing in the pit of her stomach. “Are you comfortable?” Cody’s breath grazed her cheek. Mouth as dry as dust, Dawn nodded mutely. What on earth was the matter with her? With bizarre fascination, she stared at Cody’s arms, at the hands controlling the reins. She was overcome by a powerful urge to touch her, stroke her, nestle against her. Disbelief clouded her consciousness like a swarm of wasps. She was attracted to Cody. No! It couldn’t be true. Hunching forward, she clutched the pommel with sweaty fingers. Of course it wasn’t true. Her imagination was running away with her, probably the aftermath of sunstroke. And the drugs she took had some peculiar side effects. Dawn ordered herself to breathe, stay calm, and think logically. She couldn’t

possibly be attracted to Cody. Cody was a woman. And not just a woman—a lesbian. * Annabel met them on the verandah of Villa Luna. Wearing a sapphire blue sarong, she looked like a film star. Dawn fought off a stab of envy and hung back as Cody planted a kiss squarely on her lover’s mouth before leading Kahlo off. “I’m so glad you could come.” Annabel greeted Dawn as if she were genuinely pleased to see her, a highly unlikely state of affairs. “I can’t believe it’s been nearly three years since you were here last.” Dawn dredged up a smile. “Neither can I.” Annabel showed her inside and Dawn sank into a chair. Watching Annabel pour their drinks, she tried not to think about her and Cody together, kissing and God knows what else. Handing Dawn a glass, Annabel sat on the sofa opposite. She was wearing her platinum hair loose, and it spilled fine and silky across her pale shoulders. Dawn gazed at her curiously. Annabel was the only albino she’d ever seen close up. The whiteness of her hair and skin was astonishing. How on earth did she

manage to avoid getting burnt, living out here on an island? It wasn’t as if she stayed indoors all the time. “Do you live here all year round?” Dawn asked, taking a prolonged drink and licking her lips with pleasure. The cocktail was wonderful, a mixture of coconut milk and tropical fruit juice. “Almost,” Annabel said. “We visit Cody’s mother in New Zealand quite often, and we spend time at my place in Boston.” “Otherwise Annabel suffers shopping withdrawal,” teased a voice from the doorway. Cody wandered into the room, poured herself a drink, and sat down beside Annabel, resting a casual hand on her knee. Dawn tried not to be fascinated by the intimate gesture. You’d think they could be more discreet instead of flaunting their relationship so blatantly. It was downright embarrassing. Lifting censorious eyes, she intercepted a look that passed between them, a look of such undiluted passion that her mouth went dry with shock. They were besotted with each other. Hopelessly in love. And it seemed so natural. Dawn felt twitchy just thinking about it. Forcing her thoughts to Nigel, she tried to envision having feelings like that for him, for anyone. It was useless. She couldn’t begin to imagine it. Maybe she was a shallow

person. Maybe she would never experience true love, never share with anyone whatever it was that Cody and Annabel had. She probably wouldn’t recognize the emotion if she fell over it. Her attention was drawn again to the two women, and all of a sudden she found herself envying them bitterly, forgetting they weren’t normal. They just looked so happy. Tears of self-pity stung her eyes. Dawn rubbed them impatiently aside and looked up to find Cody watching her. “Dawn, what is it?” “Nothing.” She folded her arms defensively. “I’m just tired.” Annabel was staring too, those strange lavender eyes wide and concerned. “Was it the ride? You’re looking quite ill.” “No. I’m fine. Really.” “Maybe you should lie down before dinner,” Annabel said. “I’ll get you an aspirin.” “No!” Dawn bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to sound so hostile, but a terrible anger welled inside her. She wanted to smash her glass and scream at the world that there was no God because a God with any decency would never have done this to her. Abruptly, she got to her feet and hobbled to the open

window. She was cracking up, she thought with a surge of panic. They would put her on lithium, like one of the women in her hospital ward, and she would turn into a zombie. Lifting trembling fingers to her forehead, she stared out at the sunset. The sky was a shifting palette of orange, cerise, pink, and gold. Distracted by its astounding beauty, she took a few deep breaths, watching the procession of colors from sapphire through heliotrope to amethyst, until finally the bloodred sun fused with the ocean. Conscious, then, of the other women, she said dully, “It’s my legs. They hurt most of the time, and I’m trying to cut down on my painkillers.” A jumpy silence followed. “Was it a car accident?” Cody asked eventually. To Dawn’s horror she felt tears streaming down her face, and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. “It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” she cried harshly. “I wish I were dead!” Cody crossed the room and gently took Dawn in her arms. For a long while, the two women stood there, Dawn sobbing and Cody rubbing her back and making soothing noises. “I don’t know what to do,” Dawn wept. “I’ve lost everything. I’ll never swim again. I was training for the

Olympic trials. I just can’t believe it.” She wiped her face with her arm, mortified at breaking down in front of these women. Backing out of Cody’s embrace, she sagged against the window frame. “Oh, what does it matter?” she said bleakly. “It’s my problem, not yours.” “Dawn.” Annabel approached, a box of tissues in her hand. “Please don’t punish yourself for needing support.” Dawn took the box. The kindness in Annabel’s voice only made her more upset. Annabel was being nice to her, after all the things she had thought about her and Cody. Paralyzed with shame, she looked up, caught the shimmer of tears in Annabel’s eyes, and cried even harder. She barely noticed being led out onto the verandah and eased gently into a deep two-seater overlooking the ocean. After a long silence, Annabel spoke. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She gestured at the view across Passion Bay. It was breathtaking. The moon hung in the night sky like a well-polished tin, staining the ocean quicksilver. The air was warm and sultry, scented with the crush of tropical leaves and flowers. “I remember this view.” Dawn hiccupped. “I used to sit out here night after night when we were waiting to be rescued.”

Back then, she had always thought she was just keeping watch for the steamer. But it was much more than that, she realized with a flash of understanding. Looking out across Passion Bay, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging, of being part of the miracle of life. Annabel smiled contentedly. “I think this is my favorite place on earth. Whenever I’m away from here I feel like I’m serving a prison sentence. I just can’t wait to get back.” She laughed as though amused at herself. “And to think, I used to be such a city girl.” Meeting her eyes, Dawn noticed she was alone with Annabel. Where was Cody? Annabel must have read her mind. “I’ve put Cody to work in the kitchen. Hopefully, any minute we’ll be summoned to a delicious meal. I don’t think she’ll have time to burn it.” Dawn blew her nose. “I feel really stupid crying like this.” “Please don’t. As far as I’m concerned you can cry all you want while you’re with us.” “I’ve done enough crying for one lifetime.” Dawn twisted her hands in her lap. “I need to get my act together and do something with my life. But I feel so …stuck. All I ever wanted was to swim.”

“Surely that couldn’t last forever. What were you planning to do once you retired?” “I never really thought about it. I guess I had vague ideas about coaching. And I figured I’d get married someday, have kids. But—” “But?” Annabel raised her eyebrows. Dawn gave a harsh little laugh. “Well, look at me. I can’t even walk properly. My legs look like they’ve been run over by a lawn mower and my hands, too. Who’s going to marry me now?” “A person with enough depth to look beyond a few scars,” Annabel replied. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?” “Nobody special,” Dawn responded gruffly, her thoughts straying to Nigel. “I mean, there was someone. But it wasn’t serious.” Annabel’s expression was cautious. “You’re not seeing him anymore?” Dawn studied her feet, unsure how to answer. She never really was seeing him, was she? “He’s been busy.” Knowing she sounded evasive, she paused to clear her throat. “He’s a finalist for Olympic selection.” Annabel nodded as if she understood. She seemed about to say something else when Cody appeared with the news that dinner was served and that this time she

hadn’t burnt the sauce. * “Don’t straight women have complicated lives?” Cody mumbled a long time later, snuggling into Annabel in the sleepy darkness. Annabel kissed her cheek. “We all have our problems. Ours are not so very different from theirs.” “It sounds like he dumped her.” Cody sighed disgustedly. “What a prince.” “She’s pretending it doesn’t matter,” Annabel said. “But I don’t think it’s done much for her self-esteem.” “Well, that’s the trouble with buying into men’s beauty standards. You’re stuffed unless you measure up.” “You know,” Annabel mused, recalling an expression she had caught on Dawn’s face more than once that evening, “I get the distinct impression that, underneath it all, Dawn’s not that stuck on men.” Cody laughed. “You don’t know the woman, sweetheart! You didn’t have to spend forty-eight hours trapped in a cave with her. All she could talk about was men. And she’s a raving homophobe.” “That doesn’t mean anything. She could be latent.” Cody groaned. “Lesbian reality strikes again. Every

woman is a dyke. Honestly, Annabel, you’re straight out of the seventies sometimes.” Annabel prodded her playfully in the ribs. “Okay smart-ass. Then maybe you can explain how come Dawn has such a huge crush on you if she’s so superstraight.” Cody stiffened. “What do you mean?” “Observant, aren’t we? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way she stares at you all the time and blushes every time you speak to her.” “Straight woman often get jumpy around me,” Cody said. “You don’t get so much of that kind of thing because you look so…” “So what?” Annabel made a grab for Cody as she tried to escape beneath the covers. “You were going to say safe, weren’t you? Passing?” “No, I wasn’t.” Cody fended her off. “I was going to say…pretty. Beautiful.” Her arms slid around Annabel, and she lifted her hair to kiss the nape of her neck. “Absolutely ravishing.” “Don’t think you can sweet-talk me.” Annabel slapped her hands away. “You’re evading the issue. Dawn Beaumont definitely has a crush on you.” Cody sighed dramatically. “You read too many romances.”

“We’ll see,” Annabel murmured with prim conviction. She thought about Dawn recovering from a traumatic accident, emotionally vulnerable, and confused about her sexuality—a volatile combination. For a brief crazy second she panicked at what their guest’s emotional state might lead to. She hoped Cody would tread carefully. Otherwise they could be in for three very uncomfortable weeks.

Chapter Six Grace awoke sweating and disoriented. Whitewashed walls surrounded her, sterile in the half-light. Drawn by the large open window above her bed, she slowly focused on the view it framed, listening for the sounds that anchored her to reality. There was only stillness, the mystical calm that foretells the coming of dawn, that pause when every living creature seems to hold its breath before saluting the day. The eerie moment passed. A bird cried, a pale green streak of light traversed the sky, and a morning breeze stirred the ocean’s face. Tension dissolving, Grace pushed off her bedclothes and stretched. A peculiar image hovered in her consciousness—the face of an animal, a dog. She frowned. She had never owned a dog, only cats. One cat. Missy. She had died several years ago and Grace had decided not to have another pet. She must have dreamed about the dog. How odd. Normally she never remembered anything about The Dream. She always knew when she’d had it, for she awoke in an odd state of paralysis, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Grace felt disturbed. Was she remembering

something after all this time? Her therapist had said it was bound to happen one day and the sooner the better, so she could “deal with it.” Grace hadn’t agreed. She wasn’t about to spend years in therapy feeling sorry for herself and using the past as an excuse for avoiding the future. Instead she had worked her ass off to carve out a decent career and to earn her black belt in karate. Unsettled, Grace showered and brushed her teeth. Being a victim was a state of mind, nothing more, she reminded herself. She was physically strong and had money, assets and a job with status. No one could take those things away from her. An hour later she was chopping papaw and bananas into a bowl. After adding thick coconut cream, she carried her breakfast out onto the verandah. Her cottage looked out across Hibiscus Bay, a picturebook setting skirted by lush, tropical greenery, waving palms, and brightly-hued cannas and hibiscus. For a moment Grace was sorry she couldn’t simply relax and enjoy it. But this was not a holiday. She had less than three weeks to complete an initial feasibility study on the conversion of the island to a toxic waste disposal site. So far things looked promising. Moon Island was the most isolated of the Cook group. It was

ideal—far enough away from civilization to attract a minimum of attention and large enough to support the kind of facilities required. There was little chance of tourists stumbling on the place by accident, and hopefully Greenpeace would have better things to do raising money and saving seals than to hound a company engaged in legitimate business activity. Argus was prepared to pay handsomely for a foothold in the region and according to Robert Hausmann, the Cook Islands’ Premier was falling over backwards to accommodate them. That was hardly surprising, Grace thought with a measure of cynicism. She could imagine Argus landing the company jet at Avarua, Hausmann touring the place, endowing a hospital, building a school. Gestures of goodwill—the kind that came with a price tag. With Hausmann handling the purchase of Moon Island, it was Grace’s job to come up with recommendations for establishing deep-water access and appropriate dumping protocols. They couldn’t risk destroying the reef entirely. It provided the perfect solution to the problem of pollution. A reef could easily be landfilled with nontoxic waste, and toxic materials confined to the island itself. And unlike the Marshalls, the Cook Islands weren’t likely to be affected by

contaminants carried downwind of the dumping zone. That was exactly the kind of embarrassing problem a reputable company like Argus took pains to avoid. So far she had assessed the impact on the island of blasting away a portion of its coral reef to establish a passable channel, and she was now calculating the landfill capacity. Glancing through her report data, Grace made a few notes and dropped the papers on the small table beside her. Somehow she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for her job today. Perhaps it was the sunshine, the distant sound of the sea. She scanned her surroundings. Through the dense green foliage to her right, she could just make out the thatched roof of Frangipani Cottage. She thought about its inhabitant. Dawn, the prickly young Australian, was an unexpected but pleasant distraction. Grace smiled, recalling her nakedness, the arms across the breasts, the picture of outraged virtue. Very fetching, but not very convincing. For all the protestations, those baby blue eyes were a dead giveaway. Grace never missed a sexual cue. Getting to her feet, she smoothed her shorts. The Australian was definitely her cup of tea—young, cute and reassuringly shallow. The perfect fuck, no less. It was a pity about her legs. The scars looked recent,

and she was obviously painfully self-conscious of them. It must be tough, Grace reflected. Dawn had probably been a real knockout before it happened. She still was, scars aside. But maybe she didn’t see it that way. For a moment Grace contemplated leaving the kid alone. She was a bit young and it seemed almost too easy. On the other hand, there was something very appealing about that mixture of arrogance and vulnerability. If Dawn was feeling as undesirable as Grace suspected, she would be doing her a favor. There was nothing like good sex to boost a woman’s confidence. She wondered idly how long it would take to get her neighbor into the sack. Three days? Less? Draining her coffee, she placed a bet with herself. That coveted new Louis Vuitton trunk if she could seduce Dawn Beaumont within forty-eight hours. * Dawn was deeply enmeshed in the latest Jackie Collins novel when she heard footsteps on her verandah. There was a knock on her door, and a voice called her name. Recognizing her neighbor’s distinctive accent, she

froze in her chair. What was that woman doing here? She would pretend she wasn’t home, Dawn decided. Hopefully Grace Ramsay hadn’t seen her through the big windows that opened onto the verandah. Dawn craned slightly to check. There was a loud thud. Dismayed, she stared down at the floor where her Jackie Collins was splayed open. “Oh, there you are.” A coppery head poked in the window. Guilty heat flooded Dawn’s cheeks. “Oh, um…hi.” “Did I wake you?” Grace asked, swinging one long leg over the windowsill and casually perching astride it. She was wearing baggy khaki shorts and a thin faded shirt. Beneath the brim of her slouch hat, her eyes shone with bold awareness. Feeling self-conscious, Dawn said, “I was only reading.” Grace Ramsay was here out of politeness, she decided. The woman had, after all, found her passed out on the beach just the day before. Bearing out her assumption, Grace inquired, “Are you feeling better today?” “Yes, thank you,” Dawn responded. “I think it was just sunstroke. I’m fine now.” She didn’t like the way those charcoal eyes glittered,

as if Grace knew something that Dawn didn’t. “Great.” A broad smile. “How about coming on a walk? I’ve even packed a picnic.” A picnic! Dawn’s chest constricted. Distractedly, she cast about for an excuse. “No…” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I…er…” Grace swung her other leg over the sill and faced Dawn squarely. “It’s a beautiful day out there.” She adopted a persuasive tone. “Far too nice to shut yourself away with only Jackie Collins for company.” Dawn glanced ambivalently toward the paperback. Grace was right. She should be outside getting fresh air and exercise, not cooped up in her cottage doing a Greta Garbo. A picnic. It sounded harmless enough, and it wasn’t as if she had other plans. Stealing a covert look at Grace, she felt vaguely ashamed of herself. There was no need for her to be so standoffish. In fact, it was downright neurotic. The woman was only trying to be friendly. So what if she was a lesbian like Cody and Annabel? Did that make her some kind of villain? Grow up , Dawn told herself. The world was full of people who were different from her. Was she planning to spend her entire life trying to avoid them? “A walk would be nice,” she conceded awkwardly. “Although I

can’t go terribly far. I mean…my legs…I still can’t—” “I thought we’d go inland a bit.” Grace acted as if there was no problem. “There’s a lookout point about half an hour away. It’s quite stunning up there.” “I think I know where you mean.” Dawn brightened, remembering the ridge that defined the outer perimeter of the makatea, a fossilized coral reef that rimmed the island’s interior. It was a beautiful spot. She and Cody had paused up there the day before to admire the views. “You know the island?” Grace seemed pleased. “I’ve stayed here once before.” “Then you’ll be able to lead the way back if I get us lost.” Grace gave a quirky little smile. Dawn got to her feet, still vaguely dubious. Her face must have betrayed something, because Grace was suddenly serious. “If you’re worried about making the distance, don’t be. I can always carry you if you get tired.” She was completely serious. Tensing, Dawn recalled being carried naked in Grace’s arms the day before. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said hastily. Again that smile, full of wicked promise. “You never know your luck.”

Chapter Seven Inland, the island was thickly covered in jungle. It smelled close and damp, replete with the heady scents of gardenia and frangipani. Grace halted at regular intervals to take what seemed a wasteful quantity of photos. All the same, Dawn was glad of these frequent opportunities to rest her protesting legs. This was the first time she had attempted an uphill walk of any duration, and she was managing a good deal better than she had expected. “When were you here last?” Grace asked as they picked their way slowly across the uneven terrain toward the ridge. “Nearly three years ago.” Dawn gripped Grace’s arm. It frustrated her to feel so dependent, but she was acutely conscious of the razor-sharp coral beneath the lush foliage. Her walking stick was all but useless on a hike like this. “Have you been up on this ridge before?” Grace asked. “On part of it. I’ve crossed the makatea over by Passion Bay. There are some caves in the middle of the island.” “Really?” Grace helped her over a fallen tree. “How

do you get to them?” “You’d have to ask Cody. I only went there once.” Dawn stumbled, her walking stick sliding off a rock. Grace’s hold on her tightened. Tensing, she found her footing and pulled quickly away. “There was a hurricane and we had to evacuate our houses and stay in one of the caves. We slept there.” “You slept with Cody? How delicious.” The comment startled Dawn. Its brazen inference was clear—Grace found Cody attractive and was not backward about saying so. For some reason this rankled. Dawn had a crazy urge to remind Grace that Cody already had a girlfriend, if that’s what women like her called one another. Instead she kept doggedly to the conversational track. “There were four of us, actually. It was really scary. I don’t like caves.” “What do you like, Dawn?” Grace looked back over her shoulder, her expression roguish. Avoiding her disquieting gaze, Dawn said, “I like music.” It sounded inane. She should at least have said what kind of music. “Music,” Grace echoed, shortening her stride to stay within arms reach. “Me, too. Have you ever been to Michigan?” It seemed a bizarre question.

“To the Womyn’s Music Festival,” Grace elab-orated. “No. I’ve only been to America for swim meets.” “You were a competitive swimmer?” “Yes.” Dawn didn’t trust herself to say any more. “Bummer.” Another direct stare. “I’m sorry.” They were almost at the top of the rise, Dawn noted with relief. And a good thing, too. Her legs had coped okay until the gentle incline grew sharply steeper. Now she was on the verge of collapse. Knees wobbling, she stopped and made like she was admiring the scenery. Grace immediately halted and extended a hand. “Come on. I’m not contagious.” Dawn tried not to read anything into that remark. “I need to challenge myself,” she said, fending off assistance. “I haven’t had enough exercise since the accident.” Grace searched Dawn’s face. “You give yourself a hard time over this accident, don’t you?” For a moment Dawn’s eyes brimmed with hot tears. Fighting them back, she said, “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.” Grace shrugged. “Suit yourself. It was just an observation.” Smoothly changing the subject, she pointed toward a small clearing. “There’s the lookout.” Ignoring Dawn’s half-hearted protests, she slipped an

arm around her and assisted her along the ridge to a grassy glade. “This is amazing,” she said, easing Dawn to the ground. Strolling a few paces away, she stood on a rocky formation that overlooked the ocean on all sides. She took off her hat and slowly fanned herself. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” There was a huskiness in her voice that hinted at tears. Dawn was surprised to think of a worldly person like Grace getting emotional over a view of the ocean. But there was something magical about being on an island cut off from the rest of the world, not a glimpse of land in any direction. Time was meaningless. They were marooned. Gazing out at eternity. “It’s so ancient,” Dawn ventured. “Hard to imagine that anywhere else even exists.” Grace gave Dawn a strange look. “Exactly. Surreal, isn’t it? Completely primeval. You can sense others have stood here, seeing what we’re seeing. Feeling …insignificant.” Dawn took in the view once more. Like a braid of diamonds, the horizon shimmered, dividing ocean and sky. It was as if the island occupied some hidden dimension in a limitless blue void. “I suppose the whole world was once like this. Kind of empty…” She trailed

off, fearing she sounded flaky. “Gondwanaland.” Grace flipped her a grin. “Paradise…for dinosaurs at any rate.” “Paradise.” Dawn murmured. “Well, the island is supposed to be sacred.” “Ah…yes.” Grace’s expression altered. In a slightly mocking tone, she said, “The famous curse of Moon Island.” “You don’t believe in it?” “Let’s just say, I’m not the gullible type.” Removing her backpack, Grace dropped it onto the grass and sat down next to it, stretching her legs out in front of her and replacing her hat. Beneath the shady brim, her eyes sparkled. “Are you telling me you think any guy setting foot on this place is going to be struck by lightening?” “There’s a lot of stuff science can’t explain,” Dawn said. “In my country the Aboriginal people place curses by pointing a bone at someone. People actually die.” “There’s a scientific explanation for that,” Grace said. “In many cultures a person who believes he’s been cursed becomes ill because he convinces himself he is doomed. It’s a simple case of mind over matter…another version of the placebo effect.” “You think every mystery has an explanation?” Dawn

thought it must be nice to believe in a world governed entirely by logic and common sense. “Human beings have always created mystical explanations for what is outside their knowledge. Superstition is the fast food of the scientifically illiterate. And, of course, religious fundamentalism depends on ignorance.” “You don’t believe in God?” Dawn could almost hear her parents lamenting the moral decay of civilization. “My spiritual beliefs are irrelevant. I suppose what I’m saying is that people need explanations, but it’s hard work to become fully informed. The more you learn, the more you discover things aren’t always black and white. With religion or superstition, there’s no need to think for yourself. Some guy in fancy headgear has done it all for you. Talk about instant gratification.” “I see what you’re getting at,” Dawn said, surprised to find herself having this profound discussion. “But don’t you think God has a plan for us all and things happen for a reason? Like maybe God is showing us a different path, or even punishing us for something?” Grace was silent for a moment. Gravely she met Dawn’s eyes. “Do you really think the same God responsible for creation, in all its vast beauty and complexity, is nothing more than a petty tyrant who

needs to flaunt his power by wrecking people’s lives?” Put like that, it didn’t make much sense. Dawn supposed she was just another human being trying to explain an eternal question—in her case, why me? “I guess I’ve been wondering why God did this,” she said, gesturing at her legs. “Like, is there a message he’s trying to send me and I’m just not getting it?” “I understand. I really do.” Grace paused, as if weighing her next words carefully. “Listen. Something very bad once happened to me, and for a long time I asked the same questions you’re asking. I mean who wants to suffer if there’s no good reason for it?” “Not me.” Dawn interjected, with a small, bitter laugh. Grace pulled a picnic blanket from her pack. “In the end, I decided I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit happens.” “It was just bad luck?” “Yep,” Grace said, spreading the blanket over the ground. “Here, get comfortable.” Dawn inched across, occupying a narrow strip of soft cotton. Grace gave her an odd look, then sat a couple of feet away. “So you’re saying what happened to you was completely random?” Dawn asked. “Essentially, yes.” Grace stretched out her legs and lay down, linking her hands behind her head.

Despite her slenderness, she looked very strong, Dawn thought, eyeing her lithe, muscular thighs and the solid smoothness of her arms and shoulders. Somehow Grace didn’t fit Dawn’s image of a scientist: a mouse-like person wearing thick glasses and a white coat. Her thoughts returned to their conversation. Her own accident was not random. “My accident wasn’t bad luck,” Dawn said. “It was my own fault.” Grace studied her for a moment. “Dawn, there’s a big difference between blaming yourself, and taking responsibility for your choices. Do you understand?” “It seems like splitting hairs.” “One is about guilt, the other is about being honest with yourself.” Tears flooded Dawn’s eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.” Grace gazed at her. Sounding terribly sad all of a sudden, she said, “Yes, that is the hard part.” She seemed about to say something else, but her charcoal eyes grew shuttered. An awkward silence followed. Grace seemed prickly, her discomfort palpable. Dawn guessed her change of mood must be something to do with the bad thing that had happened to her. Wondering what it was,

but sensing Grace did not want to talk about it, Dawn groped for something appropriate to say. In the end, Grace spared her the trouble, apparently making a conscious attempt to lighten up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous,” she said, lifting an assortment of plastic containers from her pack. “Hungry?” “Not really. I’m feeling a bit sick.” “Drink this.” Grace placed a bottle of Gatorade in Dawn’s hands. In a no-nonsense tone, she said, “We’re not going anywhere until you’ve eaten something. So don’t even think about standing up. Okay?” Blinking, Dawn drank the sweet liquid. Then, to her surprise, she consumed an enormous quantity of food over the next hour. Other than the meal at Cody’s place the night before, she had barely eaten since she arrived. Even Grace seemed impressed. “Much better. You’re not so pale now.” Stretching like a contented feline, Grace lay back on the blanket, unbuttoning her shirt and pulling it from her khaki shorts. With a languid sigh, she closed her eyes and spread her shirt open, exposing her skin to the sun. Her breasts and torso were like the rest of her,

smooth and tanned. Obviously she sunbathed half naked all the time. Dawn’s eyes were drawn to Grace’s nipples. They were small and the color of dark toffee. For far too long Dawn stared at them, her breathing strangely affected. She felt clammy. Was she going to be sick? Had the climb been too much? Forcing her attention back to the scenery, she mentally framed a polite request to return home. It’s not like she would be inventing excuses. She really was feeling ill. Reluctantly, she let her gaze return to her companion. Her heart jumped. Grace was staring straight up at her. “You okay?” she enquired in a silky tone. Their eyes locked for what seemed an eternity. Dawn averted her head. “Just thirsty.” She unscrewed her water flask and made a show of drinking. “How old are you, Dawn?” Grace asked. “Twenty-two.” “God, that’s young.” Dawn lifted her chin. “How old are you?” “Thirty-two. And I live in New York, so you can add a hundred years to that.” “Is it that bad?” “It depends who you are and how much money you

have.” Grace sat up, linking her arms around her knees. “So, tell me,” her regard was assessing, “are you involved with anyone at the moment?” The question took Dawn by surprise. Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, her skin goose-bumped. “Not right now.” “Neither am I.” Dawn hoped that was all Grace planned to say. She had no intention of getting into all that personal stuff with a stranger. With a glance at her wristwatch, she said, “We should be getting back soon.” “What’s the hurry? Got a big date tonight?” “As if,” Dawn muttered. Grace grinned, her eyes teasing. “I guess you have to beat them off with a club in Sydney.” Dawn couldn’t tell if she was serious or making fun of her. Her throat felt tight. It was all she could do not to fixate on the band of bronzed flesh exposed where Grace’s shirt parted. “I’ve never had time for that kind of thing,” she said. “You do now,” Grace noted with a languid smile. Dawn cast a sharp look at the scars down each leg. Her mouth shook. “Shit, Dawn.” Grace followed the direction of her gaze. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She placed a hand on

Dawn’s arm. “I was talking about being here on the island. You know…so much time, so little to do.” “I get it.” Dawn’s skin burned from the fleeting pressure of Grace’s fingers. She’d had enough deep and meaningful conversation for one day. With faltering hands, she started packing up their picnic things. “I’ll do that.” Grace buttoned her shirt. Cautiously, she said, “Dawn, I’m sorry. I know it’s a touchy subject.” “Forget it. Really, it’s no big deal.” Screening her muddled feelings with a breezy smile, Dawn added, “It’s time I got out of the sun, that’s all. After yesterday— ” “Sure. Makes sense.” Grace stuffed everything into her pack and tied it down. “We could go back to my place for a while. Want to do that?” Dawn lifted her eyes, only to find them drawn relentlessly to the outline of Grace’s nipples against her thin cotton shirt. In the grip of a peculiar fascination, she proceeded up Grace’s body, pausing at the hollow of her throat, the wide sensual mouth. “Is that a yes?” Grace asked. Something in her tone made Dawn’s nerves leap. Frowning, she stared down at the scars on her hands. What was wrong with her? Why was she staring at this woman’s body like it was the first she had ever seen?

Unsettled, she said, “I’m kind of tired. Maybe another time.” “No problem.” Grace was suddenly businesslike, gathering their belongings and passing Dawn her stick. With a quick glance at Dawn’s legs, she said, “I probably shouldn’t have dragged you up here. But you seemed kind of down. I thought you might enjoy it.” “I did,” Dawn hastened to say. “I have… It’s just…” How could she explain her unease about going back to Grace’s place? The reservation was completely illogical, like most of her feelings these days. “I think I know what you’re saying.” Grace’s expression was disarmingly frank. “Don’t look so worried. Everything’s fine.” She stroked Dawn’s cheek and gently cupped her chin. Leaning closer, she brushed Dawn’s mouth with her own, so lightly Dawn barely had time to register the touch. Throughout the slow hike back to Frangipani Cottage, Dawn’s face burned and an oily nausea made her stomach crawl. Grace Ramsay had kissed her. On the mouth. No matter how hard she tried, she could not convince herself that this was merely an American way of being friendly. Neither could she make sense of her own reactions to this woman. Scared suddenly, she wished she could run far, far

away—from the island, from Grace Ramsay, and from her own deafening heartbeat.

Chapter Eight “Dawn? It’s me, Cody.” Footsteps halted on the verandah outside her bedroom window. Dawn dragged herself out of bed, pulled on a sarong, and padded out, blinking in the buttercup light of morning. Cody was standing on her verandah in a bedraggled straw hat and well-worn cut-off jeans. “Fancy a spot of fishing?” she said. “Fishing?” Dawn wrinkled her nose and considered the prospect of chopping up bait, gaffing fish and watching their tails thrash as life departed. She shook her head. “Not really my thing. I mean, ick.” Cody eyed her knowingly. “I’ll do the nasty stuff. You can just sit there and hold on to a rod.” “Won’t I be in the way?” “Of course not. You’ll balance the boat.” “Thanks a million. Now I feel really wanted.” Cody grinned at her. “Bring plenty of sun block. It gets hot out there.” She wasn’t kidding. Cody’s boat was a sixteen-foot runabout with a Mercury outboard. Its shallow canopy offered some protection from the merciless sun, but

after a couple of hours, Dawn’s T-shirt was wet with sweat and her arms and legs were slick beneath the sun block she’d plastered on. They hadn’t had a single bite. Dawn adjusted her hat so the brim shadowed her neck more effectively. “They know it’s me,” she said crossly. “They know I hate catching them.” “You’re talking about our dinner,” Cody said. “I can’t go home empty-handed. Annabel will kill me.” She said it so easily, so naturally, Dawn found herself staring. “Cody,” she began in a thin little voice. “How did you know you were…you know…gay?” Cody lowered her rod. Her expression shifted from startled incomprehension to composure, as if she had willed herself not to react. “Why do you ask?” Dawn was glad she could hide her own embarrassment behind her sunglasses. “I just wondered. I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business.” Cody shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Adjusting her rod, she looked out at the hazy ocean. “It was a very long time ago, and it wasn’t exactly a lightning bolt. I guess I knew I was a lesbian before I ever heard the word.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve always had feelings for women, even as a kid. I

always had a crush on someone.” “But that’s normal, isn’t it?” Dawn said, “I mean phases—they’re a part of development.” “Well, there are two schools of thought on that. A lot of people believe we have no way of knowing what is normal until we stop pressuring young people so hard to be heterosexual.” “I don’t feel pressured,” Dawn objected. “I see,” Cody said blandly. “So you think it’s perfectly okay for people to be gay? If you woke up tomorrow morning and saw lesbian printed on your forehead, you’d feel fine about walking downtown.” “Of course not,” Dawn retorted. “But you don’t think that constitutes pressure?” Looking at it that way, it was pressure, Dawn supposed. But then, being homosexual wasn’t normal. In some places it wasn’t even legal. “Have you ever noticed that some people really hate gays?” Cody persisted. “Don’t you think some of us might feel like we have a disease and maybe we should start going out with the opposite sex so people won’t notice?” Dawn changed hands on her rod, wiping one wet palm on her shorts. “Is that what you did?” she asked huskily.

“For a while,” Cody admitted. “But I was lucky. I ended up dating boys who were a bit like me. Safe company…” “Then you just started dating girls?” “I guess you could say that. I fell in love a few times before I got into a relationship.” “Have you had a lot of…um…relationships?” Dawn felt herself blush. “Dawn!” Cody protested laughingly. “I think we’ve taken show and tell far enough for one day.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—Cody,” she blurted. “Do you hate men?” Cody laughed, a deep warm laugh. “Hate men? I’m not really interested enough in men to hate them.” Her comment startled Dawn—it echoed her own feelings so closely. Flustered, she adjusted the tension on her line and wiggled the hook experimentally. “But have you ever…um.” “Have I ever had a sexual relationship with a man? No, in a word.” “Then how do you know you’re a lesbian?” “How do you know you’re straight?” Cody fired back. “Have you ever slept with a woman?” Dawn blushed even more. She didn’t want to think about yesterday, about Grace Ramsay sprawled on

that picnic blanket, flaunting her body. Besides, nothing had happened but a simple, friendly little kiss. That was all. She squirmed in her seat. “It doesn’t matter which way you look at it, Cody. We’ve got two sexes, right? Male and female. And nature attracts them to each other so that the human race continues. If everyone was homosexual, there’d be no more babies. ” “I think you’re mixing procreation with recreation. Do you only want sex when you’re planning on having a baby?” Dawn looked away. “Sex isn’t that great,” she muttered. “I can take it or leave it.” “I can’t,” Cody said flatly, and Dawn’s mouth parted with shock. Suddenly she found herself imagining it was Cody yesterday, not Grace. She imagined more than a mere brush of the lips. Instead, a kiss like the one she had seen Cody and Annabel exchange that day on the beach years ago. The thought made her nipples harden. Horrified, she hunched her shoulders and stared morosely at her feet. How could she entertain that thought even for a second? “Sex is wonderful,” Cody said, making matters worse. “Especially when you’re in love.”

Dawn couldn’t look up. She felt cornered, confused. She wasn’t in love with Nigel. She had never been in love with anyone. What was love, anyway? A racing heart, the sun setting on a tropical beach, violins playing. Was it sex on car seats, an engagement ring people stared at? She couldn’t begin to imagine having the kind of feelings Cody was talking about. Maybe that was why sex had never interested her that much. She thought about Grace Ramsay again and suddenly wondered what would have happened had she returned that fleeting kiss. Swinging her gaze back to Cody, she asked clumsily, “What do lesbians do—” Her line gave a sharp wrench, and she clutched her rod, shouting, “I’ve got one. I’ve got one.” She staggered to her feet only to be pushed straight back down onto the padded bench. Cody was beside her, locking the rod into the grips and adjusting the reel. “Let it run,” she said as the line screamed from the rod, yard after yard. “It’s a biggie.” She secured a safety belt around Dawn’s waist, then scampered down to the stern, starting the outboard and hurling instructions. The minutes ticked by, Dawn

winding and winding, the boat dragging its anchor. The fish stayed on. Gradually, inch by inch it drew closer, then hurtled off toward the open sea again. “I don’t believe this,” Cody said after it had made what felt like its thousandth bid for freedom. “My arms are going to fall off,” Dawn wailed. “It feels like we’ve got bloody Jaws on there.” Cody grinned, but there was a seriousness in the set of her mouth. “Maybe we have. I’ll take over, if you like.” “No! I’m perfectly capable of catching a goddamn fish by myself.” Dawn started winding anew, sweating and grunting, swearing under her breath. Cody looked at her watch. “It’s been on more than an hour.” Dawn traced the line out. The water sparkled bright turquoise. She was certain she caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface. “Look!” she yelled. About twenty feet from the boat the sea exploded and a huge silver fish twisted into the air. “Shit,” Cody gasped. “A marlin.” Dawn panted with the strain of its weight on the line. “It’s enormous.” “Roll on dinner.” Cody rubbed her hands. “Keep on winding.” “I am bloody winding.” Dawn felt as if she’d been

hauling on that reel forever. The line was unbearably heavy. Her muscles screamed in violent protest. Cody clipped herself to the safety line at the stern of the boat and perched there with a long spike in her hand. A silvery head rose from the water, swinging back and forth, a straining body gleamed in the sun. Dawn looked down into a black sorrowful eye. “No!” she screamed as Cody lifted the gaffe high. “Please! Don’t kill it.” Cody stared at her, uncomprehending, then lowered the gaffe, groped in the bag at her feet and produced a set of pliers. Suspended over the edge of the boat, fending off the fish’s sword, she strained down and snapped the hook cleanly apart. Seconds later a tail broke the surface of the water and the marlin vanished. They both stared after it, Dawn releasing sharp exhausted pants, Cody quiet and stunned. “No one’s ever going to believe us,” Cody finally said. Dawn shrugged. “The fish knows.”

Chapter Nine The next morning, Dawn awoke to the sound of her name being called. Blinking, she propped herself on her elbows and cocked her head. “Dawn?” Someone was knocking on her door. Opening the window beside her bed, she peered out. Grace Ramsay was on the verandah. “Oh, hell.” She looked embarrassed. “Did I wake you?” “I think I overslept.” Yawning, Dawn glanced at the clock on her dressing table. Midday. She had slept for nearly eighteen hours. It was the best sleep she’d had in months—since the accident, in fact. “I’ll come back later,” Grace said. “No, it’s okay. I’ll get up now.” Lowering her feet to the floor, Dawn gathered up a sarong, wrapped it around herself, and reached automatically for her pills. She twisted the cap then hesitated. Her legs felt surprisingly strong, the usual aching less pronounced. Hardly daring to believe her good fortune, she replaced the pill bottle and went to open the French doors. Grace was reclining on the sunny wooden steps, her T-shirt damply outlining her breasts and shoulders. “I

saw you out on the bay yesterday,” she said as Dawn emerged. “Shame you lost that fish. You did really well holding on so long.” Her eyes were concealed behind dark lenses. “I was impressed.” Her throat looked very soft. A tiny dark mole nestled in the shadow of her left collarbone. Dawn experienced an odd desire to touch it. Feeling self-conscious, she blurted, “I don’t much like fishing. It seems cruel.” “Then you’re not sorry you lost the fish after all?” Grace’s voice was faintly teasing. “It never did me any harm. Why kill it?” Grace removed her sunglasses. “Now don’t tell me you collect for Greenpeace, Dawn.” Her voice held a trace of cynicism. “What’s wrong with Greenpeace? At least they’re doing something to stop us wrecking this planet.” Dawn stopped, detecting a sudden edge of discomfort in her visitor. What was Grace doing here so early? Had she simply come over to pass the time of day talking about fishing? Straightening, she said, “I need to take a shower. Is there something you wanted?” “I was wondering if you have plans for this afternoon?” Dawn’s heart sank. Clearly Grace was about to offer some kind of invitation. Remembering the awkward

picnic, she said, “I’ve got some letters to write, and I thought I’d do some reading.” Grace sought out her eyes. “So, is anyone cooking you dinner?” Dawn felt color drift into her cheeks. Avoiding Grace’s gaze, she tried to decipher the motivation behind these overtures of friendship. Perhaps Grace was simply a social kind of person, or maybe she was bored, stuck out here on an island when she was obviously used to a huge city. Or maybe she just felt sorry for Dawn. Grace appeared to draw her own conclusions from Dawn’s silence. With a casual shrug, she said, “Okay, so you don’t feel like company right now. I’ll be home later if you change your mind. Just come on over.” She started down the steps, then paused, adding softly, “I’d really like to see you, Dawn.” The dinner invitation plagued Dawn throughout the afternoon. Lying on the beach, her discarded Jackie Collins sticky with tanning lotion, she wondered why on earth Grace would want to spend time with her. It wasn’t as if they had anything in common apart from occupying neighboring cottages. And she was certain Grace had no idea of her athletic fame back in Australia. Even if she did, Dawn could not imagine that

factoring into her friendly overtures. Her mind drifted to the picnic, to the way Grace had stared at her, and that one tiny kiss. Perhaps she was being paranoid about it, attributing ridiculous significance to a meaningless social gesture. On the other hand, Dawn strongly suspected Grace was a lesbian. And what if she was? Did that change anything? Yes, it did, she conceded miserably. Fanning herself with her paperback, she recalled her conversation on the boat with Cody. She was prejudiced, she realized. She was one of those people who snickered at gay jokes and made gay people feel bad about themselves. She had joined in when everyone victimized a girl on the swim team they suspected of being gay. Dawn felt sick thinking about the way they had behaved. In the end, they had driven Carmen off the team—out of swimming altogether. The irony struck Dawn like a battering ram. Carmen had been deprived of her chance at Olympic glory, and now Dawn’s career was over, too. Was the accident some kind of poetic justice? Was this God’s message? Dawn started to cry. When she got back to Sydney, she was going to go see Carmen, she decided. She

would apologize and offer to go with her to swim meets as a personal trainer so she could sit in the change rooms. No one would dare hassle Carmen then. Feeling better, she wiped her face, gathered up her possessions and started back to Frangipani Cottage. The sun was a fading bloom on the horizon, and the familiar cadence of the jungle had given way to the frenetic sounds of dusk. It would be dark soon. She would light the lamps in her cottage and sit alone, probably feeling sorry for herself and wondering what to do with her life. And when there seemed no point in sitting up any longer, she would shower, take her pills, and go to bed wondering about the point of it all. Impulsively, Dawn opened her closet and stared at the small collection of clothes hanging there. Why not have dinner with Grace Ramsay? She had taken a dislike to the woman for no other reason than it seemed she might be a lesbian. How immature. How pathetic. Ashamed of herself, Dawn pulled out one of the more appealing sundresses Trish had insisted she pack. Somehow she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear it yet. It seemed too bright with its yellow background and big red flowers. Dawn showered, put it on and studied herself critically.

The dress was close-fitting and short—too short perhaps. Dawn fingered the scarred flesh of her thighs. At least she’d tanned a little since she’d been on the island, and her muscles had regained some of their tone. Maybe she looked all right after all. Frowning, she brushed out her hair and put on a little lip gloss, leaving the rest of her face bare of makeup. It didn’t matter what she looked like; she was only having dinner with a woman. Dawn wrapped a few painkillers in a tissue, slid this into her bra, and applied a little Samsara to each wrist. Glancing in the mirror once more, she felt a flash of pleasure. She could have been looking at her old self. If it weren’t for her legs, and…there was something about her face, too. Dawn studied her image, unable to figure out what was different. It was her eyebrows, she finally concluded. She hadn’t plucked them in months. “Tough,” she said aloud. Facial torture—who needed it? * “You look great.” Grace greeted her with a candid smile. “I was hoping you’d come. I’d have a hell of a lot

to eat if you didn’t.” Leading Dawn into the sitting room, she said, “Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink?” Dawn asked for fruit juice. Alcohol didn’t combine well with painkillers. Her eyes were drawn to the dining table. Apparently Grace had been pretty sure she would not be eating alone. Places were set for two. There were freshly picked flowers and flickering candles. It was very simple, but it was also…romantic. Disconcerted, Dawn shot a surreptitious look in Grace’s direction. A smart, attractive woman like her could probably get anyone she wanted, lesbian or not. It was absurd to imagine she might have designs on a twenty-two year old with no job and a pill problem. Dawn was kidding herself if she imagined Grace posed any kind of threat to her heterosexual virtue. Ignoring a flurry of nervousness that knotted her stomach, she inquired lamely, “How is your work going?” “I’m pleased so far.” Grace handed her a tall glass and joined her on the sofa. “I have a report to finish in the next few days, then maybe I’ll get some time to play.” “What do you like to do…for play?”

“I like to get physical.” Grace paused very deliberately before explaining, “Squash, skiing, swimming. How about you?” “I… Well, now that I don’t swim, I…” Dawn’s mouth started to tremble. Grace shook her head. “I’m always putting my foot in it with you.” Dawn didn’t trust herself to speak, instead producing a wan smile and a dismissive shrug. “How about this—if I promise not to mention swimming all evening, will you stay for dinner?” Grace’s sweet, teasing tone was infectious. Dawn smiled back at her. “Sure. Why not?” “Good. Then let’s eat.” Dawn took the hand Grace extended and allowed herself to be led to the table. Grace pulled a chair out for her and, with an air of cheeky ceremony, opened a bottle of champagne and filled Dawn’s glass before her own. “Did I mention you look beautiful?” she said, sitting down and raising her wine in a playful toast. “Let’s drink to that.” Dawn found herself blushing as she swallowed the tingling champagne. “I’m not supposed to drink alcohol.”

“For religious reasons?” Her tone was mockserious. “No.” Dawn giggled. “I’m on drugs.” “And you didn’t offer to share.” Grace continued her playful banter. “I thought you liked me.” “Not that kind of drugs!” Dawn said and fished around inside her bra. “These.” She opened the tissue to display her pills. “My God,” Grace said. “Elephant tranquilizers.” She looked at Dawn, eyes penetrating. “Is the pain still that bad?” “You get used to it,” Dawn said. “I have this fantasy that one day I’ll wake up, and everything will be back to normal. I’ll get out of bed and I won’t even feel my legs. It’ll be so comfortable and easy walking around.” She took a gulp of champagne. “I never knew how much I took for granted until this happened. It makes you think. ” “About?” “About how lucky you are. It could have been a lot worse. At least I can walk.” Dawn fell silent, conscious of a change in her outlook, yet unsure how exactly it had come about. “To be honest, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity ever since it happened.” “I can relate,” Grace said. Folding Dawn’s pills into a

neat little package, she slid them back across the table. “Grief is natural. It takes its course, then we move on.” Move on—to what? Dawn served herself from the platter Grace offered. The meal was delicious—fish marinated in coconut milk, steamed rice, salad. She chewed a few bites, seduced by the subtle but tangy combination of flavors. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do now,” she admitted eventually. “My whole life has revolved around swimming ever since I was a little kid.” “Are you trained for anything else?” Dawn paused between succulent mouthfuls. “I was training as a kindergarten teacher.” Apparently, Grace noticed her lackluster tone. “A kinder-garten teacher? You don’t strike me as the littlekids type.” Dawn grimaced. “I’m not. I sort of had to do it.” She fell silent, trying to figure out a way to change the subject. She’d had a swimming scholarship, and it was a toss between the evils of accounting, high school teaching, or kindergarten. “I still have a year of school left, but I don’t think I want to carry on. How about you? Did you always want to be a scientist?” Grace smiled, her chin propped against her hand. “Well, when I was a kid I had grandiose ideas about

making some earth-shattering discovery and getting a Nobel Prize. I guess I took it from there.” “Do you think you might? Make a famous discovery, I mean.” Dawn was slightly awestruck. Despite their previous conversation, she felt none the wiser about what Grace actually did. The woman was probably some kind of genius. Grace was laughing, but her expression was cynical. “Hell, no. I live in the real world now. Research science is all very glamorous, but the pay isn’t. Women are seldom credited for what we achieve. Look at DNA. Did Rosalind Franklin get the Nobel Prize? No, the boys did. I’m damned if I’m going to work my ass off so some man can get his name in the journals.” “That’s exactly what happens in sports, too,” Dawn said. “Back home, if a bloke wins a final, he’s a hero —plastered all over the newspapers, car endorsements, lunch with the Prime Minister. A woman does the same thing and she’s lucky to get her competition airfare paid and a couple of lines on the back page.” She’d lost count of the times the girls on the swim team were left out of public relations events and newspaper coverage. “I guess it takes a long time for some things to change. I mean, women still can’t even turn professional in a lot of sports.”

“There’s no point waiting around for men to cut us a bigger slice of the pie,” Grace said cynically. “We have to make it happen for ourselves. That’s why so many women set up their own businesses.” “Is that what you did?” “Pretty much. I developed a scarce skill set and became a consultant. These days I hire some of the men I used to work for.” “That’s great,” Dawn said, thinking how smart Grace must be. “You should consider running a business,” Grace said in a thoughtful voice. “In your field you could become an agent. You say women get a shitty deal. Take on a bunch of them as clients. Everything is about money, Dawn, and women are huge consumers. Big advertisers know that. You could offer a whole stable of female athletes.” Dawn blinked. “I’m too young to do something like that. No one would take me seriously.” “So go to an agency that knows you and join the firm. Learn the business. Then leave and take all your clients with you. People do it every day.” Dawn felt awestruck. This was good advice. Her aborted swimming career had left plenty of doors open. Why not use her contacts? “I know a lot of

people,” she said, feeling a flare of optimism. “So pick up the phone when you get home. You’re a strong woman. Don’t let this thing beat you.” Dawn felt strangely light. For the first time since the accident, she could imagine a future for herself. Even if she didn’t do exactly what Grace suggested, she could see that her life held possibilities. All she had to do was open her mind to them. Conscious of Grace’s steady gaze, she said, almost sheepishly, “You’re giving me a pep talk.” A warm natural smile lit Grace’s features. For a moment, she looked very young, her eyes soft, her head slightly cocked. “Is it working?” Seized by an impulse, Dawn reached across the table and squeezed Grace’s hand. “Yes.” Before she could withdraw, Grace caught her hand gently but firmly. Her fingertips traced the pink scars that knotted the skin across Dawn’s knuckles. The thin new skin was exquisitely sensitive, almost painful to touch. Shivering, Dawn gazed at the intersection of their flesh, her own a mottled latticework of colors against the smooth, slender perfection of Grace’s fingers. Grace kept her nails sensibly short. They were well manicured, the moons apparent. By contrast, her own

nails were unkempt, the cuticles ragged, and several gnawed down to the quick. She lifted her eyes and found Grace gazing at her with an odd expression. Almost immediately the good-humored indulgence returned to her face. “Well, I’m going to miss food like this when I go home,” she remarked, diffusing the tension that prickled between them. “Mangos for breakfast, papayas all over the ground…” “I’ll miss the peace,” Dawn said. “It’s quite a culture shock after the city, isn’t it?” “Where exactly do you live?” Dawn remembered Grace was from New York, but that was a big place. “When I’m not in a hotel room in the likes of Bombay or Phnom Penh, I have an apartment in the West Village. Do you know New York City?” Dawn shook her head. “Only from taxi rides. I’ve never spent any time sight-seeing.” “Then you should book yourself a vacation some time. I could show you around a few places.” Dawn’s pulse leapt. This was one of those friendly but insincere offers people made in the certainty they would never have to make good. She smiled all the same, charmed for a moment by the idea of exploring a thrilling new place with Grace her guide. “I’m serious,” Grace said, as though sensing Dawn

doubted her. Retreating to the kitchen to brew some coffee, she added with a wicked glint, “I’d only corrupt you if you asked nicely.” Dawn laughed. “You must think I’m so…that I don’t know anything.” Grace raised her eyebrows. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a woman of the world, Dawn?” Dawn felt color invade her cheeks. She lowered her eyes, immediately self-conscious. What was she trying to say, exactly? It almost sounded like she was flirting with Grace. Troubled, she checked her watch and said, “I should be going soon.” “Another tough day ahead?” Grace teased. “Sunbathing, reading… It’s a dirty job, huh?” Dawn smiled wryly. “I’m coping. Just.” It was not easy to change the training habits of a lifetime. She still found it almost impossible to sleep past five a.m., that’s if she managed to sleep at all. Since the accident, it had not been easy, although that seemed to be changing here on the island. “It feels pretty weird loafing on a beach instead of swimming laps,” she said. “Notice I’m not commenting on the forbidden topic,” Grace bantered gently. Dawn could not help but respond in kind. “You’ve

been very, very good.” “I manage when the bar is set low enough.” Her tone was laced with irony. “I’ve had a very nice evening,” Dawn said. “But it’s getting late, and I know you’ve got work to do tomorrow.” Grace studied her with perceptive eyes. “Now there you go, looking sad again. I wish I could flatter myself that you’re truly sorry to be leaving my charming company. But we both know that’s not the case.” She grinned suddenly, coaxingly. “Just a thought…if you stayed, we could plan your future some more over breakfast.” Dawn stiffened. Stayed? What did Grace mean by that? Some kind of friendly sleep-over? Or was it quite a different kind of invitation? Dawn’s heart jumped in her chest, and she gazed uncertainly at the woman beside her, noticing the watchful intensity of her regard, the faint curve of her mouth. “No,” she said hastily. “Um …thank you. I can find my own way back. You don’t have to walk me.” “That’s a matter of opinion.” All nonchalance, Grace stood and offered her hand. “Shall we?” *

The velvet night air was warm and redolent with a mix of fragrances, the heady florals now so familiar to Dawn, and a spicier scent she recognized as Grace’s. Bled of color, the jungle looked dark and impenetrable. A bright full moon illuminated the monochrome world below. Negotiating the narrow path to Frangipani Cottage, Dawn felt oddly chagrined that Grace seemed quite content to take her home. Part of her wished she had abandoned her paranoid misgivings and agreed to spend the night. What was the worst thing that could have happened? An unsettling image sprang to mind —herself in Grace’s arms, the two of them kissing. Dawn felt queasily conscious of Grace’s hand, holding hers, of her nearness. Just an extra step or a stumble, and their bodies would collide. She rejected the thought with ruthless self-condemnation. What was wrong with her? Why was she curious about gayness all of a sudden? She cast her mind back to the fishing expedition with Cody. She had wanted to ask even more questions about what it was like to be a lesbian. Cody seemed to think her interest in the topic was perfectly normal. Mature adults could discuss sexuality without making a

big deal of it. This was not High School. As they emerged from a dense canopy of palms and vines, into a clearing a few minutes away from the cottage, Grace halted. “Do you smell that?” she asked. Inhaling deeply, Dawn was astonished. A hypnotic scent drenched the humid night air. “What is it?” “I think it’s Night Queen. Bludgeons the senses, doesn’t it?” Grace released Dawn’s hand and took a few steps to the edge of the jungle. Between audibly drawn breaths, she said, “It’s a rare lily species that takes a hundred years to flower. And you can only smell it at night. During the day it doesn’t release its scent.” “Wow.” Dawn had never heard of such a thing. “It’s incredible. Kind of like violets and fresh cookies and something else.” “Boronia,” Grace supplied, pacing slowly around the perimeters of the clearing. “Violets, boronia, sweet almond, and musk. I wish I could find the plant. I’ve smelled it each time I walk this path. But when I come back here in daylight, the scent has gone. Without it, there’s no way to track down the plant.” Dawn was impressed. A plant that released its fragrance only under cover of darkness. What a remarkable theft deterrent. Nature was smart that way. “Imagine having one in your garden,” she marveled.

“You could die before you ever saw it flower.” Grace’s smile was just visible in the moonlight. “The perfect gift for the masochist who has everything.” She vanished into a thicket of banana palms. “It seems stronger over here. Come and smell this.” Dawn insinuated herself through a gap between fleshy fronds and took another deep breath, drowning her senses in the once-in-a-lifetime scent. “I think you’re right,” she said. “But we’ll never find it. I can’t see a bloody thing.” Grace’s hand took hers. Guiding her back to the moonlit clearing, she said, “I’ll come back in the morning and take a closer look.” “What will you do if you find it?” “Take a sample. There are bound to be some nonflowering specimens around it.” Grace pushed a curl back off Dawn’s forehead, her fingers drifting out of contact then returning to linger for a moment on Dawn’s hair. In the moonlight, her face was all shadows, eyes gleaming like onyx. Transfixed, Dawn stared at her, and it seemed they were enveloped by a profound silence, a lull in the deliberations of nature. As if from a great distance, a voice within told Dawn to turn and walk, but she felt rooted to the spot, unwilling to move, to speak, to

disturb in any way the fragile synthesis of that moment. Bodies barely touching, they swayed toward one another. Their mouths brushed lightly once, and again, more deliberately, joining in sweet contract. Dawn began to tremble. She was conscious of her lips parting, her eyes closing, her body seeking Grace’s. The flat of Grace’s hand burned where it rested against Dawn’s back. Their breasts, bellies, and thighs seemed glued. Grace’s mouth, sealed hotly to Dawn’s, sent shockwaves of awareness through Dawn’s limbs. Bones quivering, she returned the intoxicating kiss, timidly at first, then chaotically. Dawn was aware of her dress being unzipped, of Grace’s flesh sculpting to hers, of a confusion of scents —jungle, cloves, the decadent Night Queen lily. She felt weak and heavy, as if it were honey, not blood, that oozed through her veins. Responding to the coaxing pressure of Grace’s tongue, she invited her deeper, until it seemed they were pouring into one another. It was a kiss like none she had ever experienced, speaking to an inner-self Dawn never knew existed. Grace’s hands slid beneath Dawn’s sundress, gently, pervasively exploring her body, stealing away her brief, instinctive resistance. The sensations were unbearable, setting off a trail of tiny explosions beneath

Dawn’s skin. Her breasts felt heavy, the skin drawn tight. Her nipples were so exquisitely tender, she almost cried out when Grace took one between her fingers. Pulling, teasing, Grace worked one knotted nipple, then the other, taking Dawn’s breasts in her hands, squeezing and kneading. Still kissing, they sank onto the damp grass, rolling hard against one another, thighs locked. Abandoning Dawn’s breasts for a moment, Grace twisted her fingers into Dawn’s hair and held her still. Their kiss grew softer, until their lips barely fluttered against one another. Faces close, breath merging, they exchanged tiny, succulent kisses, roaming from cheek to throat to shoulder, tasting and kissing and biting. Grace drew Dawn’s sundress off her shoulders, caressing her throat with delicate fingers. Easing the unwanted garment down Dawn’s body, she claimed the freshly exposed flesh with her mouth. Taking a nipple between her teeth, she softly tugged and sucked until Dawn could bear no more. Releasing a pent-up moan of pleasure, Dawn slid urging fingers into Grace’s hair. “Apparently you like this.” Grace remarked huskily, forsaking Dawn’s breasts to caress her belly and hips, and finally removing the bunched sundress altogether.

Blood pounded in Dawn’s ears as she felt her panties slide down. Her thighs were parted, exposing the damp flesh between them to the night air and Grace’s caresses. “Mmm…you’re so wet.” Grace sighed. Dawn’s eyes flew open. Grace was touching her where it was all slippery and melting, her fingers sliding back and forth. A paralyzing realization swept Dawn. She was allowing this to happen. “No!” She reached down, tearing Grace’s hand away. “Stop! Please.” “Baby, what is it?” Grace withdrew instantly and changed position, propping herself on an elbow. Dawn struggled into sitting position, grabbing her dress, heat flooding her face. Clamping her thighs together, she jerked her head to one side, deeply ashamed. What in God’s name was she thinking, letting a woman touch her like this, encouraging her? She must be insane. “Was it something I did?” Grace sounded perplexed. “Am I going too fast for you?” She reached for Dawn, freezing when she was pushed away. “Don’t touch me!” Dawn cried. “I don’t get it. What’s happening here?” “Can’t you take no for an answer?” “I wasn’t hearing no from you, Dawn. You wanted this

just as much as I did.” Tears of humiliation stung Dawn’s eyes. “I did not.” “How can you say that?” Frustration entered Grace’s tone. “You’re incredibly aroused. Please, tell me what this is about. Is it because of your legs?” “No, it’s nothing to do with my legs.” Dawn scrambled to her feet, dragging her dress on and wrenching the straps into place. “For God’s sake, just leave me alone. There’s nothing wrong with me. At least I’m normal.” Grace’s gaze was black and piercing. In a strained voice, she said, “Let me get something clear. Are you a lesbian, Dawn?” “Of course not,” Dawn hurled at her. “Well, fuck me. I don’t believe this.” Laughing mirthlessly, Grace set about buttoning her shirt. “Kid,” she addressed Dawn with deep irony, “if you’re straight, I’m from Mars.” “Shut up!” Dawn shouted, backing away. “How could you do those disgusting things to me, then act like I’m the one with the problem!” “You enjoyed those disgusting things,” Grace yelled after her. “And if you weren’t so damned hung-up, you could have enjoyed a whole lot more of them. You wanted me to fuck you. You were just about begging for

it.” “That’s a filthy lie.” Dawn covered her ears. “I hated it, and I hate you, too.” “Fine,” Grace said. “After that little episode the feeling’s quite mutual. C’mon. I’ll walk you home.” Shoulders very stiff, she strode off into the jungle, calling carelessly, “Are you coming?” With a harsh laugh, she added, “No, of course you’re not coming. It would be too much like having a good time, wouldn’t it?” “Shut up, you…you bitch!” Dawn felt like punching her. “I can find my own way home. I don’t need you.” Grace turned, hands on hips. In an icy voice, she said, “I wouldn’t bank on that, sweetheart.” * Perched on the edge of her bed a little later, still damp from taking a protracted shower, Dawn rubbed antiseptic cream into a long shallow scratch along one thigh. The injury had happened when she was stumbling through the jungle. It was all that woman’s fault. Grace Ramsay. She thought about those hands touching her, the feel of that body heavy and warm, that mouth. How dared she do that? What sort of woman

was she? A lesbian, that’s what sort. A woman who has sex with other women. Dawn could hardly bear to contemplate it. Clutching her throbbing temples, she tried desperately to think of anything but Grace Ramsay. Sweat broke across her skin once more, and she shifted uncomfortably. Her body felt unbearably tense, wrenched from within. How could she have let this happen? One minute they were talking like civilized people, and the next minute they were kissing. Two women! It hardly seemed real. Stuffing her hands between her legs, where she was still throbbing, she tumbled back onto her cool sheets. She’d had a lucky escape, she told herself. It could have been worse. At least Grace had stopped when Dawn said no. She remembered a date she’d once had with a man who didn’t understand the word ‘no.’ It had been terrible, frightening. When she told her friends they just shrugged. That type of thing was normal. He was drunk. Next time don’t let him in the house. Next time! Dawn shuddered, rejecting the image. In the void, she could feel Grace’s mouth, her skin, hear the bewilderment in her voice. Grace had thought Dawn was a lesbian. How could she? Dawn didn’t look

anything like a lesbian. She thought about Cody and Annabel, about Grace herself. Did they look like lesbians? They were exceptions, she decided. Any of them could get a man. Apparently, none of them wanted to. Why not? Had something awful happened to them when they were young, something that had turned them against men forever? Maybe they had been molested. How terrible. Well, that hadn’t happened to her. She didn’t hate men. She spared a moment’s thought for Nigel. No, she didn’t even hate Nigel. In fact, she felt …nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was all she’d ever felt, she thought guiltily. Even sex was—she groped for an adequate description—tolerable…predictable…quick. Normal, in other words. If there were women who had fantastic sex, she didn’t know any of them. Thrilling, passionate sex happened in paperbacks, not real life. In real life it was all a bit of a letdown. Five minutes of groping and gasping, then he falls asleep. Give me a cigarette any day, Trish always said. It tastes better. Feels better. Lasts longer and you don’t have to feed it. Revolting, but true. Only… Dawn writhed miserably. She had never experienced anything like the arousal she had felt with Grace. She hadn’t known such

sensations existed. It was mortifying. Of course there was a logical explanation. She had suffered a trauma. She was on drugs. And she had mixed these with alcohol during dinner. Obviously this combination had affected her behavior and impaired her judgment. She was not in full possession of her senses. None of this was her fault. She hadn’t done anything to encourage Grace Ramsay. Quite the opposite. It was Grace who had pestered her, Grace who had obviously planned the whole thing, asking her to a romantic dinner, flirting with her. It was Grace who had kissed her first. Grace knew exactly what she was doing. She probably seduced straight woman just for the hell of it. Dawn chewed her lip, wincing at the sweet salty taste of blood. Damn Grace Ramsay. If she never saw that wretched woman again, it would be too soon. * Cursing Dawn Beaumont beneath her breath, Grace slammed her cottage door, strode into the kitchen and hauled a bottle of Cognac out of the pantry. Straight, for God’s sake, and broadcasting double messages every time she blinked those baby blue eyes.

For a moment Grace wondered if Dawn was playing games. There were straight women who fooled around with lesbians, but backed off real quick when they couldn’t take the heat. Maybe this was how Dawn got her kicks. Grace was appalled at herself. How could she have misjudged the situation so badly? Why hadn’t she taken her time, played it cool? She was so certain Dawn would fall eagerly into her bed, she had blown it. What an amateur. She poured a double shot and edgily prowled her sitting room. Being turned down so dramatically was something of a novelty, but who needed it? She pictured Dawn, willing and responsive in her arms. The woman had wanted her. Damn it, she was just about coming before Grace had time to get her panties off. Draining her glass, Grace licked the residue from her lips and gazed out her window. It was time she went home and got laid. She visualized herself cruising babes at the local clubs, picking up some cutie who understood the rules of the game. Dawn was too damned young, she decided. And implausible as it seemed, maybe she really was a straight girl who had come down with the last shower of rain. Grace shook her head. No. Dawn wasn’t straight.

Grace had played around with straight women. They were curious, titillated at their own daring, kidding themselves they were doing you some kind of favor. There had been none of that porn movie plasticity in Dawn, nothing furtive about her kisses, her body’s clear signals. She had seemed…inexperienced. Grace toyed with the word and realized it fitted the young Australian perfectly. It had been so long since she’d had sex with a novice, she had almost forgotten the classic symptoms. She recalled Dawn’s tentative hands; her mouth, frozen at first, then responsive; her startled backing off. Dawn had never had sex with a woman. In fact, she hadn’t even figured out she was a lesbian. Grace almost laughed out loud. This put a whole new complexion on things. The Louis trunk was not a lost cause after all. Strolling outdoors, she peered into the dark mass of the jungle until she could just make out the dark plane of a cottage roof jutting above the palms. She could picture Dawn tossing miserably on her bed, wet and unfulfilled, but still trying to convince herself she was heterosexual. Poor, uptight little Dawn —she probably thought there was a law against masturbation, too.

Chapter Ten Robert B. Hausmann was the picture of geniality. He rose, offered his hand, and pulled out a chair with studied ease. Annabel seated herself and declined a drink. “I don’t think this will take long,” she said, removing the Argus folder from her satchel and extending it to her companion. “I’ve read your offer, Mr. Hausmann, and I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought. But the answer is still no. I’m not selling.” Robert Hausmann settled comfortably into his own chair and accepted the folder without a blink. “I confess I’m disappointed. I had hoped we might do business.” He shrugged, steepling his hands. “It’s your decision, of course.” That was it? Annabel eyed him with suspicion. She had expected at least an attempt to negotiate. “I imagine you have other options.” “I’m the kind of guy who sees every setback as an opportunity.” Hausmann’s expression was one of calm benevolence. “It’s a changing world out there. No more Iron Curtain. The Chinese have canned the little gray pajamas. India has the bomb.” “So you may not proceed with your plans for the

South Pacific, after all?” “Now, Annabel,” he chided silkily. “You and I both know what that kind of inside information is worth on the open market.” It was obvious what Hausmann was getting at, Annabel thought. Once news of Argus’s plans for Asia/Pacific expansion became public property, stock prices for its local subsidiaries would hit the roof. Anyone who had invested immediately prior to an announcement would make a killing. Hausmann apparently suspected her of trying to assess the prospects, trying to measure the impact of her decision. She found herself wondering how much stock he’d acquired lately and whether it could be traced to him. “There are rumors,” Hausmann confided. “It’s almost impossible to keep this kind of thing quiet, as you know. We climbed ten points overnight. Of course, making an erroneous assumption about our plans could be disastrous for any big player. And it seems someone is in the market right now…” “A hostile takeover bid, perhaps?” Annabel speculated sweetly. The barb went straight home, provoking a thin-lipped smile. “Nothing on that scale.” He flicked a dismissive

hand. “Between you and me, I’ve heard it’s some bankrupt banana republic taking a flyer.” The words had a chilling deliberation about them. Reading between the lines, Annabel understood why Hausmann radiated confidence. He must have convinced the Cook Islands Premier the deal was on. Annabel wanted to believe a man elected to the highest office in this tiny nation would not gamble government money on an insider share purchase. Hausmann had to be bluffing. Yet, what if he wasn’t? Annabel felt sick. The government was already broke. If the Premier had been suckered into dumping what scant financial reserves they had on some illicit share market punt, the repercussions would be disastrous. Having delivered this shot across her bow, Hausmann was on his feet. “I wish I could spend more time in your charming company. It’s been a real pleasure.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I gather there’s nothing I can offer that could persuade you to change your mind?” “I have everything I want in life, Mr. Hausmann,” Annabel responded coolly. “Selling Moon Island would be a loss, not a gain.” “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Very sorry. And I’m

sure I won’t be the only one.” With a reptilian smile, he walked away, leaving Annabel gazing uneasily after him. A short while later, as she was preparing to leave, a waiter approached and handed her an envelope, explaining that Mr. Hausmann had asked if she would deliver it to one of her guests. With a jolt, Annabel read the name scrawled across it. Dr. Grace Ramsay. * Grace sagged back against a leafy papaya tree and disconsolately sipped from her flask. It was dusk, and she had found no trace of the elusive Night Queen. By the time the first hint of that exotic fragrance wafted into the tropical night, the jungle would be enveloped in darkness, its most tightly held secrets safe once more from prying humanity. She hoped she could track the plant down before she left. It was a rare specimen any institution would be pathetically grateful for, exactly the kind of donation that would reap vast public relations gains for Argus. Visualizing tangible expressions of Robert Hausmann’s gratitude, she methodically surveyed the

area around her. Tomorrow she would conduct one final grid search, her last opportunity to procure the wretched plant. As soon as the island was sold, Argus would move in with chemical defoliants to make the place more accessible. Of course, the place would not be as pleasant with the dense greenery eliminated, but progress had its price. Brushing twigs from her legs, Grace wondered whether Annabel Worth had signed on the dotted line yet. Only a complete fool, or a sentimentalist, would turn down the kind of offer Argus could make. The Annabel Worth Grace remembered was neither of those. She marveled at the quirk of fate that had brought her to the very island Annabel owned. It had come as quite a shock to arrive in Rarotonga and find her onetime Boston fling waiting to escort her. If anything, Annabel was even more desirable now than she was six years ago. Something about her had mellowed to the point where it was almost impossible to reconcile the laid-back, sensual Annabel who flew the Moon Island shuttle with the brittle commodities trader who had once told Grace she found coffee and market volatility more satisfying than sex.

Grace had briefly entertained the possibility of a renewed liaison, but Annabel had quickly made it clear that she was unavailable. Meeting Cody Stanton, Grace could see why. Annabel and her beloved were obviously joined at the hip, a veritable billboard for monogamous bliss. Doubtless a commitment ceremony would be the next milestone, then the search for a sperm donor… Where would it end? Grace reached a large stand of frangipani flanking Dawn’s cottage and deliberated for a moment on the merits of dropping in. Maybe Dawn would buy an apology. Forgive me. I was overcome. You looked so

sweet and beautiful in the moonlight. For one magical moment it would have been easy to believe we were in love. I wanted just to kiss you, yet when I started I couldn’t stop. You were so warm and willing… No, the outraged young Australian would not have a word of it. Yet ironically, it was the truth. There had been a kind of magic about standing beneath the stars with Dawn, that unworldly scent drifting by, the tropical night laden with promise. Grace glanced at the cottage and gave a small cynical laugh. There was something in the Moon Island breeze, she decided, something that softened the brain.

* Dawn paced her verandah restlessly, thoughts clattering like a toy train on a single track. Again and again, she returned to that disastrous encounter with Grace. She wanted desperately to erase from her consciousness the pressure of Grace’s mouth, the warmth of her hands. But the disturbing memories persisted. Hard as she tried, she could find little comfort in the victory of common sense over her new and inexplicable physical urges. Instead of relief at her narrow escape from a lesbian sexual encounter, Dawn felt oddly bereft. Cheated. How humiliating. She stared up at the moon. It was pale orange, full and alluring against the dark sky. Beyond the palms, the ocean glowed like a black pearl. It was the perfect night for a swim. The very thought made Dawn yearn for the satiny solace of water. Impulsively, she went indoors, gathered up a large towel, and pulled on some sandals. A narrow track led through a musky entanglement of vines and leaves to the beach. Dawn tossed her walking stick, clothing and shoes into a pile on the sand and lay naked on a towel beneath the starry

tapestry of the sky. The beauty of the night was heartstopping. It was so still—just the throbbing cadence of the ocean and the occasional sigh of the palms in response to a hesitant breeze. Trickling sand through her fingers, Dawn thought about the huge fish she had released. It was out there somewhere in the milky ocean, swimming free, alive and joyful. She almost wished she could trade places with it. Rolling onto her stomach, she propped her chin on her forearms and stared out to sea. A dark blob on the ocean’s moon-dappled surface drew her attention. It was moving slowly across the bay. She caught a glimpse of arms and froze. A swimmer; some other person in her bay, intruding on her night. Who else could it be but Grace Ramsay? The blob drew closer to the beach. It loomed out of the water, stretched languidly, and shook its head. Closing her eyes, Dawn tried to block out the sight of that body, lithe and naked, glistening in the moonlight. Grace paused, staring along the beach as though she could sense someone’s presence. Dawn held her breath, kept her head low, willed herself not to move a muscle. But when Grace started walking up the beach toward her, panic mobilized her limbs and, scrambling to her feet, she dragged her towel around her and

lurched toward the jungle. “Dawn! Wait!” The voice was shockingly near. “Come on in. The water’s incredible.” Dawn’s stomach curled. She glanced back over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said in a voice that barely sounded like her own. Clearing her throat, she added, “I didn’t know anyone was here.” Grace halted only when she was so close they were nearly touching. In the moonlight, she glowed marblesmooth, her hollows and contours deeply shadowed. Droplets of water studded her skin like thousands of tiny jewels. “Actually, I was hoping you might show up.” Keeping her eyes above chest level, Dawn wished she could read Grace’s expression. But all she could make out was a broad smile, white in the darkness of her face. Her voice held no trace of last night’s fury. Was this how they were going to play it—just carry on as if nothing had happened? “Come on.” Grace reached casually for her hand. “Pretend we’re friends, okay? I won’t bite.” Vacillating, Dawn glanced toward the beckoning sea. She knew she should walk away, proud and defiant, but her legs refused to cooperate. Telling herself that a swim was what she had come down here for, she reluctantly dropped her towel and allowed

Grace to lead her along the wet sand toward the deeper part of the lagoon. “Wonderful night, isn’t it?” Grace remarked as they waded into the water. Absurdly conscious of their nakedness, Dawn croaked a meaningless response, thankful her burning cheeks wouldn’t show in the darkness. The sea was warm and infinitely soothing, caressing her scarred thighs like a thousand fingertips. As they moved deeper, Dawn drifted onto her belly, relieved of the aching pressure of standing. Weightless, she kicked away from Grace, and swam in a slow arc around the bay. There was no need to be apprehensive about being here alone with her neighbor, she reasoned. What had happened last night was a mistake, plain and simple. Obviously Grace wanted to forget about it as much as Dawn did. An apology might have been nice, but Dawn wouldn’t hold her breath. After this swim, she would say a polite goodnight and go straight home. Civilized. Responsible. Mature. Reaching the shallows, she got to her feet. There was no sign of Grace in the moonlit waters, no seallike head bobbing, no splash of feet. After a long moment, she called, “Grace? Where are you?”

The surface broke directly in front of her. “I’m right here.” “You scared me.” “I seem to be making a habit of that.” Wanting to nip the topic in the bud, Dawn said, “Let’s just forget about…what happened.” “If that’s what you want. I’ve found it hard to think about anything else.” Dawn’s breath jammed her throat like cotton wool. “I should be going.” Heart pummeling the walls of her chest, she started to wade ashore. “Don’t go.” Grace’s voice arrested her. “I’m not bringing this up to embarrass you. Please. I want to say something.” Dawn tucked her shaking hands into her armpits and turned to face the other woman. She didn’t want to have this conversation. “There’s no need,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I know I gave you the wrong impression. I’m sorry.” “You have nothing to apologize for.” Grace closed the distance between them. “I’m sorry for the things I said to you. I was hoping we could maybe start again.” Dawn told herself to leave, leave now. Start again? Grace made it sound so easy. So tempting. “I can’t.” Even to her own ears, the protest sounded feeble.

With slow deliberation, Grace touched Dawn’s shoulder, her thumb brushing the hollow at the base of her neck. Dawn’s immediate urge was to back away, but her feet seemed embedded in the sand. For a long moment, the pounding of her heart in her ears drowned out all other sound—her own voice, the hollow thunder of waves against the reef. Drawing closer, Grace said, “We could pretend we just met, but by some magic we know each other well.” She lowered her mouth to the base of Dawn’s throat, where the skin was hotly imprinted with her thumb. Planting a single lingering kiss, she glanced up at Dawn, in unspoken question. Dawn took a shaky breath. Now was the time to put a stop to this, yet she could not. Grace’s hands were on either side of her face. She kissed her delicately, on the forehead, the eyelids, the cheeks. “Don’t be scared,” she murmured. “I know this is new for you. If you want me to stop, I will.” Dawn’s senses were clamoring. She could feel Grace’s breath on her face, feel a hot ache between her legs and moisture trickling down her thighs to merge with the salt water. In that moment, she knew she wanted what Grace was offering. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

“Just let it happen,” Grace whispered against her lips, and this time Dawn let her mouth part. Her outstretched fingers met Grace’s flesh. Trembling, she swayed closer. Their breasts slid across one another, nipples as hard as pebbles. Grace’s mouth was on her neck, then her shoulders. Her tongue trailed slowly downward to capture the salty rivulets converging between Dawn’s breasts. Their stomachs brushed. Grace gripped her hips firmly and Dawn felt the new and shocking sensation of another woman’s sex pressed into hers. She stiffened for a split second, then Grace’s arms gathered her close, keeping her safe. Slipping her hand into Grace’s, she allowed herself to be guided from the water. Once on the beach, they clung together in tight embrace, returning kiss for kiss. Dawn dragged her fingers along the curve of Grace’s spine, awed by the texture of her flesh, the sinuous outline of her muscles. She rested her hands in the small of Grace’s back, then moved on to the wonderful firmness of her ass. They sank down onto the wet sand, breasts crushed, thighs entwined. Gentle surf fingered its way up the sand to bubble and lap across their legs. Cradling Dawn’s head, Grace slid her tongue delicately

between her lips, demanding only her compliance. Unresisting, Dawn yielded to exquisite sensation, surrendering herself to Grace’s soul-stealing kisses, craving so much more. Breathing hard, Grace cupped Dawn’s face. “Look at me,” she commanded, and when Dawn opened her eyes, said huskily, “I want to make love to you. Do you want that?” Caught between desire and self-doubt, Dawn could not answer for a moment. Eventually, she whispered, “Yes.” Realizing she sounded uncertain, she added self-consciously, “I don’t know what to do.” Grace’s arms closed around her. “Yes, you do.” She helped Dawn to her feet. Cupping seawater, she washed the sand off each of them then took Dawn’s hand and led her up the beach. When they reached a pile of clothing, she shook out a huge towel and drew Dawn down onto the warm soft cotton. Caressing her in long sensual strokes that extended from her breasts to the parting of her thighs, she said, “Tell me you want me.” Her mouth was just a breath from Dawn’s, their lips almost brushing. Dawn slid her arms around Grace, wanting to close the distance between them. “I want you,” she said thickly.

Grace moved over her, blotting out the moon, erasing the pulse of the ocean, the salt sea smell, until Dawn could feel only her, taste only her, breathe only her. She gasped as Grace slid a thigh between her legs, pressing into her with a sensual determination that made her whimper with shock and pleasure. She clung more tightly, grounding herself in Grace’s feel and smell. Arching her back, she lifted her hips to increase the relentless pressure, and they rocked against one another. Just when Dawn thought she could bear no more, Grace changed position, placing an arm beneath Dawn’s hips, and trailing warm kisses across her stomach and over her thighs until finally centering on the ache between them. Hardly daring to breath, Dawn felt Grace’s fingers part her swollen flesh, her tongue soothing and teasing at the same time. Unbearable heat spread through Dawn’s pelvis. Moisture broke across her skin. She cried out as Grace dipped a finger inside her, gradually opening her, working in deeper. Centered where they were most exquisite, the sensations multiplied until Dawn’s body was rising and falling, fiercely concentrated on this sensual rite. Reaching down, she dug her fingers into Grace’s shoulders, bracing herself.

Grace responded by increasing the pressure of her tongue and the rhythm of her strokes. Lifting her hips in unison, Dawn ached for release from a sharp, unbearable tension that seemed to seize every limb. She stayed in that exquisite limbo between tension and release for so long she thought she might pass out. Overwhelmed, muscles quivering uncontrollably, she finally felt herself clench around Grace’s fingers in a series of tiny, profound spasms. Then she was crying, rocked against the safety of Grace’s shoulder, and Grace’s soft voice repeated in her ear, “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right.”

Chapter Eleven When Dawn awoke, she was alone. The clock beside Grace’s bed said noon. She had slept for hours, a deep, satisfying sleep. Eyes closed, she recaptured for a moment the sensations of the night, then stretched languidly, kicking away the sheets, and bathing in the breeze that seeped through the window. Somewhere on the outer reaches of her consciousness, she could make out the sounds of another person moving about in the cottage, footfalls, the occasional thud or clatter. A hot-water kettle whistled; a woman was humming. On a hook behind Grace’s door were a couple of brightly colored sarongs. Knotting one of these to cover her breasts, Dawn pushed her tangled hair off her face and ventured out in the direction of the noises. Grace was at the small table in the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea. As Dawn hovered in the doorway, she glanced up, smiling broadly. Dawn flushed. She didn’t want to, but the sight of Grace in her white shirt and khaki shorts, her eyes dark and knowing, made her feel self-conscious and exposed. What must Grace think of her, she wondered.

“Sleep well?” Grace asked. She didn’t seem embarrassed or jumpy. Murmuring some inconsequential response, Dawn found herself fascinated by Grace’s slender, purposeful hands as they poured tea, buttered a roll. She quickly lowered her head, certain her graphic memories of those hands were written all over her face. “I was hoping you’d wake before I go,” Grace said nonchalantly. Dawn looked up. “Go? Where are you going?” “I’m borrowing Cody’s boat for the afternoon to do some depth-testing out near the reef.” “I see.” Inching her way into the room, Dawn sat down at the table. Why did she feel dejected all of a sudden? Grace was simply carrying on life as usual. What had she expected? “When will you be back?” The words were out before she could prevent them and Dawn felt a rush of irritation at herself. Grace shrugged. “It’s hard to say.” Her expression became slightly guarded. “What are your plans for the day?” “Nothing in particular.” “You could come with me if you want.” The invitation sounded hesitant.

She was offering out of politeness. Dawn quickly shook her head. “No. No thanks. I’ll give it a miss.” Grace’s glance became intent. “Are you upset about last night?” Upset? Dawn struggled with the question. No, that didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling. Devastated was more like it. Stunned. Overwhelmed. She felt as though she had stumbled into an emotional maze and would never find her way back to the person she had been. Grace must have interpreted her silence as embarrass-ment, for she said, “We don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not. Last night never happened, okay?” Dawn stared at the floor. Grace might be able to dismiss what they’d done, but she certainly couldn’t. “Suits me fine,” Grace was assuring her, and this time Dawn detected a harder note. “Honestly. I had a good time, and I think you did, too. Let’s just leave it at that. No strings attached, okay?” Dawn’s throat felt swollen. “Okay,” she croaked. Liar! her mind shouted. She wanted to get up, throw her arms around Grace, beg her not to go. She wanted them to lie naked in the truth of daylight and make love all over again. But Grace was getting to her feet,

brushing off her shorts, glancing at her watch. Clearly this was just a morning like any other morning for her. Maybe she did this kind of thing all the time. Dawn folded her arms across her breasts. Hungry butterflies chewed a wayward path from the pit of her stomach to the cleft between her legs. “Well, I’ll be going then,” she said in a high brittle voice. “I’ve got some letters to write.” Grace gave her another piercing look. “Dawn—” she began, then seemed to reconsider, her mouth compressed. “You don’t have to rush off,” she said in a neutral tone. “Help yourself to breakfast.” Averting her eyes, Dawn muttered an inaudible thank you. Breakfast. Only minutes ago she had been starving but now the very thought of food made her nauseous. Grace was suddenly so close their bodies were brushing. “Are you really okay? I mean, I’ll wait and walk you home, of course.” Dawn was tempted to spill out all her feelings, but something in Grace’s eyes prevented her. There was an unmistakable reserve, a distance that tore at Dawn’s heart. Grace didn’t really want to hear what she was feeling, Dawn realized with sharp dismay. Tonguetied, she turned her attention toward the empty cups on

the table and started gathering them up. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, forcing indifference. “I can get myself home. Have fun on the boat.” Meeting Grace’s eyes, she caught a quick, shuttered glimpse of relief. Then Grace was twisting her earring, her face relaxing into that familiar uneven grin. Blowing Dawn a kiss, she said, “Later then,” and sauntered from the room, apparently without a care in the world. * In the torpid swill of late afternoon, Annabel’s clothes were glued to her body. Trying to straighten herself up, she removed her damp shirt, shook it out, and donned it again. With a mixture of emotions, she knocked on Grace’s door-frame and waited. Six years had passed since they were lovers, and it had been a shock to see Grace after so long. She’d been on the island for nearly three weeks, and Annabel had done her level best to avoid her. She felt an occasional pang of guilt for keeping her distance, only because it seemed immature somehow. She had nothing to hide. She had told Cody about Grace, emphasizing the fact that their relationship was

never serious. They had hooked up if they happened to be visiting their respective cities on business. Their contact comprised nothing more than a series of convenient sexual encounters. Annabel knew Cody had difficulty understanding. She was such a straightforward person. Why have casual sex when you could have a full-time lover and genuine romance? It was as simple as that. There was no answer from inside the cottage. Dropping into one of the cane verandah chairs, Annabel contemplated the gardens around her. It had been a massive job to restore them after Hurricane Mary, but these days it was difficult to tell that this part of the island had been so badly ravaged. In the tropics everything grew fast, fleshy, and fecund. The pulse of the jungle was sluggish at this time of day. In an hour or so, a frenetic burst of energy would send it rocketing, as myriad creatures sought their last meal of the day and headed for home. Annabel could relate. Whenever she was away, she experienced the same powerful drive to return home, picturing Cody on the verandah immersed in some paperback, herself pottering in the kitchen. Briefly she wallowed in private delight. She wouldn’t swap this life for anything, least of all a bloated bank

balance and a pile of scrip. It’s not like she and Cody needed the money. When Annabel inherited Moon Island from her aunt three years earlier, she had also inherited a substantial fortune. For a long while, she had left the money untouched, feeling oddly guilty about having it. But recently, at Cody’s suggestion, she had formed a charitable trust. With wealth it was possible to make a difference in the world, for good or for ill. What a pity so many powerful people and businesses chose the latter, she thought. Glancing at the letter she had set down on the small wicker table nearby, she wondered why Robert B. Hausmann was writing to Grace. What exactly had Grace said about her research work on the island? Something obscure to do with coral reef formations. Annabel hadn’t paid much attention at the time. She was too busy trying to sort out her feelings about having a piece of her past return to haunt her. Had Grace mentioned for whom she was working? No. Had she concealed it deliberately? Annabel frowned. Somewhere in the back of her mind a nasty little doubt hovered, reminding her that Grace was an opportunist from way back. She hadn’t let ethics stand in her way in the past, and from the inviting look she’d given Annabel right under Cody’s nose, that clearly

hadn’t changed. “Annabel?” a voice hailed her, and Grace emerged from a thicket of vines. She looked surprised and pleased. Despite herself, Annabel found her pulse responding to those bold, assessing eyes. “It’s good to see you,” Grace said. She paused, hands on hips, catching her breath. Watching the rise and fall of her breasts, Annabel allowed herself to remember that body. She felt oddly detached. Grace Ramsay was one of the most exciting lovers she’d ever had. It was strange to see her now and feel the sexual pull that had first drawn them together, yet remain unmoved by it. “I have something for you, Grace,” she said. “From Robert Hausmann.” Grace seemed briefly startled, then an untroubled calm descended on her features, and she took the envelope, sliding it casually into her shorts pocket. “You’re acquainted with Mr. Hausmann?” Annabel asked. Grace’s eyes were calculating. Annabel could almost hear her weighing up her options, trying to guess how much Annabel actually knew. “Don’t even think about lying to me, Grace,” she challenged coldly. “We know each other better than that.” For a moment there was a hint of defiance in

Grace’s expression, then she shrugged. “I’m employed by Argus. I can’t say I know Robert Hausmann personally. We’ve met, that’s all.” “What are you doing here?” “Some research.” “For Argus?” “That’s right.” “Did you know Argus wants to buy the island from me?” Grace hesitated. “I gathered so. We need a base in the Pacific. Housing for staff…that kind of thing.” It sounded glib. “So you’re here for three weeks to find out whether the island is habitable? Stretches credibility, Grace.” “That’s not my problem. I’m just doing my job.” “I want to see your report,” Annabel demanded. Grace jerked upright. “Absolutely not. That report is confidential.” “As from today that report is totally irrelevant,” Annabel tossed back. “I’ve turned down your boss’s offer to buy the island.” Grace looked briefly uncertain, then said, “That makes no difference. Argus commissioned a report from me, and I’ll deliver it. If you want to see it, you’d better speak to Mr. Hausmann.”

Annabel took a deep breath. Grace was hiding something. Everything about her shouted it. She looked cagey, defensive. “Grace, please.” Annabel pressed her. “What is Argus really doing out here? I can’t swallow some line about office premises in the middle of nowhere.” Grace fell silent. Her eyes glinted with appreciation. “You know,” she drawled, “being in love has done wonders for your sex appeal, Annabel.” “Grace! I’m asking you a question.” “Give me a break. You know I can’t answer that.” “The word is won’t, not can’t. Look, Grace, this is my home. I have a right to know what some huge conglomerate is doing sniffing around here.” “You’re asking me to place my professional reputation at risk…to breach confidentiality.” “I don’t remember ethics being a problem for you before.” “Spare me the guilt trip, Annabel. You’re no saint. You were still with Claire when you went to bed with me.” “You know damned well Claire and I were breaking up. I was depressed and unhappy.” “You were horny.” Annabel took a sharp breath. “And you were still living with Carol.”

“So what? She knew I saw other women.” “She knew you weren’t capable of being committed, you mean!” “I don’t have to listen to this.” Grace stalked into the cottage, Annabel marching after her. “I can’t see why you’re so damned obsessed with my report. You’re not selling the island anyway, so what the hell does it matter to you?” “I want to know what Argus is up to. Don’t worry,” she added with deep cynicism. “I won’t advertise it. Your ass will be covered.” Annabel met Grace’s eyes levelly. “It matters because I care about these islands and the people who live here. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” “Why? Because I’m a slut?” Grace’s tone was flippant. Aggravated, Annabel said, “I’m sure it must make life simpler not to give a damn about anybody except yourself. But some of us actually care. Some of us don’t want to turn our backs on the wider ramifications of what we do.” “Christ!” Grace slammed a hand down on the kitchen counter. “When did you become so fucking self-righteous?” “When did you become so fucking alienated?”

Annabel hurled back. She was surprised to see dull red blossom in Grace’s cheeks. There was an odd vulnerability about her, all of a sudden. Understanding that she had struck a nerve, Annabel said, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. ” Grace’s gaze fell to some papers sitting on the desk in the adjoining room. Breathing hard, her mouth tight with anger, she stalked over to it, snatched up a thick document and thrust it at Annabel, saying, “Here. Satisfied?” Annabel sat down and began skimming the scientific text. After a few minutes, she lifted her head. “I can’t believe you’re involved in this.” Grace stared at her, hard-eyed. “What’s the crime exactly? I’m an environmental geologist. This is what I do.” “You’re talking about exploding half the reef around the island, about incinerating toxic chemicals and burying the waste. Razing the vegetation, destroying the habitat of every creature on the island.” Annabel was shaking. “This is sickening. I can’t believe it.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Annabel. Where’ve you been all your life? We produce five hundred million tons of hazardous waste a year, back home. Where do you

think it all goes? Rich countries don’t deal with their own shit. They pay poor countries to bury it in their backyards. Didn’t you know that?” Annabel cradled her head in her hands. If Argus didn’t get Moon Island, they were bound to find an alternative. Maybe the government would offer one of the more remote atolls. The Cook Islands could become another Marshalls, people dying slowly and mysteriously from the effects of windborne contamination. “Grace, how can you do this?” A sob worked its way into Annabel’s throat. “How can you work for these people? This is global depravity dressed up as commercial pragmatism.” “Argus is a responsible company in a difficult industry,” Grace said coldly. “They value my skills. What do you expect me to do? Martyr myself to some poverty-stricken, ecologically sound bunch of dogooders?” “I don’t expect anything of you.” Annabel could hear her own bitterness. “I can’t believe you stayed here doing this behind my back. How could you be so dishonest? We were lovers!” “We were fucking,” Grace hissed. “That’s all. Spare me the guilt trip, for chrissakes. We can’t all afford to

wallow in high-blown ethics. Some of us have to work for a living. It so happens my career is important to me. In fact, it’s the most important thing in the world.” Annabel felt a rush of sadness. The Grace she remembered hadn’t been this hard. What on earth had happened to make her so callous? “If that’s true, then I can only feel sorry for you.” “Don’t torture yourself,” Grace retorted. “I’m perfectly happy.” “I’m going now.” Annabel dropped the report disgustedly on the table. “I’d like you to leave the island. You can come with me to Raro the day after tomorrow.” “Suits me,” Grace said without emotion. “I’m done here anyway.” They walked outdoors and stood side by side on the verandah for a long moment, gazing out at the amethyst twilight. Eventually Annabel said very quietly, “I’m sorry things turned out like this.” Turning, she caught a glimpse of pain in Grace’s eyes and impulsively touched her arm. “Grace, what happened to you?” Grace’s expression was glazed. “Isn’t it obvious? Life happened. I got older and wiser.” “I haven’t forgotten absolutely everything about you,”

Annabel said in a dry tone. “You were never so…” She groped for a word. “Ruthless?” Grace suggested. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. But, okay.” Annabel smiled faintly. “Want to talk about it?” Grace hesitated. She looked numb. “I don’t know if I can.” “Maybe it’s time you found out.” Annabel slipped an arm around Grace’s waist. “Humor me. Pretend we’re strangers on a train.” * The sun was low and orange when Dawn decided she couldn’t stand another moment of dithering around in Frangipani Cottage, obsessing over Grace Ramsay. Donning a light sweater and jeans, she hobbled resolutely into the jungle and along the narrow track to Grace’s cottage. Where was her pride, she thought unhappily. Wasn’t it enough that she’d gone to bed with a virtual stranger, without it being a woman and without going back for seconds? For that was what she was doing. She couldn’t pretend she was seeking Grace out for intellectual stimulation or pleasant company on a long

tropical night. No. She wanted to have sex with her. The admission was so shocking that Dawn stopped in her tracks, the squashy nighttime sounds of the jungle providing a lurid backdrop to her thoughts. She was hot and throbbing between her legs, empty where she wanted to be full. She started walking again. Creepers caught at her hair and her hands felt damp and sticky from grappling with the tangled vegetation. Darkness was falling swiftly, and for a moment she was frightened she would never find her way to the other cottage. Then she caught the sound of music, melodious but slightly tinny. Grace’s battery-operated CD player. An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She would never be able to hear that particular Annie Lennox track without remembering that first night with Grace. But there was something else. Voices. She peered between the huge leaves of a papaya. They were standing on the verandah, Grace and another woman she couldn’t quite see. Dawn debated whether to continue on. She told herself she was being stupid. Even if Grace did have a visitor, they wouldn’t mind Dawn showing up. But somehow it wasn’t the same. She didn’t want to arrive at Grace’s cottage as an uninvited third party. That wasn’t the mental picture

she’d fabricated: Grace surprised and delighted to see her, the two of them melting into one another’s arms. Crestfallen, she contemplated the women on the verandah. She should never have come, she thought dismally. She was behaving like a lovesick adolescent. Her eyes stung and she balled her fists against them. How could this have happened to her? It was some kind of divine retribution, she decided, the inevitable consequences of tempting fate, her punishment for thinking the things she had about women like Cody and Annabel…lesbians. Now she’d had an affair with one of them, even if it had only lasted one night. And here she was, the very next day, hanging out for more. Numbly, she focused on the two women. They appeared to be deep in conversation, heads close together. With a shock, she recognized Annabel Worth. Her arm was over Grace’s shoulder. They moved together, holding one another in a prolonged embrace. Dawn jerked her head away. She couldn’t bear to see any more. Blindly, she stumbled back into the night. Grace and Annabel! She felt like throwing up. How could they?

Chapter Twelve “Tired, honey?” Cody bent and planted a kiss on Annabel’s forehead. Annabel had seemed oddly preoccupied ever since she got home from Rarotonga the day before. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m not exactly good company this morning, am I?” Cody occupied the sofa next to her. Sliding her arms loosely around Annabel’s neck, she nuzzled her pale cheek. “We could work on that.” Annabel lifted a hand to Cody’s hair, absently stroking it. “I love you,” she murmured. “I love you, too.” Cody observed Annabel’s frown with a twinge of apprehension. “Is something wrong? Did something happen at the meeting?” Annabel was silent for several seconds before she said, wearily, “Grace is working for Argus, the company trying to buy the island. She’s been writing a report on how to turn Moon Island into a toxic waste dump.” “You’re kidding me.” Cody was aghast. “Toxic waste! Are they crazy?” “It’s a big business. Companies pay Argus millions of dollars to deal with their disposal problem. Argus exports the waste to third world countries willing to

accept it for a fee.” “Are you saying the Cook Islands government would allow this? I mean, even if we sold Moon Island to these scumbags, surely they’d never be allowed to bring that kind of stuff here.” “Money talks. I got the impression Hausmann has cut some kind of deal with the Premier.” “I don’t believe it!” “It gets worse,” Annabel said. “I have a feeling the Premier might have used government money to buy shares in Argus’ Pacific subsidiary. So if the deal doesn’t go through and the share price falls—” “Curtains for the government.” Cody got the picture right away. “So this Hausmann guy thinks he can blackmail us over that?” “He didn’t spell it out in so many words.” “And your pal Grace works for this asshole.” Cody shook her head. “That lousy, two-faced…” She trailed off. You weren’t supposed to call your lover’s ex-onenight-stand, or whatever, a rotten bitch. Annabel made a helpless gesture. “I’ve found this a low-wattage experience, too.” “What are we going to do?” Cody asked. “It’s already done. I’ve told Hausmann we’re not selling. Let’s just hope he was bluffing about the

government buying stock.” “And Grace?” Cody wanted to escort her off the island personally. “She’s leaving. I’m taking her to Raro tomorrow.” “This is why you went to see her last night?” Cody had felt uneasy about that. She should have known Annabel wouldn’t have gone calling on her one-time fling without good reason. “I gave her a hard time,” Annabel said. “I feel kind of lousy about it now.” “You feel lousy!” Cody snorted. “You’re not the one who just accepted women’s hospitality and snuck around behind their backs arranging to destroy their island.” “Don’t think too badly of her, sweetheart. Grace has some problems.” Cody bit back a sharp comment. If Annabel wanted to defend her ex’s disgraceful behavior, that was up to her. It must be hard to admit you’d slept with such a jerk, even if it was only casual. She took Annabel’s hand. “Well, as far as I’m concerned Grace can go fuck herself. I’m glad it’s all over with these Argus people.” “Me, too,” Annabel said. Her voice was flat and controlled, but there was an edge of emotion. Annabel sounded worried.

Trying to ignore the shiver that crept along her spine, Cody kissed her cheek softly. “It is over, isn’t it?” she persisted. “I’m not sure.” Annabel gazed out the window. “I guess I was expecting Hausmann to put up more of a fight when I turned him down. The guy has a reputation for getting his own way.” “What does that mean?” “He plays to win. But this time he backed down like a lamb. It struck me as odd. That’s all.” Cody shrugged. “Well, maybe he was just trying his luck. Now that he knows we’re never going to be interested, he’ll just have to find some other place to set up shop.” She stroked Annabel’s hair. “Don’t worry about it, darling. No one’s going to take the island away from us.” “Sometimes I get frightened,” Annabel said in a muffled voice. “It almost feels too good to be true…that I have you and we live in this beautiful place. I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and find it was all a dream.” Drawing Annabel into her arms, Cody kissed her passionately. “Did that feel real?” Returning her kisses with an urgency that verged on desperation, Annabel whispered, “I love you so very much.” She drew back suddenly, eyes intense.

“Promise me something,” she said, gripping Cody’s shoulders. “If anything ever happens to me, you won’t give up the island.” “Annabel?” A ripple of fright made the hairs on Cody’s nape stand up. “What are you talking about?” “Just promise me,” Annabel insisted. Cody stared at the woman she loved. “I promise,” she said, filled with churning unease. * Dawn was on her verandah when Grace sauntered into view, tall and tanned and heart-stopping. The mere sight of her made Dawn perspire. How could any woman be so blatantly, effortlessly sexual? And how could Grace look so relaxed and unguarded when she was having an affair with Annabel Worth? They were ratting on Cody. No doubt they imagined she would never guess. Well, Dawn had other plans. Cody was a friend, and these days Dawn had very few of those. She would not just stand by with her lips buttoned. Climbing the verandah steps, Grace offered an insolent half-smile. “God, I’d kill for an iced tea,” she said. Dawn gave her a frosty look. “Help yourself. You

know where the kitchen is.” Grace didn’t seem to notice the chilly reception. Tossing her hat down onto a chair, she cast Dawn a glance that was pointedly flirtatious. “Want anything?” Only to slap that grin off your face. Controlling her voice, Dawn said, “No thanks.” Grace returned with a large glass of iced tea and sat in the chair next to Dawn’s. She stretched out her legs, kicking off her sandals with an arrogant familiarity that rattled Dawn more than she could believe. How dare she! How dare she come bowling in, all innocence, when she was carrying on with another woman—a woman who was already in a relationship, no less. Dawn didn’t realize she was glaring until Grace tilted her head and those granite eyes flashed knowingly. “Are you mad at me, Dawn?” “No. Why should I be?” “Why indeed?” Grace sipped her drink, her gaze firmly riveted to Dawn’s face. “Are you annoyed that I didn’t come over last night?” “No doubt you had better things to do,” Dawn said stonily. “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something. What is it?” Dawn shrugged. She felt out of her depth. What right

did she have to demand explanations from Grace about her behavior? They’d spent a night together. So what? Did she own Grace now? Wiping her hands across her T-shirt, she tried not to notice the smooth length of Grace’s thighs, the lines of her lean disciplined body, the faint sharp smell of cloves. Her attention drifted to the parting of Grace’s shirt, the press of those toffee-tinted nipples, the shadow of her breasts. She wanted her. She wanted her so desperately, she could see herself on her knees, begging, please fuck me. Self-disgust made her look away. How could she even think that? What had she become—a slave to some previously unsuspected carnality? Grace was a liar and a home-wrecker, Dawn reminded herself brutally. But her body cried, who cares? All she wanted was to lie naked with her and wallow once more in mindless pleasure. What a slut. “I’m leaving the island tomorrow,” Grace said quietly. “I’ve come to say goodbye.” “Goodbye?” Dawn heard herself echo. “You’re not coming back?” “My work’s finished.” There was a newer, harder note. “So, I’m flying out with Annabel in the afternoon

and heading back home on the first flight I can get.” With Annabel . Dawn tried not to react. “I just wanted to tell you.” Grace fidgeted with her diamond earring. “I enjoyed spending time with you.” This was it, Dawn thought bitterly. Thanks for the sex, sweetheart. See you later. Later, as in never. Her fingers dug into her palms, making tight little fists. She felt like punching Grace in the teeth. Instead she jerked to her feet and on the most offhand note she could muster, said, “Well I’ll be seeing you then.” Turning away from Grace, she stared out to sea. She would not cry in front of this woman. Grace Ramsay could rot in hell, as far as she was concerned. “Dawn.” A hand touched her shoulder. “We don’t have to do it this way. You’re angry at me, and I don’t even know why.” Grace turned Dawn slowly around, sliding her arms loosely around her waist. Dawn felt her eyes drawn inexorably to Grace’s. She watched the pupils dilate, the thick straight lashes droop with sleepy sensuality. Her lips parted to frame a sentence telling Grace exactly what she thought of her, but the words never came. Instead something tangible and shockingly lusty passed between them, and Dawn lifted her fingers to Grace’s mouth. It was soft, a little dry. She bent forward, moistened it with her tongue. It

parted invitingly. The kiss deepened. Hands shaking, Dawn twisted Grace’s shirt roughly from her shorts. Grace laughed softly. “What’s the rush?” Her hands moved to Dawn’s hips, pulling her close, so they were hard against one another. Her eyes were full of wicked intent. “You want me, Dawn?” A gush of liquid soaked Dawn’s panties. Grace stole one of her hands, kissed the scars across its knuckles, then guided it between her tanned thighs, sliding it back and forth across the damp seam that parted the flesh Dawn remembered so well. Her mouth was on Dawn’s neck, hot and insistent. Dawn increased the pressure of her fingers against Grace, irked at the fabric barrier that denied them their destination. She tugged at Grace’s shorts, gasping as Grace’s hands found their way beneath her shirt, to pinch and tease her nipples. “You’ve made me all wet,” Grace whispered in her ear. “What are you going to do about it?” Breathing hard, Dawn seized one of Grace’s hands and pulled her into the cottage. She wanted her so badly, she felt sick. Once in her bedroom, she pushed Grace onto her bed and fell on top of her, tugging clumsily at her clothes. Laughing, Grace took over,

deftly removing the garments. As Dawn reached for her, Grace quickly changed position, rolling Dawn onto her back and pinning her shoulders down. “You’ll just have to wait,” she said hoarsely. “I want you first.” She slid first one knee, then the other, between Dawn’s thighs and lowered herself, kissing her passionately. As the strength fled Dawn’s limbs, Grace altered the intensity of her kiss. Slowly, sensually, she moved her mouth over Dawn’s cheek, to her ear. In it, she whispered, “You know this is what I came here for, don’t you?” Enjoying Dawn’s shivering response, Grace progressed down the column of her neck in a trail of hot kisses. Finally she bit down softly, and again harder, watching the mark of her teeth bloom. Oddly, she desired Dawn much more than she had on the beach two nights before. That conscious seduction had been fun, hot, good for the ego. Grace was honest enough to admit she sought the sense of power her casual sexual encounters provided. The interlude with Dawn was no exception, yet Grace had felt strangely unsettled ever since. She had not planned to come and say goodbye in person, instead convincing herself a courteous note would do the trick. But she was unable to get Dawn off

her mind. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to give her pleasure, to feel that soft, feminine body yielding in her arms, to gaze down into those trusting blue eyes and watch the woman in Dawn awakening with every new sensation. Grace wound her fingers into Dawn’s honey gilt hair and for a sweet moment, allowed herself to lie on her, resting between her breasts, listening to the urgent beat of her heart. In a different world, in a different life, she could almost be content with this, she thought, breathing in the warm, ripeness of Dawn’s body. But this was her life, and, on any plane but the physical, she had nothing to offer any woman. Adjusting her weight, she leaned on an elbow so her face was once more above Dawn’s. Tenderly, she kissed her, trailing a hand down the body she was just coming to know. Dawn’s mouth was warm and responsive. Moving against Grace, her fingers digging into the muscles of Grace’s back, she returned the tender kiss with a sensuous demand for more. Grace pushed a thigh between Dawn’s legs, applying just enough pressure to make Dawn lift her hips and push back. A primal hunger took possession of her then and she deepened their kiss, burying her

tongue and changing position so she was completely between Dawn’s legs, her weight spreading them wide. Sliding a hand between their bodies, she entered Dawn hard. Slippery and swollen, the silken flesh enfolded her fingers. Stifling Dawn’s gasps with her mouth, Grace slid slowly in and out, guided by the younger woman’s cues, the rise of her hips, the pace of her breathing. When their kiss had to end, Dawn gulped air like it was water. Her eyes shone bright with desire, the pupils dilated. Rosy color suffused her face and neck. Lost in arousal, she murmured, “Deeper.” Changing position, Grace knelt astride one of Dawn’s thighs and positioned an arm beneath her waist to cradle her. By careful degrees, she worked a third finger inside, using her thumb against Dawn’s clit. Gloved and saturated within the hot, welcoming passage, Grace’s fingers radiated sensation back through her hand, informing every movement. Suppressing an overwhelming urge to take Dawn fiercely, she concentrated instead on learning the idiom of her body. “You’re perfect,” she said, aware of a strange shift in her own emotions. Dawn’s surrender was so unreserved, her giving of herself so complete, Grace

felt hopelessly moved. Angling her hand for greater depth, she lost herself in their sweet union. Dawn’s body felt like home. Supplicant in Grace’s arms, Dawn could not speak. She had never felt so completely exposed. Engulfed by a steadily mounting torrent of sensation, she was frightened. For a split second, she wanted to stop. But it was too late. From deep in her womb, a series of spasms radiated through her body, melting flesh and bone, until Dawn could no longer distinguish Grace’s hand from the walls that sheathed it. Barely opening her eyes, she lifted a hand to Grace’s face. The skin was wet. Dawn slid her fingers into the copper hair and drew Grace’s head to her belly. For a long while, they remained locked together, blanketed in a calm that transcended all thought. When Grace eventually withdrew her hand, Dawn could still feel its impression within. Smiling, she fell asleep. * Hours later, lying against Grace’s shoulder, Dawn listened to the steady beat of her heart. She allowed a hand to drift across Grace’s small taut breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the springy mat of dark hair

below. Their bodies were so different. She stroked her own full heavy breasts, her rounded belly, the soft straight hair between her legs. Her body felt brand new, her senses sharpened. It was as if she were suddenly attuned to a frequency she had not known existed. Grace knew exactly how to touch her. She must have made love with dozens of women, Dawn thought with a pang. Probably gorgeous, clever women who were fantastically accomplished in bed.

I will never be able to look at women the same way again, Dawn realized, uncertain whether she was appalled or thrilled by this. In fact, nothing would ever be the same. Turning her face into Grace’s breast, she inhaled the saltiness of her skin, grazed her tongue over the soft nipple, slid an arm around her waist. Grace stirred slightly. With a curious sadness, Dawn tightened her embrace. For the first time in her life she found herself wondering who she really was. It was not something she ever thought about. She had always taken her identity for granted. Dawn Beaumont—champion swimmer, nice girl, respectable family. Her parents were decent, traditional people. Her father was a good provider. Her mother was always there, mostly in the

kitchen. They had worked hard to send her to the right schools, to pay for the best swimming coach in Sydney. They were terribly proud of her. What a daughter, her father often said, what a blessing from the Lord. Her parents were religious—not fanatical, just plodding Protestant churchgoers. They blessed meals, read the Bible on Sundays, and told Dawn to keep herself pure for her future husband. She had ignored them, of course. Dawn figured they knew she had slept with a couple of men. No doubt they settled for thanking God their daughter had avoided getting a disease, or worse, an unwanted pregnancy. Easing out of Grace’s arms, she rolled onto her side and stared at the wall. What would they think of this? Sex with men was tolerated because it would lead to a husband and children. But with a woman? She would never be able to tell them. Well, she might not have to. She’d only done it once…twice. So what? That didn’t mean she would want to go to bed with every woman she saw. Dawn tried to think about something else, but the idea chased her relentlessly. She wanted to sleep with a woman again, she admitted deep in her heart. What did that mean? The question fluttered and danced in

her consciousness until she drifted back into sleep, finally surrendering to the answer. I’m a lesbian.

Chapter Thirteen A veil of wan light covered the sky and the watery moon retreated as day broke on the island. Alone on Dawn’s verandah, Grace sipped her tea and thought about the woman asleep inside. One Louis Vuitton trunk coming up, she congratulated herself. The prospect fell oddly flat. In fact, it made her downright uneasy. Her skin still tingled with the memory of Dawn. She’d felt so good, so new and fresh. Grace wanted to pleasure her, to indulge her, to open her and get inside. There was something very alluring about Dawn, about her tentative caresses, her naive astonishment at her own physicality. Subdued, Grace leaned against the balustrade and rubbed the nape of her neck, where tension corded her muscles. She had to go soon. Cody was probably in the motorboat already, chugging around the island on her way to collect their unwelcome guest. Annabel would be waiting at the landing strip, tinkering with that dog of a plane. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Grace scanned the lush surroundings. She hadn’t realized how quickly she’d come to take the island for granted. The enormity of Argus’s project struck her like

a physical blow. Until now, the ultimate plan had seemed distant and unreal, clouded by statistics and calculations. The job was just another handsomely paid contract. She cupped her forehead in her hands. How could she calmly recommend the blasting of a coral reef that was home to thousands of creatures, the desecration of the entire island? How could she participate in the wanton destruction of something so precious and unique? Because it was her job? Because someone paid her? Bile rose in her throat. Annabel was right. She had lost all perspective. She should have sought professional help years ago. Annabel had been horrified when Grace told her, clinically and coldly, what had happened five years ago. She had been raped by a group of men, left for dead, and had been in a coma for almost two months. The police had pieced together the story from the evidence unwittingly provided by her body. Grace still couldn’t remember a thing…no faces, no voices, no distinguishing characteristics, nothing. All she had was The Dream, and all memory of that dissipated the moment she woke. Annabel had urged her to get some therapy when

she got back home. Grace had mixed feelings about the idea. She had been telling the truth when she said she felt nothing, no emotion at all. Five years had passed since she woke up in that hospital bed. She enjoyed life. Why dredge up an experience that could only damage her peace of mind? It was not as if she were depressed or sexually dysfunctional. Far from it. She felt perfectly fine and had as many sexual partners as she wanted. She thought about Dawn, about the surprising comfort of lying in her arms last night when she surfaced, sweating and panicked, from The Dream. Shrugging off a sharp sense of loss, she reminded herself that Dawn was just a kid looking for romance —passionate declarations on moonlit beaches. She would pine after Grace for a few days, then find some other sweet young thing to hold hands with. Puppy love. It was hardly Grace’s style. * Dawn’s head swum. For a moment she lay very still, staring at the pillow next to hers. The impression of another head bore silent testament to what had transpired in this bed. Blushing, Dawn, stretched

gingerly. She felt tender between her legs, another lingering reminder. Her gaze traveled slowly around the room, halting at the window. Grace was sitting on the verandah, staring out to sea. Dawn watched her, unseen. It was time to say goodbye, she thought, feeling utterly desolate. It seemed unreal. They had only just met. Surely what had happened between them was too important, too wonderful, to mean nothing. Her womb fluttered in accord. Dawn swung her legs to the floor. Belting a silk kimono around her waist, she headed unsteadily out of the bedroom. She felt dizzy. Her hands were clammy and a leaden pain in her thighs reminded her that she hadn’t taken any medication in almost two days. In the kitchen, she propped herself against the counter and plunged her hand into the cookie jar. She had to lift her blood sugar, and quickly. Then she would dose up. Doggedly she chewed several tasteless crackers in quick succession. They felt hideously insecure in her stomach. A film of perspiration collected across her forehead. Saliva pooled in her mouth. She was going to be sick, Dawn realized. She made it to the bathroom only seconds before

she threw up. Footsteps rapidly followed. “Dawn? Are you all right?” Grace wrenched open the door. “What does it look like?” Dawn turned toward the woman hovering in the doorway. Immediately, she wished she could exchange her response for something sweeter and more winning. Grace seemed at a loss. “God, you look ill.” It was obvious what she was thinking. What was wrong with Dawn? Did she have some rare tropical disease? Was it fatal? Was it contagious? “It’s just the DTs,” Dawn explained dryly. “I haven’t taken any painkillers in forty-eight hours.” “Are you saying you’re addicted?” Dawn raised her chin. “I’m saying I’m in pain, and I’m having a hard time getting off my medication.” “Are you sure you should be doing that?” Grace scrutinized her. “I mean, there’s no crime in pain relief.” “Sure.” Dawn rinsed a washcloth and mopped her face. “Only I don’t want to spend the rest of my life popping pills, that’s all.” Grace looked awkward, her eyes straying to Dawn’s legs. “Will you ever—” “Walk perfectly again?” Dawn finished on a brittle note. “Probably not. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered.” Feeble, Grace thought. She had to go, she reminded herself emphatically. This was not the time to begin a deep and meaningful conversation. After Dawn brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth a few times, they moved to the verandah. “Feeling better now?” Dawn nodded. “I’m sorry I was so grumpy.” Staring at Grace, with unveiled emotion, she begged, “Please don’t go.” Grace’s mouth dried. Complications. “I don’t have any choice. Annabel and Cody aren’t real happy about what I’ve been doing here.” Dawn gave her a strange look. “Cody knows?” “I’m sure Annabel has told her.” Dawn colored. For a moment it seemed she would say something else, then she sat down, eyes dropping to the painted wooden verandah boards. After a long pause, she said. “Does it bother you that I have a limp? ” Momentarily disoriented by the change of subject, Grace took a moment to respond. “Not in the way you seem to think. It bothers me because I like you. I want to see you fully recovered.” “Do you?” The response was strained. “Want to see me, that is?” Chin tilted defensively, eyes full of hope,

Dawn looked unbearably young. Grace sagged back into her chair. “Sure I do.” She injected her voice with a flippancy she didn’t feel. “If you’re ever in New York, look me up.” “That’s not what I meant.” This conversation needed to stop right here, Grace decided. “I’m asking if I matter to you.” Dawn’s blue eyes shone bright with emotion. She looked profoundly vulnerable sitting there naked beneath her kimono, her damaged legs shaking slightly. “I’m asking if last night meant anything?” Grace cursed inwardly, furious at herself all of a sudden. She should never have come here. She should have written that note. She needed to say goodbye and remember Dawn as two hot nights on a tropical island. Period. No drama. No illusions. Knowing that Dawn had developed feelings for her was a burden. “I had fun last night.” She managed her most offhand morning-after tone. “Maybe we can repeat it sometime. ” Dawn paled. “That’s it?” “Look, I have to go.” Grace stood. “You feel nothing? Felt nothing?” Dawn’s face

radiated disbelief. Grace shoved her feet into her sandals. “I said I enjoyed it, Dawn.” She raised her voice slightly. “Can’t we just leave it at that, for God’s sake. I don’t want to hurt you.” “Then why are you lying to me?” “I’m not lying!” Her voice reverberated across the still morning air. Dawn’s eyes blazed. “I felt something. I felt it here.” She slapped her chest with an angry fist. “And so did you. You’re just too chicken to admit it!” “What!” Grace’s hands shook. This was too much. Why the hell had she waited around here to play Ms. Nice Girl? She should have gone home while the kid was still sleeping. Pinned a goodbye note to the door. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she informed Dawn coldly. “I’m the first woman you’ve ever slept with. That hardly makes you an authority.” “I know what I felt!” “And I’ll tell you what I felt,” Grace retorted. “It’s called hot, turned on. I felt lust. I wanted to fuck you. End of story.” “I know that. I’m not stupid.” Dawn advanced unsteadily toward her and seized a handful of her shirt. Then she was crying. “Grace, please.” It came out all

broken. “Remember last night, after your nightmare—” “No!” Grace wrenched herself free of Dawn’s grip, then watched with horror as the younger woman staggered back, off balance. Even as Grace’s arm shot out to prevent her, Dawn crashed down the verandah steps with a cry of agony. “Oh, God.” Grace plunged after her. On her knees, she cradled the young woman, listening helplessly to her small animal grunts of pain. “Oh, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Scalding blue eyes met hers. “Get my fucking pills,” Dawn gasped. “Then get out of here. I never want to see you again.” * Seated on Grace Ramsay’s verandah, Cody was so engrossed in her paperback that she didn’t notice the copper-haired woman approaching. “Good book?” Cody lifted her head, shielding her eyes against the sun. Grace was standing in front of her, looking twitchy, her hands hiding in her pockets. Her face seemed strained. Attributing this to the shameful circumstances of her departure, Cody felt a brief, private pleasure.

Served her right. She couldn’t pretend to like Grace Ramsay. It was nothing to do with the fact that she was one of Annabel’s castoffs. It was her personality. She was so detached, so self-satisfied. And her conduct made TV evangelists look honorable. Cody made a show of looking at her watch. “You’re late,” she said bluntly. “Are you ready to leave?” “Sure. I’ve just been saying my farewells.” Grace idly took the book from Cody’s knee and with calm deliberation flipped through a few pages. “Tama Janowitz.” Meeting Cody’s eyes, she observed, “Yuppie porn doesn’t seem quite your style, but what do I know?” Cody snatched the book back. “A guest left it behind.” Why did she feel the need to explain herself to this smart-mouthed bitch? Grace looked her up and down with shameless candor. “Uh huh.” Infuriated to find herself coloring, Cody asked, “Do you need help with your luggage?” “I think I can handle it,” Grace murmured. She emerged some while later, having showered and changed. “Oh, by the way.” She held out a pair of sunglasses, her expression that of a cat remembering

a puddle of cream. “Annabel left these here the other night.” Forcing nonchalance, Cody took the sunnies and jammed them into her pocket. Annabel had every right to spend time with Grace. She needed to find out about this Argus stuff. Cody trusted her, didn’t she? Dragging herself out of her chair, she lifted a couple of the bags and stalked off along the jungle track toward the beach. Grace would be gone soon enough, she reminded herself. All Cody needed to do was resist the temptation to tip her overboard. As she pushed the dinghy into the water, she saw Grace turn and stare back at the beach. Up near the palms there was a flash of pink. Cody waved an oar. “Dawn!” she called, then caught an odd glimmer in Grace’s eyes. The woman looked like she’d just murdered someone’s puppy. In the grip of growing suspicion, Cody reviewed the events of the morning. When she’d gone to Grace’s cottage, she’d called out and glanced in the windows that faced onto the verandah. Grace’s bed was empty and neatly made. Either it hadn’t been slept in, or she was a very early riser. When Grace finally showed up she took a shower and changed her clothes, surely the kind of thing you

did before you went to calling on your neighbor. That is, unless you’d just spent the night with her. Cody eyed Grace. “Have you been sleeping with Dawn?” she demanded. Grace gave her a bored look. “What’s this? Confession?” “I should have guessed.” Cody groaned out loud. “I suppose you just couldn’t resist trying your luck.” “And what if I did? What’s it to you?” “Dawn’s straight,” Cody said sharply. “Wise up, sweetheart.” Grace gave a brittle laugh. “She might be a homophobe, but she’s definitely not straight.” Grace was speaking firsthand. Appalled, Cody thought about Dawn, unhappy and confused, asking questions about lesbians. “You took advantage of her!” she said angrily. “Someone had to.” The woman was completely degenerate. And she sure as hell rated herself high. “Oh, I get it,” Cody said. “You did her a favor.” Grace gave a small expressive whistle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous. Come to think of it, Annabel mentioned Dawn has the hots for you.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you check her out?

I’ve done all the hard work for you.” Cody blinked in disbelief. She could not be hearing this. Were there no limits to Grace Ramsay’s moral delinquency? “Grace,” she said in a tone of patient irony. “The next time you open your mouth to make a comment like that, you’ll be swallowing ocean.” Grace merely grinned. “I can see why you made such a big impression on Annabel.” With a stony glare, Cody replied, “I can see why you didn’t.”

Chapter Fourteen Chin cradled despondently in her hands, Dawn blew sand off the pages of her Jackie Collins. It was almost an hour since she’d watched Cody and Grace skim away across the glistening water. She hadn’t cried, and she wasn’t going to. Grace Ramsay wasn’t worth it. Face the facts, Dawn Beaumont, she told herself unkindly, you asked for it. She could have kept her pride and said goodbye as if it didn’t matter. She could have made no emotional demands. Instead she had taken a risk, hoping the Grace she’d discovered during the night might have lingered. Now she was beginning to think she had imagined her. Dawn snapped her book closed and stared broodingly at the empty horizon. She felt drained, years older. So much had happened in so little time. How could she have been blind to something so completely central to who she was? She must have been living in some kind of bubble, imagining the only future she had, apart from swimming, was marriage and children. Dawn recalled her last Moon Island holiday and cringed. She had been so obnoxious, to Cody in particular. Heat seeped into her cheeks. She’d had a

crush on Cody back then, she recognized miserably. It had probably been obvious to everyone but her. She must have made a complete fool of herself. A thrumming whine caught her attention and she looked up to see a small silver plane climbing away from the island. Annabel and Grace. Her heart turned over. Were they really having an affair? In the end she’d been too chicken to confront Grace. And too busy getting her into bed, she reminded herself with abject shame. Straining to catch the final fading note of the engine, she felt desperately alone all of a sudden. Grace’s cottage was empty and she would never see her again. Leaning heavily on her stick, she got up off the beach and started along the track to Frangipani Cottage. Maybe she should just go back home to Sydney. There really wasn’t any reason to stay. She’d gone quite far enough for one journey of self-discovery. She reached the cottage, wandered inside, capsized onto her bed, then lurched straight up again, tears of dismay flooding her eyes. She could smell cloves. With a wrenching sob, she abandoned the bed, tearing the sheets from the mattress and throwing them out the door. She stared around. The very walls seemed to have trapped the echo of Grace’s voice,

her sighs, her sensual laughter. Dawn’s skin prickled with the memory of her touch. Her mouth watered. She could almost taste Grace. With shocking clarity, she felt a sensation deep inside, as if Grace’s fingers were still compressed there. She stared at herself in the mirror and recoiled from the sight of her ripeness. Her body was rounder, her skin pink and glowing. Knowing eyes confronted her, a full expectant mouth. She was aching and moist between her legs, yearning to make love again. Dawn stumbled out of the room. She couldn’t stay here, she thought wildly. It was unbearable. Clumsily she rummaged in the laundry for clean clothes, pulling on loose cotton shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing a sweater and water flask into her small backpack, she grabbed her Reeboks and headed for the bathroom. Villa Luna was about three and a half hours’ walk. Dawn was certain she could remember the way from riding it the other day with Cody. She fastened her sneakers, checked her pack for the compass and pocket knife, opened the bathroom cupboard and removed her painkillers and the little first aid kit. She wasn’t planning on an accident, but it couldn’t do any harm to take precautions. Before she left, she cranked the old-fashioned

telephone for Villa Luna and waited, experimentally flexing her legs. There was no pain. The double dose earlier had taken care of that. No one answered the phone and for a moment Dawn deliberated whether to wait and try again. There didn’t seem much point. Cody wouldn’t mind if she just turned up. And even if she wasn’t home, Dawn could let herself in and wait. Guests were allowed to do that. * “You can really fly this thing,” Grace commented as they taxied to a halt in Avarua. Annabel didn’t bother to respond. The startled tone people used when they commented on her flying invariably niggled her. She expected such blatant sexism from men, but it was disappointing that a woman of Grace’s intelligence didn’t know better. Annabel helped carry her luggage into the airport lounge. “I’m sorry I can’t hang around,” she said, “I need to run some errands.” Grace’s charcoal eyes drew hers. “So, it’s goodbye then.” “I don’t expect we’ll see one another again.” Annabel hesitated. “You will think about what I suggested, won’t

you?” “I am thinking about it,” Grace said quietly. “Look, I— ” “It’s okay,” Annabel had no plans to revisit the subject of Argus Chemco. Grace had made her choices. Annabel was not going to judge her. “Really.” Grace looked uncharacteristically awkward. “Will you do me a favor?” She scrawled something on a piece of paper and folded it across the middle. “Could you give this to Dawn, please?” Annabel tucked the note into her jacket. She knew Grace well enough to know it could only mean one thing. “Don’t tell me you’ve been messing with youthful emotions.” Grace responded with a shadowed version of her lopsided grin. “She’s very cute.” Envisioning the scenario, Annabel rolled her eyes. “Pick on someone your own size next time.” “It’s not like she didn’t want it,” Grace was predictably defensive. “But if I’d known she was so–” “Vulnerable? Are you telling me you didn’t notice? Please.” “She’ll get over it,” Grace said. “I just can’t handle the emotional stuff. Maybe I’ve got a hang-up or something.”

“Remarkable observation.” “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Annabel compressed her lips. “Grace,” she said mildly. “They’re going to put that on your tombstone.” She leaned forward, kissed her one-time lover lightly on the mouth and murmured goodbye. “Don’t forget the note,” Grace called after her. * Three hours later Annabel stuck her head into the hangar. “Smithy?” The place was dead quiet, no sign of the elderly mechanic. Puzzled, Annabel strolled across the tarmac to the Dominie. The plane had obviously been serviced. Smithy had turned it around ready for takeoff, and the cargo was fully loaded. He usually waited until she was airborne before he packed up for the day. Just as Annabel was clambering aboard, she spotted a wiry figure waving as he approached. “Lucky I caught yer.” Smithy thrust a small parcel at her. “Emergency drop,” he explained with his customary economy of communication. “Mitiaro.” Annabel examined the parcel with a sinking heart. It bore a Red Cross seal and was flagged urgent. “This

is going to take hours,” she groaned. The mechanic eyed her sympathetically. “Just missed the tourist charter,” he rasped. “Some darn fool forgot to give it to ’em.” Annabel dropped the parcel onto the seat. She couldn’t refuse to take it. Bevan operated an informal emergency shuttle around the islands, dropping medical supplies and performing the occasional porcine cesarean. She supposed she should be grateful she’d been spared the latter. “Well, I’d better give her some stick,” she grumbled, belting herself in. The trip would take four hours out of her schedule and if anything went wrong refueling on Mitiaro, she’d be stuck there overnight. Wonderful. The island was only slightly more famous for its eels than the swamps they lived in. As for accommodation, she’d probably have to sleep on the plane. Smithy reached inside his overalls. “I’ve logged yer flight plan.” He handed Annabel a dog-eared copy. “The old trooper’s runnin’ like a dream.” He ran his gnarled fingers affectionately across the Dominie’s undercarriage. Annabel clipped the flight plan to her board. “You know, right now a Lear sounds like a really good idea.” Smithy gazed at her as if she’d taken leave of her

senses. “For them as can’t fly a real plane, maybe.”

Chapter Fifteen Dawn stared up at the sun and hoisted her T-shirt out of her shorts. Sweat beaded her face. She’d been walking for two hours and had finally crossed the northeastern ridge. Checking her compass and her watch, she smiled at her own progress. Who said Dawn Beaumont was a write-off? She remembered the last time she had crossed the makatea. She had been with two other women and they were returning to Villa Luna after sheltering from the hurricane. One of the women was injured, and they’d had to carry her part of the way. They’d gotten hopelessly lost after some fool dropped the compass, and Dawn had wondered if they would ever make it. Back then it had seemed impossible. Now, she was amazed she could have been so frightened. Moon Island was a tiny place. You could walk from one side to the other in a day. Even if you did get lost, you only had to head for the ocean and take the long route around the island. The only real danger was the makatea. Although it was overgrown with jungle, the fossilized coral reef was still razor sharp. But so long as you watched your step you couldn’t really go wrong.

Picking her way through the dense jungle in the center of the island, Dawn paced herself to avoid getting heat exhaustion. By her calculations, Villa Luna was about an hour and a half away. Guessing she must be somewhere near the cave they had sheltered in during the hurricane, she examined her surroundings with a surge of excitement. The jungle had a frightening uniformity about it. Thank God for compasses and pocketknives. Dawn carved a notch into the palm she’d been leaning against and mopped her face with the hem of her t-shirt. Glancing at her watch once more, she wondered idly if she could find the Kopeka cave. There was plenty of time and the idea was oddly tempting. She decided she’d give it half an hour. If she didn’t locate the cave by then, she would simply carry on to Villa Luna. * Bleary-eyed, Cody plucked her paperback off her chest and crossed the sitting room to gaze out the window. Annabel wouldn’t be back for hours. Instead of lying about indoors like a couch potato, she ought to find something to do. It was too hot to work on any of

her building projects. Maybe she could go fishing or just hoon around in the boat. The new Mercury outboard was really something. Two hundred horsepower. Time to dust off the water skis. Wondering if Dawn was home, Cody tried the phone. No answer. Doubtless the young Australian was consoling herself with Jackie Collins and junk food. Cody had a feeling Dawn might appreciate some company. God knows, she could probably use a shoulder to cry on having just come off second-best with Grace Ramsay. Gathering up her fishing gear and her bathing suit, she wrote a note to Annabel and headed for the beach. The runabout was hot from the afternoon sun. Chugging out of Passion Bay, Cody turned her face thankfully to the breeze. Sometimes the heat of the tropics got to her. After Wellington, New Zealand, with its long winters and bitter southerly gales, Moon Island felt like a permanent hothouse. Every now and then Cody found herself yearning for a cold, miserable day just for old times’ sake. She anchored off Hibiscus Bay, changed into her sedate swimsuit, and swam ashore. One day soon they were going to build a jetty here. They’d had the plans drawn up recently. With decent facilities, they

would be able to land enough materials to build several new cottages on this part of the island. Cody wasn’t crazy about extending their operations, but these days they were always booked out, which made it almost impossible to get away from the island for a break. Annabel thought that adding extra accommodations would take some pressure off their bookings and make it easier to create regular space in their calendar. It would be a pleasant change to be all alone on the island with her lover once in a while, Cody thought. The beach was deserted, no sign of Dawn. Calling her name, Cody strolled into the jungle and up the slope to Frangipani Cottage. She knocked on the front door, walked around the building, then flopped down on a cane chair on the verandah. Dawn must have taken a walk, she concluded. On the other hand, why would Dawn, who needed help to make it more than fifty paces, go for a walk in the jungle without telling anyone? There was no note on the door, and Dawn hadn’t phoned in a plan for the hiking log. A guest on the island twice, she was well aware of the rules. A crawling uneasiness overtook Cody and she stared at the silent cottage, full of misgivings. What if it had all

been too much for Dawn—the accident, her ruined career, seduction by the sleazy Grace? Could she have done Something Stupid? Cody’s imagination generated a bloody suicide in a bath, a comatose Dawn clutching an empty sleepingpill bottle. Lurching to her feet, she pushed open the unlocked front door and barged into the cottage, shouting Dawn’s name. The sitting room was empty, a Jackie Collins novel face down on the coffee table. Evidence of a meal littered the kitchen counter. Cody stumbled over a pile of sheets in front of the bedroom door and stared into the room. Nothing. Just the faintest hint of a spicy scent lingering in the air. Frowning, she scoured the cottage, this time concentrating on detail. She pulled open the bathroom cabinet, slammed the mirrored door, then paused and opened it again. Where was the first aid kit? And Dawn’s pills? Cody could recall seeing several large bottles of painkillers last time she was here helping Mrs. Marsters with the housekeeping. After checking the kitchen for the pills, she searched the bedroom without success. Why would Dawn take those bottles with her instead of one or two tablets? Tripping over a pair of sandals near the closet, Cody

caught a sharp image of the younger woman tying her Reeboks the day she came out fishing. Where were those sneakers? Cody rummaged in the bedroom closet, marched through the cottage, and gazed around the verandah. Finally, in puzzled silence, she sat down in the cane chair once more and considered the clues. Dawn wasn’t home. She was wearing her Reeboks. She had taken the first aid kit and all her painkillers. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. Dawn had decided to go deep into the jungle, take all those pills, lie down under a palm tree, and end it all. Latching firmly onto the negative fantasy, Cody ran back indoors and filled her water flask. She had to find Dawn before it was too late! It occurred to her that there was one big hole in her theory. The note. A grief-stricken twenty-two year old would leave a note. She might even write several attempts. Trying to think like a detective, Cody lifted the lid off the trash and rifled through. Heart pounding, she plucked a balled sheet of paper from a mound of banana skins, and, smoothing it out, read:

Dear Cody, There’s something I need to tell you, but I feel

really bad about it. I was passing Grace’s cottage a couple of nights ago and I saw her and Annabel. They were making out on the verandah. I’m really sorry. You probably won’t believe this. Why would you, since I’ve been so horrible to you and Annabel? But it’s the truth. I know I’ve never been a friend to you, but you’ve been one to me and I’m grateful for that. So this letter is my way of being a friend to you, because if you can’t trust your friends to tell you if something is going on, who can you trust? Yours sincerely, Dawn Beaumont Stunned, Cody sank down in the nearest chair and stared at the letter. Annabel and Grace. It didn’t make any sense. Yet… She thought about Annabel defending the woman, her obvious unease around Grace at the airstrip a few hours ago. Cody had put it down to disgust and embarrassment over Grace’s role in the Argus drama. But maybe something else was going on. Anger, hot and mindless, boiled in her veins. She

wanted to kill that slutty homewrecker, Grace Ramsay. Slinging her flask over her shoulder, she stormed out of the cottage. She had to find Dawn. If the letter had been written to make trouble, she would wring that girl’s neck. But, if it was the truth? Cody felt sick at heart. * Simmering with frustration, Grace checked into the Rarotongan Resort Hotel. It was just her luck—stuck for three days before she could get a plane out of here! All this and the deal was off anyway. By now, Hausmann must have ceased licking his wounds and would doubtless be cultivating some military dictator looking to trade land for firepower. Grace couldn’t see why Argus didn’t expand its dumping operations in China or Mexico. But Hausmann was hellbent on a Pacific presence. It would make Argus so very attractive to the Japanese, clients and investors alike. Grace wondered gloomily how many more islands she would have to assess, how many reports she would write, sealing the doom of thousands of living creatures, entire eco-systems. Where would it end? What kind of world would it be when there were no

pristine islands left to destroy, no more rainforests to convert to cheap packaging, no polar ice caps, no way to turn back the climatic clock? Her own role in the systematic ecocide of the planet was insignificant, yet did that free her of culpability? When was ‘following orders’ an acceptable excuse for participating in acts that were not only unethical, but morally criminal? Would generations one day look back, as she did at Nazi Germany, and wonder how a group of greedy, amoral bullies in the late twentieth century could have hijacked an entire people and imposed an agenda so insane no one could believe it even as it was happening beneath their noses? She thought about Robert Hausmann’s standard response to the various environmentalists who opposed Argus initiatives. The future is not my problem. Maybe he had a point. Was it mere selfindulgence to get squeamish all of a sudden about earning a living doing what she did? How exactly would it help save the planet if Grace Ramsay walked away from the career she had invested ten years to build? Jaded, she phoned New York. Camille Marquez took the call. Hausmann, she explained, was in Tokyo finalizing the first big dumping contract for Moon Island.

“What?” Grace was taken aback. “I understood the deal went cold.” There was a pause. “I think you should talk with Mr. Hausmann about that.” “Are you saying the owner has agreed to sell?” Grace’s head spun. There was no way Annabel would have made an about-face. She felt certain of that. Camille must have misunderstood. “I’m saying as far as I know the project is proceeding as planned,” Camille replied coolly. “Well.” Grace forced neutrality into her tone. “Evidently there’s some information I don’t have.” After supplying Camille with her arrival details, she hung up. In the few hours since they arrived in Rarotonga, Annabel couldn’t possibly have changed her mind. And if she had… Grace warded off images of the island leveled, warning signs everywhere, the reef filled with suppurating waste. Anxiously twisting her earring, she called a taxi and strode from her room. * Annabel had flown to Mitiaro a few times on mercy dashes with Bevan. The island was the smallest of the volcanic group lying northeast of Rarotonga. Tourists

didn’t bother with it much. It was flat and mostly swamp, crawling with biting insects, and there was nothing to eat except eels and bananas. A couple of hundred islanders subsisted there. Every now and then, someone had an accident and the local dispensary called Rarotonga for supplies. It was a good excuse to gossip on the wireless, and entice a pilot to airlift additional goodies from Avarua. After a couple of hours, Annabel started watching for the familiar dotting of islands that signaled her destination. Theoretically she should be right over Atiu, with Bevan’s and Don’s place a mere pineapple’s toss away. She peered out at the turquoise ocean, removed her aviators, squinted around, then put them back on and studied her instruments. She was bearing northeast at two thousand feet, dead on course. Yet there was no island in sight. She tapped her compass lightly. The reading was unchanged. Shrugging she radioed Mitiaro. A cloud of static hissed back at her. She checked her frequency and the radio whined in protest. Niggled, she examined her flight plan. Everything seemed straightforward. She was on course, on time, and supposedly just minutes away from landing on Mitiaro’s moth-eaten airstrip. Annabel

glanced at her fuel gauge, then stared, riveted. Full. It read full. Impossible. She tapped the dial sharply. The needle appeared to be stuck. “Fuck,” she cursed. “Damn and shit.” Her immediate impulse was to drop airspeed and conserve fuel, but she made a conscious effort to control her leaping pulse and collect her wits. Making decisions out of panic was not the way to handle this situation. The horizon spread before her, barren shimmering blue, and suddenly Annabel thought that flying over an empty ocean must be the loneliest feeling on earth. Amelia Earhart had done it, and Jean Batten and hundreds of other aviators, some of them in craft that made the Dominie look as sophisticated as a B-2 Stealth Bomber. Mitiaro was one of a group of islands. Assuming she was no more than a few degrees off course one way or the other, she should still be able to sight them. Annabel gazed ahead, willing a land mass to rise from the sleeping ocean. There was probably some simple explanation, she reasoned, a silly error on the flight plan. If she could just locate it and work her way backward, calculate her position. She still had fuel, even if her gauge had malfunctioned. The Dominie’s range was nearly five

hundred miles. She had enough fuel to get back to Rarotonga—provided she turned back now, that was. And to do that, she needed some accurate bearings. Frowning, she banked right, half circled, banked left. There was nothing in sight, just ocean. She looked hard at her compass and her mouth went dry. If her compass was to be believed, the sun was in the wrong place. Instrument failure? Rare and unusual for a DH Dominie. Originally built as air force navigation trainers, the old biplanes had, for their time, the most advanced and reliable instruments available. Annabel rapidly performed some mental gymnastics. She had around a hundred minutes of fuel left and had completely lost her bearings. If she climbed a little and worked with the slight tailwind she could drop her airspeed from the usual 105 mph back to around 90 and maybe stretch her air time to two hours. Surely she could locate at least one of the Cook Islands in that time frame. Tuning into the International Distress Frequency, she put out a CQ. There was no reply. Commercial aircraft were supposed to stay tuned into this frequency, but obviously there were none in the area. Cursing the lack of a long range HF radio, she tried again, only this time registered an SOS. Then she just flew.

As time crept by, Annabel found herself listening with painful concentration for the telltale splutter of an engine failing. You’re going to die, she thought numbly. How could this have happened? It was too unfair. Cody’s face materialized before her, gray eyes appealing. “Do you have to fly so much? I worry about you terribly.” Annabel was stricken. What if this really was the end? What if she never saw Cody again, never held her. There would be no goodbyes, no chance to tell her how much she loved her. A dry sob wrenched at her throat and she found herself bargaining with God.

Please don’t let me die, I’ll do anything. Wet with adrenalin induced sweat, she studied her wristwatch. She had fifteen minutes of fuel left. Maybe less. The barren ocean taunted her anew and she logged yet another mayday, desperately conscious of being unable to state her position. Her omni was depressingly silent, not entirely surprising given the nearest VOR station was probably out of range. She wondered if anyone had picked up the mayday signals she had been transmitting continuously. If, by some miracle, she could ditch her plane into the ocean and survive, would she be found? The Pacific was a vast search area. Knowing she was flying to Mitiaro,

Search & Rescue would concentrate on that route. They would be looking in the wrong place. Annabel groped beneath her seat, found a dusty life jacket and slipped it over her head. With icy detachment, she replayed everything Bevan Mitchell had ever taught her about crash landings. On the water —glide in, belly flop, bail out immediately or head up the tail and hack your way out. All of the Dominie’s weight was up front. She would hit the water, float for a few seconds, then nosedive. Annabel felt inside her clothing, located her Swiss Army knife, and congratulated herself on being prepared for anything. She could open a can, kill a fish, reflect the sun off an open blade to attract the attention of a rescue craft. In short, survival was child’s play. She laughed, a harsh hollow sound. Fixing her gaze dully on the horizon, she imagined herself in Cody’s arms, felt her warmth so vividly that a curious calm settled on her. She thought of Boston, her parents, Aunt Annie. She thought about her lonely childhood, the meaningless existence until, by some miracle, everything changed and there was Moon Island and Cody. Oh my love, she thought bitterly. How could fate be so cruel? There was a spluttering cough, and she gazed wildly

at her starboard engine. She was running out of fuel. In a few minutes the Dominie would start losing altitude. They would glide for a while, unlike a modern aircraft, then drop lower and lower until they plunged into the ocean. Annabel lowered her nose to maintain airspeed at the expense of altitude and began a gradual descent. They said drowning was a painless way to go. She stared dubiously at the ocean, blinked and rubbed her eyes. Disbelief vied with elation. Directly ahead of her a gray-green blemish encroached on the endless blue. A mirage? She dropped a little more altitude, tried to ignore the hiccup of a propeller, reached for her binoculars. A tiny atoll lay some five or six tantalizing minutes ahead of her. As she drew closer, Annabel could make out the pink circle of a reef, a milky blue lagoon, white sand, clusters of palm trees. She could almost hear Bevan. Have you ever flown a glider, kid? That’s what

you’ve got when you’ve got no power. Dropping more height, she eased back the throttle, tossing up between ditching the Dominie in the lagoon or plowing into the beach. On the face of it, the lagoon seemed the obvious choice, but Annabel had never been much of a swimmer and somehow dry land

seemed more of a known quantity. She assessed the thin white belt of sand. Landing on such a soft surface, a somersault was almost unavoidable and probably fatal. To make a successful crash landing she needed to keep her nose up, but not so far up that she landed on her tail. Or she had to risk a deliberate belly flop, smashing her undercarriage so the Dominie would just grind to a halt. Banking left a few degrees, she straightened for an approach. The belt of wet sand parallel to the water’s edge would be a firmer, smoother surface than the dry sand higher on the beach. She almost laughed as her port engine spluttered and died. Cutting both engines, Annabel focused on keeping aligned with her target, and moments later, the Dominie swanned into the waterline, absorbing the impact with a sickening crunch. Undercarriage crumpling like paper, the little silver plane plowed violently along the beach, one wing skimming the tide, the other closing fast on a stand of coconut palms. The clearance simply wasn’t there. Collecting a tree trunk with one wing, the Dominie spun about face, and with a hideous tearing sound, the fuselage ripped apart. When finally the biplane came to rest, its tail had

separated completely and the nose was buried in sand. Inside the cockpit Annabel smiled once, then slumped over the column, blood pooling around her feet.

Chapter Sixteen Grace stumbled through the hangar doorway and yelled, “Hello! Is anybody there?” From the opposite wall a small, grizzled-looking man in a white overall peered over his shoulder. “Lookin’ fer someone, miss?” “You’re from London!” Grace exclaimed, moving inside. “John Smith at yer service,” he rasped. “You obviously ’aven’t been living at ’ome fer a fair while.” “No, I live in New York these days. I’m Grace Ramsay.” The old man eyed her sharply. “Wotcha doin’ in that ’ellhole?” Grace grinned. “Leading a life of moral depravity, Mr. Smith.” “They call me Smithy round ’ere.” A pair of bright sparrow-eyes sized her up. “You lookin’ for ’erself?” “Annabel? Yes. I need to see her urgently.” “Too late.” He shook his head. “Flew out a few hours back. But the guvnor’s due any time. Need a ride, I daresay ’e’ll oblige.” The governor? Annabel had mentioned a pilot she employed. “No. I don’t need a ride,” she said. “I’m

staying here on Rarotonga.” “Yer weren’t out ’ere lookin’ for ’er before?” Grace shook her head. Before? “Jes’ wonderin’. Found these.” Smithy reached into a pocket and produced a pair of pliers. Grace turned them over in her hand. “Not mine.” The weathered old man pocketed them indifferently. “Finders keepers.” Losers weepers. Grace thought again about Robert Hausmann. She still couldn’t believe Annabel had changed her mind about selling. “Smithy,” she said. “Can we contact Annabel on Moon Island?” He scratched his head. “Won’t be there yet. She’ll be on Mitiaro, I reckon.” “Mitiaro?” “Northern Group…’mergency medical drop. We could radio.” Grace brightened. Annabel would probably laugh at her. No doubt Camille had it all wrong. Besides, what was she planning to say if Annabel had decided to sell? Make some groveling plea for conservation? What a joke coming from her. Daunted, she listened as Smithy radioed Mitiaro and conducted a conversation in some strange vernacular. His expression underwent a curious shift,

and his watery blue eyes widened. Something in his face made her mouth go dry. “What is it?” she demanded as soon as he’d signed off. “She’s not there,” Smithy said stiffly and immediately lit a cigarette. His hands shook. “She never made it.” * Dawn eased herself into the mouth of the Kopeka Cave, blinking rapidly to accustom herself to the dimness. The cave was not completely dark. Daylight shafted into the limestone chambers through a series of narrow chimneys which also provided conduits for the thousands of Kopeka birds that made their home in the cave. There was a flurry of wings as Dawn padded into the fusty interior, and the tiny swallows swooped low, strafing her like bats. Waving her arms, she shooed them off. Somehow they didn’t bother her the way they had the first time she was here. Dawn felt a strange nostalgia when she reached the hollow where they had sat out the hurricane. Nudging the charred residue of a fire with her toe, she remembered that night with a pang. What a horrible brat she’d been back then, constantly complaining and

making thoughtless remarks to her companions. At the time, she had not appreciated what the experience would really mean to her. Having survived the whole ordeal, she had returned to Sydney with a new sense of her own power. That confidence had paid off in her swimming, giving her the tiny edge that made the difference in the final few yards of a race. Dawn knew her experiences on Moon Island had also helped her survive her accident. She had tried to get Lynda out of the mangled passenger seat. Then, realizing her teammate was dead, she had somehow dragged herself from the wreckage of the car. Had she stayed where she was, waiting to be rescued, she would have burned to death. If there was anything the hurricane and its aftermath had taught her, it was that she had no idea what she was really capable of until she had to do it. Sitting opposite the long dead embers, Dawn smiled to herself, realizing she had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into adulthood on this island. The process had begun with Hurricane Mary and ended with an emotional earthquake named Grace Ramsay. Dawn hardly knew what to think or feel any more. She was distressed over what had transpired with Grace, yet on another level she felt oddly

empowered. Her identity lay not in what she could achieve, but in who she really was. And, finally, she was getting to know herself. Dawn gazed up at the limestone ceiling. She had never noticed how pretty it was, how the caves amplified sound. She called out her name and listened as it resonated through the connecting caverns. Giggling at this childish impulse, she took a long drink from her water flask. Her stomach rumbled as the cool liquid settled. She was hungry, starving in fact. She’d felt so sick when she fled the cottage that it hadn’t occurred to her to bring any food. Mouth watering, Dawn recalled the bananas she’d seen drooping from the palms around the cave. They couldn’t be that hard to reach. She scrambled to her feet and returned to the brilliance of the afternoon. There was a palm only a few yards away. Attention fastened greedily on an enormous bunch of stubby pinkish bananas, she clutched at the fleshy protrusions that laddered the thick trunk and grappled her way toward the fruit. The bananas fell with satisfying thuds into the foliage below. When she had accounted for at least twenty or so, Dawn slithered down to the ground and set about retrieving them. Sitting happily beside her cache, she

gobbled one pink banana after the next. They were not quite ripe, but she didn’t care. Smaller and sweeter than the yellow kind you got in the supermarket, they were called Ladyfingers. Dawn found herself blushing over the expression and the wayward train of thought it provoked. Gathering up the remaining few bananas, she stuffed them into her pack for the hike to Villa Luna. Barely had she walked for five minutes, when the first violent pains struck. Panting, Dawn collapsed against a papaya, her mind instantly flooded with garbled imaginings about food poisoning and tropical diseases. The pain was excruciating, stabbing her directly below her ribs where twelve poorly chewed bananas had descended on her empty pill-damaged stomach. A classic case of banana belly. Groaning, Dawn curled into a ball. Tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks. Why couldn’t anything go right for her? What had she ever done that was so terrible she had to pay for it with wrecking her legs, turning into some kind of sexual weirdo, and now dying of banana poisoning in the middle of nowhere? Her father would say the Lord moves in mysterious ways. “Bastard!” Dawn yelled at the heavens.

Chapter Seventeen The late afternoon sun lolled low in the sky. Dawn’s letter in her pocket, Cody trudged through the jungle, worried and angry at the same time. Before setting off across the makatea, she had stopped by Grace’s cottage just in case Dawn had decided to return to the scene of the crime, as it were. But the more Cody thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. Depressed, Dawn had plunged aimlessly into the jungle. By now, she could be anywhere on the island. Cody tried not to picture her bleeding to death at the bottom of some gully, having cut herself to ribbons on the makatea. One person, searching on foot, would have almost no chance of finding her. She stared helplessly around. Dawn might be hysterical, but she was still walking with a stick. Logically that meant she must have taken the easiest trail. Heartened, Cody headed north for Villa Luna. When she found the first piece of white rag tied to a papaya leaf, she thought little of it. Guests often marked a meeting spot this way, and Cody made a point of removing such markers as she found them to keep the environment pristine. She must have missed

this one. But a hundred yards further along the trail, there was a newly carved notch in a tree trunk, then another white rag hanging from a branch. Despite herself, Cody was impressed. The Dawn of three years ago would never have considered such practicalities, and surely no one bent on a quiet suicide somewhere in the jungle would bother to leave a trail. Relief flooded her as she followed the freshly trampled vegetation. Her quarry appeared to be heading toward the center of the island. It all made sense now. Needing a shoulder to cry on, Dawn had decided to walk to Villa Luna. Perhaps she was already there. Cody stopped dead and stared blindly into the foliage. It would be silly to keep on walking if Dawn was twiddling her thumbs at Villa Luna. Annabel was due back soon, and Cody needed to talk to Dawn first. Quickening her pace, she turned back and headed for the beach. In the runabout, it took less than ten minutes to reach Villa Luna. Dawn wasn’t there and neither was Annabel. Pacing the verandah, Cody glumly examined the sky. She tried not to draw the paranoid conclusion that Annabel had decided to spend a night or two on Rarotonga with Grace and would invent some plausible excuse when she got home. Plane repairs,

naturally. It would not be the first time. Bits were always falling off that damned Dominie. Thank God Bevan would be back soon. They’d had a message that he’d bought another plane. Cody could picture it already—grunty motors, a flashy high-tech instrument panel, and comfortable seats. Finally they would be able to put that old hack out to pasture. Then at least if Annabel had to fly something, it would be modern and well-equipped. For about the thousandth time, Cody wished Annabel would hang up her aviators and get a real hobby. Something safe. What was wrong with knitting? Reclining on the chaise lounge at the far end of the verandah, Cody drifted off for a while then woke with a start, inhaling the twilight smell of the jungle. Annabel wouldn’t be coming home now. She never flew this late. Cody pictured her sitting in the Banana Court with Grace, laughing…their hands idly touching. The thought made her crazy. She couldn’t believe it. Annabel would never do that to her, to them. Cody wiped away the tears that threatened to spill. Where the hell was Dawn? There was barely enough light to saddle up Kahlo and start looking for her. If she’d gotten lost en route to Villa Luna, she’d just have to spend the night in the jungle and let that be a lesson

to her. Cody heaved a loud sigh. Why couldn’t other people be more straightforward? Cody didn’t have dangerous hobbies. She didn’t limp off with a walking stick on some jungle trek because she was having a bad day. Sometimes she felt like the only normal person on the planet in town. Stuffing an extra pillow behind her head, she took her paperback off the nearby table and contemplated its jacket for a moment. Yuppie porn! That bitch should talk. Grace bloody Ramsay, she thought grimly. This entire fiasco was her doing. * As dusk enveloped Avarua, Grace followed Smithy back to the hangar. “I just can’t believe this!” she exploded. “An oil tanker reports a possible SOS three hundred miles out of here and nobody does a thing. What sort of outfit is this?” The head of Air Traffic Control had just informed them that since there were no flight plans active for that area, they had asked a Silk & Boyd freighter to respond. Ms. Worth was bound for Mitiaro, he pointed out, nowhere near the location of the distress signal,

which was, by the way, an expanse of empty sea. He had indicated the general area on a map and said they weren’t planning a search at this stage because Annabel must have put down on one of the other islands for some reason. “Something was obviously called in,” he said, indicating the flight plan. “I’m sure we’ll know more tomorrow.” “I don’t get it.” Grace tossed her hat down on a chair and paced around the hangar. “She was supposed to have landed on Mitiaro hours ago but hasn’t. They have no idea where she is. They can’t raise her on the radio. What the fuck are they waiting for?” Smithy wiped a gnarled hand across his thin gray hair. “Thing I can’t fathom is how them bleedin’ plans got filed in the first place.” “What do you mean? “They was stamped,” the mechanic rasped. “Arrival confirmed.” Grace finally understood the significance of that. “You don’t think anything was called in?” she asked. “You’re saying someone could have filed them showing that she had arrived when she hadn’t?” Smithy nodded. “Stamped her plan by mistake, I s’pose. When some other guy called in. Bloody careless.”

“So when the SOS came in they thought she had already landed, so they didn’t make the connection,” Grace mused aloud. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “She’s crashed.” The little mechanic seemed smaller than ever. He was crying, Grace realized. “Better radio Moon Island,” he finally mumbled. “Could be she changed ’er plans and headed straight back there.” Grace froze. What would they say to Cody if Annabel wasn’t there? That they had no idea where she was? She felt physically sick at the prospect. You couldn’t just radio someone and tell her the woman she loved had probably crashed her plane. Her mind wandered to Annabel. Dead? Was it possible? Shaken, she faced Smithy. “We can’t do that. We need to go out there.” Smithy was preoccupied. “Listen.” He raised a silencing hand and walked outside, head cocked. Grace traipsed after him. She couldn’t hear a thing. Just the occasional birdcall, car motors firing, the sound of voices somewhere, a child crying. “It’s the guvnor,” Smithy announced after another minute of silence. Grace surveyed the graying sky without optimism. “I can’t see anything.”

“Nor’east.” Smithy pointed. Either he had X-ray vision or he was going senile. “I could go and see about chartering a plane,” Grace volunteered. “Won’t be needin’ that, Miss.” “We can’t just stand around here and do nothing!” Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Grace prepared to argue the case for another plane when she saw it too; the faintest speck. Riveted, she focused her attention on the tiny black spot. A faint hum grew louder. Relief surged through her limbs. Smithy extracted a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket and offered her one. Grace took it. They watched the speck draw nearer and nearer. Smithy suddenly let out a long whistle, stubbed out his cigarette, and rushed off into the hangar. He returned moments later with a pair of chocks and a huge tobacco-stained grin. “The lad went and done it,” he said as they watched the plane descend. “Ain’t she a beauty?” * Violet Hazel was talking to herself. Although it was a habit to which she had resigned herself, she had never

entirely accepted these lapses into soliloquy. At the age of seventy, the specter of senility loomed all too large. What could once be put down to eccentricity suddenly assumed more sinister connotations. “I believe you’re Lucy Adams.” Violet addressed the pale-haired woman lying unconscious in her spare bed. She could remember the child so well, a fairylike creature with white hair and the most astonishing lavender eyes. Violet had been living on Rarotonga, working as a nurse. That was how she had come to meet the two women who lived on Moon Island, Rebecca and Annie. They used to bring the child in for checkups as often as they could catch the steamer. What a pair they were. Dark-haired Rebecca, dressed exactly like a man and smoking those thin cigars, and Annie with her debutante mannerisms and wicked sense of humor. Stroking her guest’s hair, Violet sighed. It had been such a tragedy, Rebecca leaving for Boston, never to return, killed in a car accident. Soon afterwards, Annie had left too, taking the little girl. Over the subsequent years, Violet had often wondered what became of them. At first she had received letters from Annie—strange disjointed ramblings. They were living with a married sister of

hers, Violet recalled vaguely. After a few months, the letters had stopped coming. Eventually Violet had moved to Solarim for her retirement. It wasn’t a glamorous life, but she had never been one for the bright lights. With a sense of professional satisfaction, she probed the jagged cut on the girl’s skull. After all these years, she still hadn’t forgotten how to suture. She lifted an eyelid and shone her flashlight into the pupil. The patient had been swinging in and out of consciousness throughout the night. Apart from her head injuries, and a laceration to one thigh, she had survived her plane crash remarkably unscathed. It remained to be seen whether there was permanent brain damage. And, of course, it was always possible she could suffer a hemorrhage and never wake. That would be dreadful, Violet thought. She was so much looking forward to having someone else to talk to for a change. * Demoralized, Cody hovered over the radio set, willing it to burst into life. It was seven in the morning. By now, Annabel was either crawling out of Grace’s

bed after a night of torrid sex, or she was at the airport kicking her heels while Smithy tried to get the Dominie running. If only they had normal telephone communi-cations instead of a relic Alexander Graham Bell himself had probably constructed. They kept meaning to organize something more reasonable, but there were always other priorities. Such were the joys of life on a remote island in the South Pacific. Annabel had promised to look into cell phones, now that some of them had international range. It would save them having to fly to Rarotonga every time they wanted to call long distance. Cody lifted her head, hearing something that might have been a cry. Intrigued by thrashing sounds coming from the foliage west of the villa, she reached the verandah in time to see a bedraggled figure emerge from the undergrowth. “Dawn!” Cody’s jaw dropped. The young woman was a sorry sight, clothes and skin stained luminous green, her face and hands filthy, and her hair a riot of leaves and flowers. Wearing a wide grin, she hobbled toward the verandah, heaved herself up the steps and collapsed into a whicker chair, demanding, “Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink? ”

Flabbergasted, Cody retreated indoors and returned with a large glass of juice, handing it wordlessly to her visitor. Between noisy gulps, Dawn announced, “I went to the Kopeka Cave. And I got sick from eating too many bananas. I tried to get here before dark, but I was bloody dying of pain. So I had to spend the night out there.” “You were out overnight?” Cody was mortified. How could she have been so negligent? Something might have happened to her…something obviously had. The young woman was prattling happily, “I didn’t think I could do it. You know, all that way by myself with my legs like this. Amazing, huh?” “Yes,” Cody affirmed weakly. “Incredible.” She thought about the Dawn of three years ago. Even in perfect health, she had made a production out of crossing the island on foot. “Why did you do it? I would have come and picked you up. All you had to do was call.” A little of Dawn’s sparkle faded. “I’m not really sure. I mean I wanted to come see you, but I was kind of upset. I needed some time to think.” “About Grace?” Dawn blushed beneath the grime. “I guess you know

everything by now.” She gave a small self-effacing laugh. “You must think it’s just hilarious…after the way I’ve behaved all this time.” “I don’t think that at all, Dawn,” Cody said quietly. “Well, I feel pretty stupid.” Bitterness crept into Dawn’s voice. “I know I didn’t mean anything to Grace, but I guess I wanted—” The words wouldn’t form and slow tears made rivulets in the dirt on her cheeks. What did she want? Dawn wondered bleakly. Her feelings were in such disarray she had no idea. All she knew was that if Grace walked out of the jungle right now wearing that lopsided grin of hers, she would go weak at the knees with longing. She would drool like an idiot, blindly discard her self-respect and snatch whatever crumbs Grace chose to offer. How humiliating. Cody was watching her with a sympathetic expression and Dawn felt even more abased, knowing how transparent she must seem. Jerking to her feet, she asked, “Can I use your shower?” Cody followed her inside. “I’ll get a change of clothes for you. I think you’re about Annabel’s size.” Her voice caught as she said it, and Dawn gave her a second look. Casting a glance in the direction of the radio, Cody explained in a tight voice, “Annabel didn’t make

it back from Raro yesterday. I guess she must be stuck there. She’s always having fuel problems and stuff.” Dawn tried to control her expression. Annabel and Grace? Surely they wouldn’t have run off together. No. Annabel might be fooling around a little, but she was far too classy to do a tacky thing like that. Dawn was relieved she hadn’t given Cody that letter. It was not her place to interfere in someone else’s relationship. If Cody and Annabel had problems, they would have to work them out like everybody else. Cody was staring at her, eyes filled with trepidation. “Dawn? Is there something you want to tell me?” Dawn felt uneasy. “Look, I really need that shower,” she said, evasively. “The shower can wait.” Cody extracted a crumpled sheet of paper from her shirt pocket and dropped it in Dawn’s lap. Her face was grim. “I found this in your cottage.” “You went in my trash?” Dawn was horrified. No wonder Cody looked pale. “Tell me everything,” Cody said, her voice shaking slightly. “No bullshit, either.”

Chapter Eighteen Grace’s heart pumped, and her feet beat a steady tattoo on the concrete pathway. She veered onto a track that disappeared into the deep shadows thrown by a stand of firs. When the first man crossed her path, she paid no attention, skirting him to take the leafy track upward. “Hey, what’s the hurry?” he called after her, and Grace lengthened her stride a little. In another few minutes she would reach open space again. She usually avoided this part of the park, but tonight she had a dinner date and the trees were a shortcut. “Hey, babe. Got a light?” Another man emerged, blocking the narrow track. “Sorry. Don’t smoke.” Grace detoured around a tree to avoid him. He blocked her path again, laughing softly. The odor of whiskey and sour tobacco sullied the green air. Grace glanced sideways. The slope was steep, but she could make it down there through the trees and circle back. The road was close. Turning abruptly, she dodged the man, knees jarring as she made the rapid descent.

“Hey, guys,” she heard. “She’s all yours.” Someone grabbed at her. Thrown off balance she crashed heavily into a tree. Feeling a tearing sensation in her ankle, she reached for a low branch. Before she could get her footing, she was on the ground. Hot hands encircled her throat. Struggling, she watched three men emerge from the surrounding trees. “Please,” she croaked when the grip on her throat loosened. “Let me go and I won’t make any trouble for you. C’mon guys, you’ve had your fun.” “Oh, no, we ain’t.” Mean dark eyes taunted her. “The fun’s just beginning. Ain’t that right, boys?” Then Grace screamed. And screamed. And nobody heard her. Then she couldn’t scream any more because they stuffed a strip of her T-shirt into her mouth. Much later Grace felt something on her face, and smiled. A big soft yellow Labrador lay down beside her. Clouds swirled, dense and shapeless. There were voices. The dog was barking. “Don’t go,” Grace begged it wordlessly. “Please don’t leave me here.” Bells rang. A telephone. Grace jerked bolt upright. Her sheets were soaked with sweat. She grabbed for the phone, shivering as

the damp sheen evaporated from her skin. It was Bevan, Annabel’s pilot. They would be leaving for Moon Island in an hour. Grace had said she would be ready. Drained, she paced into the bathroom and touched her reflection in the mirror. When she could no longer bear to look, she stood beneath the torrid blast of the shower and soaped herself compulsively. * Dawn stood slack-jawed beside Cody as the plane screeched to a halt and taxied along the pitted Moon Island strip. Painted khaki green, with a pinup girl embellishing the fuselage, it looked exactly like something out of an old war movie. As she and Cody drew closer, Dawn made out the words Lonesome Lady painted along the side. She stole an apprehensive glance at Cody. “What the hell is this?” Cody asked as the pilot dropped to the ground in front of them. Bevan Mitchell tucked his sunglasses into his top pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “She’s a B-17 a genuine warbird.” Cody eyeballed him as though he were speaking in

tongues. “Where’s Annabel?” she demanded. The pilot’s eyes darted to the cockpit, and Dawn held her breath as Grace Ramsay emerged. Something in her expression made Dawn feel nauseated. “You!” Cody gasped. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Dawn grabbed at Cody’s arm. She looked like she was going to take a swing at Grace. Backing up, Grace said in a hurried voice. “Cody, we have some bad news.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Annabel’s missing.” “Missing?” The color fled Cody’s face. “What do you mean, missing?” “She left for Mitiaro Island yesterday,” Bevan said. “She never arrived. There was a distress signal picked up three hundred miles southwest of Rarotonga about an hour and a half after she left.” “What does that mean?” Cody croaked. “Where is she?” Bevan was visibly shaken. He crushed an unlit cigarette in his hand. “A search is underway. We’ll be involved, of course. If you could get a few things together, we’ll be on our way.” “I don’t understand.” Cody’s tone rose sharply. “How

can she be missing? Where’s the Dominie?” Instinctively Dawn took Cody’s hand. She avoided Grace’s piercing regard, hardened herself to the unspoken plea in the angle of her head, the nervous shift of her feet. “Cody.” Bevan spoke with palpable difficulty. “It’s almost certain she’s crashed. And because of the location it’s going to be hard to spot the wreckage.” Cody gazed at him, stupefied. “What do you mean about the location?” Dawn asked. “It seems like she must have flown off-course somehow. The SOS coordinates would put her in an area where there is no land. Of course the signal may not have been hers.” “She went into the ocean?” Dawn whispered, stunned. That could only mean one thing. Annabel was dead. Cody shook her head. “No!” she shouted, her face parchment white, eyes wild with shock. “It can’t be true. I don’t believe it!” * Twelve hours later, Grace knocked on the door of

Dawn’s hotel room in Rarotonga. She felt hesitant, less than her usual assured self. “What do you want?” Dawn asked her abruptly. Grace took a couple of paces into the room. “Can we talk?” “It’s not a good time.” Dawn hedged. “Cody might need me.” Grace glanced around. “Where is she?” “Asleep in her room. The doctor gave her a sedative.” Unspoken words hung heavily between them. The search that afternoon had yielded nothing but an empty sea. Tomorrow they would resume at daybreak, across a wider radius. According to Bevan, there was almost no hope of locating her. Even if by some miracle she had survived a crash, she probably couldn’t have lasted two days in the water. Grace raised a hand to her eyes. For a moment she was sure she felt tears, but her fingers came back dry. “Poor Cody,” she said, feeling a sob rise. Then she was numb again. Dawn lifted bright accusing eyes. “What do you care?” she burst out. “I care.” Grace swallowed with difficulty. “Annabel and I were—”

“Yes, I know all about you and Annabel!” Dawn cut her short, lurching to her feet and cracking her walking stick viciously against the bed. “I know you were having an affair behind Cody’s back, and so does she. If you say a word about it to her—” She whacked the bed again. “I’ll flatten you.” In any other situation Grace would have laughed at the fierce threat. But the accusation momentarily stunned her. Dawn was glaring, chin tilted, and knuckles white. “Dawn. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grace said, perplexed. “Annabel and I aren’t…” Dawn promptly swung her stick in the air and thwacked it down at Grace’s feet. “Liar!” “Dawn!” Grace leapt out of the way. “Jesus Christ. Stop it!” “No! You stop it!” Dawn shouted. “Stop lying to me. I saw you that night.” “What are you talking about? What night?” Dawn flung her stick across the room. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “I don’t know how you can be so dishonest. I mean, why bother lying now? Annabel is probably dead!” Exasperated, Grace raked her fingers through her hair. “This is bizarre,” she muttered. Striving for

patience, she asked the infuriated young woman, “What exactly did you see and when?” “It was the night after we…slept together the first time.” Dawn’s face was tight. “I wanted to see you and I hung around at home waiting forever, then I went to your place.” The night Annabel had come around to order her off the island. The night Grace told her about the rape. “You were there?” Grace asked. How much had Dawn heard? “Yes, I was there.” Dawn blazed. “Stupid gooey-eyed me. What an idiot.” She pushed a balled fist roughly across her eyes. “And when I got there—” “You saw me with Annabel on the verandah, and you added two and two and decided we were fooling around,” Grace concluded on a hard note. “Well, weren’t you?” “Jesus, Dawn.” Obviously she hadn’t overheard the conversation. She had just seen them holding one another and had drawn her own conclusions. Grace ran a weary hand across her forehead. She hardly knew where to begin. “Annabel and I are not lovers. We had a thing for a while, six years ago. Now we’re just friends.” And barely that, thanks to her job. “I was upset about something, that night. Annabel comforted

me.” Why was she explaining all this? Who cared what some silly kid wanted to believe? Dawn rolled her eyes. “It looked like more than comfort to me.” Grace ordered herself to remain calm and virtuous, a credit to her Karate Sempei, to exercise self-control in the face of severe provocation, to demonstrate the spirit of perseverance. “Can I help it if you read all kinds of things into what you saw?” she shouted, failing on every count. “And what if we were involved? It’s none of your goddamned business what I do!” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dawn responded sarcastically. “Silly me. I forgot I’m not supposed to care. I forgot that it’s all about meaningless sex.” “As I recall, you had no problem with that idea when I came round the next morning,” Grace said with frigid irony. “I don’t remember you asking me anything about Annabel. In fact, didn’t we spend the entire day fucking?” Dawn’s face flushed brick red. “And that makes your behavior okay?” “You know what I think,” Grace threw at her, “I think you wanted me to stay. You didn’t give a damn about me and Annabel then, did you? But because I left, I get …this shit.”

The sulky fullness of Dawn’s mouth grew more pronounced. Eyes welling with tears, she said in a small, husky voice, “You’re right. I wanted you to choose me.” She gave a forced half-laugh which failed to disguise the hurt. “Dumb, huh?” An embarrassed silence followed. Grace’s mouth felt dry. She wanted to offer Dawn something. An apology? For thoughtlessly inflicting hurt?. It was not her usual style to mess around with inexperienced kids who didn’t know enough to keep the encounter in perspective. But it was a bit late for remorse now. Feeling like a heel, she backed toward the door. “I think I should go.” Dawn lifted disillusioned eyes. “Good idea.”

Chapter Nineteen Three days later, Annabel yawned and rearranged the cushions behind her head. “I still can’t believe this,” she told the silver-haired woman sitting opposite her. “Fact is stranger than fiction, my dear,” Violet Hazel pronounced. “How are you feeling this morning?” “Terrific! I keep opening my eyes and wondering if I’m dead and this is just some kind of entrance exam for heaven.” She lifted tentative fingers to explore the deep cut above her eyes. “That was some knock.” Her head throbbed and her vision was blurred, but she was alive. Incredible. Annabel glanced across at her companion. It was difficult to guess Violet Hazel’s age—somewhere between sixty and eighty. Her face was creased and mobile, her eyes wonderfully blue. Those eyes were the first thing Annabel had seen when she lifted her head the day before. Then there was the voice, warm and rounded. “Good morning, Lucy. Thanks for dropping by.” Annabel had decided immediately that she was in the presence of the Goddess herself. Who else could possibly have known the name she was born with? To double-check, she asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re on Solarim Atoll,” Violet Hazel informed her. Solarim, an atoll so tiny it didn’t even appear on most maps. Annabel was still astounded that she’d found it. Not only that, but she had survived to tell the tale. She smiled goofily. Violet seemed amused. “I see you’re still congratulating yourself on cheating the Grim Reaper.” “What can I say? I can’t believe I’m here.” Annabel thought about those final minutes, the odd calm that had descended when she was certain she was about to die. Naked in her emotional self, she had found a peace within thinking about Cody. If she had ever harbored any doubts about what mattered most in her life, she no longer did. “People must be worried about me,” she said. “My partner…” She hesitated, but sensed Violet Hazel was not a bigot. “Cody. She must be going crazy.” “Yes. Yes, of course.” Violet’s eyes registered Annabel’s disclosure with a slight flicker of comprehension. “We must find a way to get word out. There’s a Silk & Boyd freighter due soon. They always look in on me. I’ll fire off a couple of flares, and they’ll send someone in.” “You should have a radio.” Violet shrugged. “I’m not lonely.”

“But you’re very isolated. What if something happened and you needed help?” “It did. I was awfully worried when I pulled you out of that plane.” “I was wondering how you got me here.” Annabel said. “On a stretcher. I dragged you along the sand.” Violet was nothing if not practical. Once a nurse on Rarotonga, the elderly woman still kept all manner of medical equipment in her home. And that was fortunate, Violet pointed out soon after Annabel gained consciousness. Both Annabel’s leg and forehead had required stitches. “I’ve been wondering.” Violet poured tea into two china mugs. “Whatever were you doing out here in the first place?” “I was flying to Mitiaro.” “But that’s six hundred miles from here.” “Six hundred!” Annabel was stunned. How could she have gotten so far off course? “I had instrument failure. My compass wasn’t working and neither was my fuel gauge.” “If you don’t mind, I thought I might take a look at your plane this morning,” Violet said. “Get her covered up.” Annabel’s eyes started to sting. “I should come with

you, but I don’t think I can bear it.” She pictured the Dominie, her sleek silver body mangled and smashed, skin torn to shreds. “The poor old thing. What an ignominious end for her.” “Hogwash,” Violet said sternly. “She got you here, didn’t she? If a machine has a spirit, hers will surely be rejoicing.” It was a bizarre notion, but curiously appealing. Annabel knew it was ludicrous to attribute human characteristics to a plane, but the Dominie felt like a friend. “I know it’s crazy but I do feel like she saved my life,” Annabel admitted. “I had no idea where I was going. It was almost like she steered me here.” “Then the least you can do is thank her,” Violet declared imperiously. Annabel’s eyes widened. Her companion was quite serious. She was an old, eccentric woman, Annabel rationalized. It would be polite to humor her. Besides, Annabel was truly sad for the Dominie, that gallant little plane, condemned to a flightless future, rotting away on some unknown atoll. Violet didn’t wait for an answer. “C’mon. Up you get,” she said, gingerly placing a capacious straw hat on Annabel’s head. “Think you can walk a few yards at my pace?”

“I’m alive!” Annabel laughed. “I can do anything.” Violet handed her a large screwdriver. “Let’s not get carried away.” * The Dominie lay burrowed into the sand at the opposite end of the beach from Violet’s cottage. Once they had finished clearing out the surviving cargo, Annabel turned her attention to the instruments. They were still intact. She stared at the compass for a moment, glanced at the sun, then called, “Violet? Which way is north?” “That way.” The white-haired woman pointed in the same direction Annabel figured. Peering at the instrument panel, she added, “Well, your compass wants to make a liar out of me, doesn’t it?” Her eyes flicked to Annabel’s face. “I should have trusted my instincts,” Annabel said. Most small plane crashes were caused by human error. Flying could be very deceptive. Pilots were taught to trust their instruments. Wielding a pair of bolt cutters, Violet clambered in to the mangled nose of the plane. “Come and see this,” she called after a couple of minutes.

Annabel dangled over the instrument panel and peered into the tangle of electronics. Violet had indicated the compass. Detaching a small square of metal from the mounting, she passed it up. “It’s a magnet,” Annabel said, her mind spinning. Violet nodded gravely. “Otherwise known as sabotage.”

Chapter Twenty Leaning against the hangar doorway, Grace watched cigarette smoke curl into Bevan’s thinning blond hair. “Well, I guess that’s it,” she said, wearily removing her flying gear. Although they had conducted their search at low altitude, it still got icy cold in the B17. Bevan handed her a lit cigarette. “Maybe.” Grace glanced at him sharply. “You can’t seriously think she’s still alive.” He shook his head. “It’s been a week. But stranger things have happened.” “Smithy says the plane would have gone straight to the bottom.” “That’s what the Air Accident Report concludes. Odd it doesn’t mention those filed flight plans.” “How could they have made such a mistake?” Grace took a puff on the cigarette, vowing she would not keep doing this. She hadn’t smoked in years. Why start again now? “Someone wasn’t doing his job. I can’t understand why there’s not some kind of inquiry.” “The guy responsible has resigned. They couldn’t even locate him to get a statement.” “Wonderful. He takes his final paycheck and gets

drunk. Annabel rots at the bottom of the Pacific.” “An’ yer know somethin’ else?” Smithy emerged from the hangar. “Me wife talked to ’er cousins on Mitiaro. They never ’eard of a medical emergency.” “But what about that Red Cross parcel?” Grace took a final drag and stubbed out the cigarette. “If there was no emergency, why did the hospital send it?” The old man’s eyes began to water. “Yer might well ask. Curse the day I fetched the bleedin’ thing.” Bevan drew on his cigarette. “What exactly happened? Who told you there was an emergency?” Smithy was shaking his head. “Air traffic phoned. ’Erself ’adn’t arrived, so I nipped off an’ picked it up to save ’er the trouble. The guy gives me the parcel and a new flight plan.” “They’d already prepared a new flight plan.” Bevan remarked. “Amazing.” “What are you saying?” Grace surveyed him. “I’m saying something doesn’t sit right,” Bevan responded. “No one in this place lifts a finger if they don’t have to. But out of the goodness of his heart this controller prepared a flight plane and had it approved.” “Well, gawd a’mighty, I jes’ remembered somethin’.” Rattling around in his overall pockets, Smithy extracted a pair pliers and passed them to Bevan. “Take a look

at these, guvnor.” Bevan lifted an inquiring brow. The wiry little man narrowed his eyes and spat to one side. “They was lying out there on the tarmac before she took off. I thought they was ’ers.” * Dawn had dragged Cody poolside at the hotel an hour earlier. This was her new strategy, intended to prevent Cody from spending every waking hour in her room, staring vacantly at the walls. She could not believe what she saw as Grace stalked up to them, the last person on earth she felt like seeing. The news was always so depressing it drove Cody back indoors. “Dawn? Can I speak with you?” she asked. Bristling, Dawn lowered her Jackie Collins just enough to be polite. She and Grace had barely spoken for the past three days, and that suited her fine. “What is it?” she replied in a discouraging tone. Sitting in the next lounger, Cody removed her sunglasses and looked up. “Is there some news?” Grace squatted, eyes grave with the burden of bearing the same ill tidings day after day. “I’m sorry.” So it was with most of her progress reports. Today she

didn’t lay out the map. There were no new search zones to discuss and no reports from the other craft. No spark of hope. “There’s nothing new.” Cody sagged back, fidgeting absently with the curling jacket of her paperback. Sometimes she read a page, but mostly she simply stared into the book. Dawn knew her mind was elsewhere. Grace flicked a brief glance toward Dawn and repeated her request. “Could we talk in private?” Stubbornly disinterested, Dawn said, “Not right now.” Grace’s expression registered disbelief, rapidly followed by exasperation. Before she had a chance to respond, Cody said. “It’s okay, Dawn. I feel like some time on my own anyway.” Grudgingly, Dawn tied a sarong over her bikini and accompanied Grace along the walkway past the hotel swimming pool to the lagoon. The beach gleamed with marble-fleshed tourists, earnestly absorbing the tanning rays of the tropical sun. Negotiating a sea of sunscreen bottles and coconut shells, the two women found a quiet spot near Arorangi village. “Well?” Dawn said, avoiding Grace’s eyes. “The search is being scaled down,” Grace informed her heavily. “We’ve done everything we can. Bevan is

going to continue flyovers for the next few days, but it’s a long shot.” Her shoulders sagged with defeat. Resisting an urge to hold her, Dawn said, “What are we going to tell Cody?” “Cody’s mom is arriving from New Zealand this morning,” Grace replied. “She’ll be staying here at the hotel. I thought maybe we’d wait ’til she gets here, then talk to Cody.” Dazed, Dawn fidgeted with the frayed cotton border of her sarong. “It doesn’t feel real.” “I know.” Grace fell silent for a moment. “I figured you and I would fly back to Moon Island this afternoon after Cody’s been told.” “You and me. Why?” “There’s a lot to be done out there,” Grace replied. “I was hoping you could stay on for a few days and lend a hand.” “Doing what?” Dawn gave her a frosty look. Grace sighed. “Someone has to run the island. Mrs. Marsters has managed by herself for the last few days, but she’s got a family. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t discuss it sooner. I’ve been kind of busy.” Dawn was incredulous. “I don’t know the first thing about running a tourist resort.”

“You won’t be by yourself. I can stay for a week or so. ” “Aren’t you supposed to be back in New York?” Dawn reminded her. “I’ve taken vacation. Bevan and I have some loose ends to tie up…” She trailed off, vague all of a sudden. Grace and Bevan. It sounded very cozy. Maybe there was another reason Grace was staying, Dawn thought. Maybe Grace was one of those lesbians like Cody’s ex, Margaret, the woman who’d lived with Cody for five years, then left her for a man. Now she was living on some ashram in India, wearing a sari and making flower garlands for her guru. According to her last letter, she was pregnant, Cody had said. It didn’t get much weirder than that. Glowering at Grace, Dawn said, “I can run the island perfectly well by myself, thank you. I don’t need your help.” “Come on, Dawn.” Grace said impatiently. “You know that’s absurd. You’d have to take the supplies around, either on horseback or driving the boat.” “And you don’t think I can!” Dawn tossed her hair back. “Because I have a limp, I’m some kind of incompetent. Is that what you’re saying?” Grace groaned. “Be reasonable. Moon Island is a

two-person job. Cody’s too depressed to do anything, right now. Can’t we just agree to put our differences aside for a few days. Surely it’s the least we can do for Cody…and Annabel.” “Oh, now you care about them?” “Don’t push it,” Grace’s mouth thinned. “By the way, did you tell Cody you made a mistake?” Dawn’s shoulders tightened. “I told her I got the wrong end of the stick, and I should have known better.” “Thank you,” Grace said. Her look of injured dignity made Dawn irrationally angry. “I’ll help,” she said, giving her a scathing look. “So long as you stay out of my way, okay?” “Okay. Whatever.” Grace’s tone bordered on meekness, but her flinty eyes were anything but docile. Avoiding them, Dawn looked quickly away. Her traitorous heart hammered against her chest, shameless as always in its response to Grace. Ignoring it’s wayward entreaties, Dawn said, “Have reception page me when it’s time to go,” and walked away without glancing back. * “It’s hard to accept that someone wants to kill me,”

Annabel said. “I haven’t done anything.” “Perhaps it’s somebody’s idea of a joke,” Violet said. “Nothing would surprise me.” “Violet! That’s so cynical.” “My dear, at my age one cannot afford to harbor trite illusions about the nature of the human condition. The shock of disillusionment could prove fatal.” Annabel raised her hand to the wound on her forehead. The stitches pulled a little. “I think we can rule out the joke idea. But I can’t think of anyone I’ve wronged so badly they would want to kill me. One would hope to notice that kind of enemy.” “I’m certain you would, my dear. Revenge is an act of powerful emotion. Most victims have some kind of relationship with their killers. When you think about it, suicide is just revenge turned inward. Such an intimate crime.” “Well, I definitely didn’t plant the damned magnet myself,” Annabel said. “And there’s that Red Cross parcel. It was empty, remember.” “Indeed.” Violet’s expression was pensive. “So who would have something to gain by killing you? Who finds you a threat or an obstacle?” Annabel hesitated. “It’s crazy. But there is one person.”

By the time Annabel had finished describing Robert Hausmann’s bid to buy the island, his plans to use it for toxic waste dumping, and his hints that the Cook Islands government might have been involved in insider trading, Violet was looking smugly convinced. “That’s your man, Annabel. He’s ruthless, greedy, and unethical.” Annabel laughed. “You just described most of the socalled civilized world!” “Why do you think I live out here?” “How long have you been on Solarim?” Violet gave that some thought. “I’ve been in the Cook Islands for more than forty years,” she pronounced. “I stayed on Raro until the seventies. Then the government said I could live here. They pay me, you know—I’m rather like a lighthouse keeper, only without a lighthouse.” “That’s why you have the generator and the lights on the roof? In case there’s a ship in distress out there?” “It hasn’t happened yet,” Violet said. “But if it ever does I have ropes, life jackets, and an inflatable in the shed.” Annabel laughed. “You’re a feisty woman, Violet.” She was struck by a thought. If Violet had been in the Cook Islands for forty years, and if she had recognized

Annabel was Lucy, she must have known Aunt Annie quite well. Yet she hadn’t said anything when Annabel mentioned that she had inherited the island. Annabel had the impression she was biding her time, waiting until Annabel had regained strength. “Did you ever visit Moon Island?” “Several times.” Violet’s eyes creased with pleasure. “I think it’s the most beautiful island in the whole Pacific. It’s even lovelier than Aitutaki.” “I think so too.” Suddenly Annabel felt like crying. She could almost see the moon suspended over Passion Bay, smell the late-night heaviness of frangipani and gardenia. She pictured Cody sitting alone on their verandah, waiting for her. “There, there…” Violet pulled her into the present with a pat on the hand. “I knew, the moment I saw you, that you were Lucy Adams.” Annabel sat very still. “You knew me back then?” Violet promptly went inside the house and returned with a battered old photo album. “Oh, yes. Just look at this.” She singled out a fading photo, then another and another, until Annabel’s eyes flooded and she could no longer read the captions. Annie and Rebecca gazed out at her from a sepia past, speaking to her heart

after thirty silent years. “You’re Lucy, aren’t you?” Violet said. Annabel could only nod dumbly. Her throat was too constricted for words. “You were the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen. Rebecca was just mad over you. Look.” She flipped the page and Annabel was staring at a woman with short black hair and brooding eyes. She stood slouched against a tree trunk, wearing men’s pants, one hand casually stuffed in a pocket, the other holding a tiny fair-haired child aloft. Lucy. Herself as a toddler. “I remember that day still.” Violet’s voice shook slightly. “It was the day Rebecca left on the freighter to visit her family in America. She never came back.” She dabbed at her eyes with a flimsy handkerchief. “Look at me. All sentimental.” “Oh, Violet. This means so much to me. You have no idea.” Annabel was laughing and crying at the same time. “I can’t believe this is happening. I must have been meant to come here. It was my destiny.” “It most certainly wasn’t,” Violet reminded her. “It was attempted murder, and we shall see the scoundrel responsible is brought to justice. Mark my words.” Annabel smiled. “That wasn’t what I meant. But you know that, don’t you? You’re just teasing.”

Violet lifted her eyebrows. “I’m very serious indeed, young woman. The freighter gets here tomorrow. It only comes once a month, you know, and if we’re going to catch it, we’ve got work to do.” “Yes ma’am.” Annabel immediately wiped her tears and sat up straighter in her chair. Violet gave an approving nod. “But before we start, tell me, is your mother still alive?” “Annie died three years ago. It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid.” Violet’s eyes crinkled. “Fortunately time is a blessing here, not a curse.” Annabel gave her a grateful smile. “Well, for a start, I didn’t know I was Annie’s daughter. Her sister Laura adopted me, you see, and renamed me Annabel Worth. After Rebecca died, Annie went back home to Boston and—” “Oh this is going to be a long story,” Violet interrupted, squeezing Annabel’s hand. “Why don’t I fetch some fresh tea and biscuits before it becomes truly gripping.” * “It’s brilliant.” Grace dropped a sheaf of neatly typed

pages onto the table. “Right on the jugular.” “The very least the bastard deserves.” Bevan passed a freshly lit cigarette to a thin, dark-haired man beside him. Don Jarvis took a contemplative drag. “Time will go for it. Business ethics is hot.” “Where did you dredge up all that stuff?” Grace asked. Don quirked an eyebrow. “A guy like Hausmann makes a few enemies on his way up the ladder.” “Do you think we’ve got enough for the Cook Island’s police to go on?” “If the government didn’t pay their salaries, maybe,” Bevan said. “You mean they won’t arrest him?” Grace was astounded. “They can’t. The government has too much to lose. They’re in shit to their eyeballs, sweetheart. This place can’t afford another Albert Henry.” “He was the Premier who got sacked for corruption, right?” “It’s not often Queen Elizabeth kicks ass.” Don grinned. “Brought down the government.” “There must be some way…” Grace could hardly take it in. “A woman is dead because they were

looking to make a fast buck. We owe her some justice, don’t we?” “Grace, she wouldn’t want it.” Bevan stubbed out his cigarette. “She loved these islands. Have you any idea how much a public scandal like this would shame the local people?” “You’re talking about murder!” Grace gasped. “You’re saying Hausmann stays out of jail so that a bunch of corrupt bureaucrats can keep their jobs and the public can keep their illusions. That stinks.” “That’s politics,” Don said bluntly. He leafed through his article. “Look, I’ve turned up enough dirt on Hausmann to bury the guy. When this hits the press back home, the IRS will be all over Argus like a biblical plague. The SEC will slap an injunction on them so fast Hausmann won’t know which way is up. They’ve been on his tail for years. The guy will definitely serve time.” “But not for murder.” Grace cradled her head in her hands. Without either the plane or Annabel’s body, they couldn’t prove there had actually been a murder. All they had was suspicion and circumstantial evidence. And Bevan had a point. The last thing Annabel would want is for the Cook Islands to be pilloried in the international press, thrown into political turmoil, their fragile economy shattered. It was so unjust.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered. Her guts churned. No one ever paid for the hurt they inflicted. There were four men roaming free out there who had sentenced her to years of emotional isolation. “It won’t bring her back, Grace.” Bevan dropped an arm over her shoulders. “Revenge doesn’t work that way.” * Dawn wasn’t at Villa Luna when Grace returned. She prowled the house, fatigue vying with a sharp disappointment. Since their arrival on Moon Island, communication with Dawn had been polite and distant. They slept in rooms at opposite ends of the villa, ate meals together, and conducted the business of the resort with impersonal diligence. Dawn was always busy with something and gave the impression that interruption was not welcome. Most often she took refuge in the garden, weeding and trimming. Sometimes she would be on the telephone chatting with a guest, and Grace would eavesdrop for a moment, resentment gnawing at her. Dawn sounded so warm when she spoke to everyone else. It was crazy to give a damn and Grace could not

afford the time to be small-minded. Along with her responsibilities at the resort, she had poured hours into the investigation of Annabel’s disappearance. Determined to follow up suspicions of foul play, Bevan had enlisted his lover, Don, a freelance journalist, to sleuth around. What they uncovered had been even more shocking than they expected. An unidentified man in overalls had been seen leaving the Dominie’s hangar the afternoon Annabel set off for Mitiaro. An Air Traffic Controller had resigned that day and was known to have departed for New Zealand with unseemly haste and a lot of money. It also seemed clear that someone high in the ranks of officialdom was doing his best to obstruct inquiries around the accident—a classic cover-up, Don said. Taking the familiar track from Villa Luna to Passion Bay, Grace tried to convince herself that Don’s exposé feature would damage to Hausmann enough to serve justice. Her boss would lose everything that really mattered to him—reputation, career, money. But all Grace could think about was Annabel. How she had been robbed of the happiness it had taken her so long to find, how much she had loved Moon Island and what that love had cost her. Again the enormity of Hausmann’s actions struck

her. Environmental destruction was one thing, but murder? Reflecting uneasily on the ethics of both, Grace paused to disentangle herself from a sticky creeper overhanging the track. In some ways there was a logical progression. Numerous deaths had been caused through the disposal of toxic waste—was that murder? No, that was negative publicity. And Annabel? Why was that situation different? Because her death was more immediate, more personal? Because she was a wealthy, beautiful white woman? Shoving her hands into her pockets, Grace crossed the hot sand to stand over a lissom form reclining on a pink towel. Dawn lifted the brim of her hat and blinked against the glare of the sun. “Oh, it’s you.” Her bathing suit, no thicker than a coat of paint, was a reluctant concession to Grace’s intrusive presence at Villa Luna. It revealed far more than it covered. A hot rush of lust made her nipples harden. She should leave and give Dawn her space, Grace told herself. But kicking off her sandals, she lowered herself to the sand and cast a wry sideways glance at her. She recognized Dawn’s expression. Wariness and determined indifference. Who could blame her? Dawn’s attention was on yet another Jackie Collins

classic. Pointedly, she was ignoring the not quite accidental brush of Grace’s thigh against hers. Memories clawed at Grace, and she felt a wrenching sense of loss. She had alienated the only woman who had evoked real emotion in her since the attack, and she had no idea how to undo the damage. After a few minutes’ silence, Dawn lifted her eyes from the paperback, her irritation barely concealed. “Did you want something?” “Just your company,” Grace said. Dawn shrugged. “Feel free.” Flipping open the top of her sunscreen bottle, she methodically plastered her legs. The scar tissue looked very sensitive. Grace remembered seeing Dawn for the first time, her legs pale and wasted, scars knitting flesh torn by injuries too horrible to contemplate. How had it happened? What terror did she revisit alone at night? She stretched out her hand and touched a long white mark. “Tell me about the accident.” Flinching, Dawn brushed Grace’s fingers away as she might an insect. “I told you. It was a car accident.” “How did it happen?” “Look, do we have to discuss this? I was knocked out. I don’t remember anything much. One minute I was

driving, the next minute I was in hospital.” “Do you ever have nightmares about it?” Dawn turned sharply, as though Grace were about to humiliate her with some unsuspected sleep-time indiscretion. “No. But you do.” Grace waited a beat. “Not any more. I had one last week and since then…nothing. I’m not sure if I’ll have that dream again.” Dawn sat up, shaking the sand from her hair. “What makes you think so?” Grace contemplated five years of waking in a sweat almost every night, of working so late she could barely keep her eyes open, in the hopes she might sleep the unbroken sleep of exhaustion. “Because I think some dreams are messages from our subconscious, and they keep on repeating until we’re ready to hear them.” “And now that you’ve heard yours, the nightmare will stop?” “I hope so.” Wrapping her arms around her knees, Grace leaned forward and stared out to sea. Was that how it worked? Was the conscious mind little more than a gatekeeper to the subconscious? Did dreams unlock doors to secrets housed within? She had concealed four faces there, the assailants she could not identify to the police. In protecting herself from the

reality of her rape, she had protected her rapists, too. “Well, it sounds like a pretty complicated way of finding out something you already know.” Dawn gathered her beach paraphernalia and brushed herself off. Apparently she’d had her fill of Grace’s company. Longing to detach herself from her newly awakened memories, Grace stared out to sea. She felt terribly alone. The thought of returning to New York and picking up life where she’d left off seemed almost ridiculous. But what was the alternative? Grace shook herself mentally. She was far away in a beautiful place, caught up in the midst of dramatic events. She had enjoyed a holiday fling with a sexy young woman, and even if their brief passionate interlude was history, Grace still liked being around her. It all added up to one thing —escapism. “Are you in for dinner?” Dawn’s voice, cool and polite, intruded on her musings. “I’ll fix myself something when I get back,” Grace said. With measured movements, Dawn stood and shook out her towel. Her legs looked stronger, Grace thought. The wasted muscles were toning up again. Spared the daily dose of harsh swimming pool chemicals, her hair fell in a heavy curtain of honeyed silver.

“You’re looking good, Dawn,” Grace remarked. Dawn’s voice softened. “Grace,” she ventured after a pause, “are you okay?” “I—” Grace shrugged helplessly. A huge sob rose in her chest. She lifted a hand to her face, startled to find it wet. Uncontrollable emotion welled, and she scrambled to her feet. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said and half ran down the beach toward the sea. Halting where the tide stirred the fine sand into whirling eddies, she keeled over, retching violently. She could not stop shaking. Unable to stand, she sank down onto her knees, tears streaming down her face. When Dawn’s arms closed around her, she offered no resistance. Allowing herself to be held, Grace surrendered to a grief too profound to face alone any more. * Several hours later, Dawn tilted her head to face the woman beside her. Grace had cried in Dawn’s arms for what seemed an eternity, first on the beach, then in bed after Dawn brought her back to the cottage. Like a child, Grace had allowed herself to be bathed and comforted. Now, finally, her sobs had subsided and her

breathing was normal again. Dawn stroked her cheek tentatively, and Grace’s eyes opened. There was a softness about her expression that Dawn had never seen. And something else, something that seemed meant for her alone. Dawn swallowed painfully. She was almost afraid to hold that steady gaze, afraid that at any moment the tenderness would forsake that mouth, and cool, cynical Grace Ramsay would stare back at her. Instead Grace’s hand found hers. “Can you forgive me?” “For what?” Dawn hardly dared breathe. “For everything. I’ve treated you badly. I want to make it up to you.” Dawn blushed. She slid her fingers between Grace’s, and for a long moment they stared at one another. Then Grace kissed her slowly and tenderly on the mouth. If only she could freeze time, Dawn thought. If she could just seize this single, magical moment before it fell prisoner to the inevitable. Spellbound, she opened her eyes. Love. It declared itself in siren promises, blazed like sunlight behind closed eyes, painted the air between them. Love. She had thought she would never know that feeling, that she might fail to recognize it.

She almost laughed. Grace caressed Dawn’s cheek, cupping its baby fullness in her hand, and stretching her fingers to coil a honey-silver strand of hair. With amazement, she saw that her fingers were shaking. The cynical Grace seemed oddly disengaged. You’re going to make a fool of yourself , a voice in her head warned. Yet when her eyes locked with Dawn’s, she no longer heard the white noise of her own doubts. There was only silence, perfect and complete. Placing a hand to Dawn’s chest, she felt the steady beat of her heart, took Dawn’s hand and held it between her own breasts. “We’re in time,” Dawn whispered and Grace held her, frightened to speak, to move, in case she destroyed the fragile new bond between them.

Chapter Twenty-One Dawn touched Cody’s elbow. “Let’s take a walk on Passion Bay. It’s time you got out of the house.” Cody shook her head, barely responding. Dawn fidgeted. “Would you like something to eat?” Another shake of the head. “You really should. You’re looking ill.” Cody shrugged listlessly. “I’m not hungry.” Her shoulders sagged, and she pushed her fingers back through her short, dark hair. “I can’t believe it,” she said softly. “Cody…” Dawn stretched an impulsive arm, but Cody shied away. Over the past few days, Cody had grown disturbingly remote, avoiding touch, and seldom speaking. At her mother’s suggestion, she had returned to Moon Island while arrangements were being made for Annabel’s memorial service. Now Dawn wasn’t sure if this had been such a good idea. All Cody did was sit on the verandah and stare out to sea. People handle shock and grief in their own ways, Grace said. But Dawn couldn’t bear it. She was desperate to find some way to offer comfort. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said and limped into the house.

She wished Grace were here. Grace seemed to know what to do when Cody forgot to go to bed or brush her hair. She’d been through something like it herself once, she’d said in an offhand tone that meant she didn’t plan on saying any more. As Dawn arranged a teapot and cups on a tray her thoughts strayed to Grace. Since that afternoon of weeping, she had been so gentle and kind. They went walking and swimming together, talked for hours about Dawn’s accident and her plans for the future. Grace helped with her exercise program, pushing her harder than she might have pushed herself. Yet Dawn felt she hardly knew her. Grace seldom talked about herself. She chatted easily about places she had been and things she had done, told amusing anecdotes about life in New York City. But she shied away from personal questions. Dawn had extracted the information that she had a married sister in New Orleans and her English parents had retired to Miami Beach. Her family knew she was a lesbian, and it didn’t seem to be a problem. Grace had a small apartment somewhere called the West Village. She lived by herself. It was easier, Grace said without explaining why. At times Dawn longed to ask her what it was she

wasn’t saying—what it was that had made her break down that day. Grace gave the impression of being open and candid, yet Dawn was conscious that something was always held back. At times she wondered if it was her imagination. Physically, Grace was affectionate and warm. They held hands and hugged like close friends. Yet they did not make love. Dawn told herself it was because of the tragedy they were all dealing with in their different ways, and she felt ashamed of her own yearnings. Sometimes she just wanted the old flirtatious Grace back. She wanted to be thrown onto her bed. She wanted Grace to rip off her clothes and for them to make love for hours. She couldn’t understand why they weren’t sleeping together. She had made it obvious that she wanted to, but Grace just didn’t seem interested. Maybe she wasn’t attracted to her that way anymore, Dawn thought miserably. Maybe Grace had found her fun for a couple of nights, but had no enduring sexual interest in her. She wished she had someone to talk to about it, but there was only Cody, and under the circumstances, it was hardly an appropriate conversation topic. How could she think about having sex at a time like this anyway? Full of self-reproach, she lifted the tray,

balancing it carefully to compensate for her halting stride. Cody was staring across Passion Bay with such attuned concentration, even Dawn found herself listening for the strangled hum of the Dominie, scanning the horizon for a glint of silver. It still felt unreal to know that Annabel would never come back again. She offered a bone china cup to Cody, releasing a gasp of shock as it was knocked abruptly from her hand. “Cody!” The boyish figure was already kneeling beside the shattered pieces, shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry,” Cody whispered. Dawn sprang down beside her. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.” “These are Annabel’s favorites.” Cody looked up at Dawn. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?” Her eyes were dark with pain. The memorial service. Dawn nodded mutely. “I can’t believe it,” Cody whispered. Then she was on her feet, hurling the broken pieces down with a viciousness that sent the mynah birds fleeing from their hopeful sentinel along the verandah railing. “I can’t believe it. I can’t! I can’t!” She paced the verandah, shaking her head. “Why?” she suddenly shouted at

Dawn. “Why did it have to be her? Of all the creeps out there who fucking deserve to die, why her? Oh God, I can’t bear it. She can’t be dead. She’s not dead!” Dawn started to cry. She couldn’t believe it either. There was a bizarre unreality about this whole experience. It felt like television. She almost expected to wake up and discover that none of this was really happening. She was not the Dawn Beaumont who had gone on holiday and fallen in love with a woman who didn’t want her. Annabel had not crashed her plane. Cody was not acting like a madwoman. “They haven’t even found the plane. So how do they know she’s dead?” Cody’s pacing turned to stomping. “The whole thing was a shambles. Why didn’t they look for her when they got the distress call? It’s their fault. And now she’s gone. She’s gone!” The final word was a wild sob, then Cody was repeating the phrase over and over, weeping brokenly. * Annabel’s memorial service was held in the gardens at Arorangi. It looked like everyone on Rarotonga was there with the devout islanders in their church finery. The early nineteenth-century missionaries, who had

taken over the Cook Islands, had attempted to ban dancing, flowers, and anything else that looked like fun. But the islanders weren’t buying it, apparently convinced that the dour extremes of Protestant abstemiousness were best left to those fool enough to wear starched underclothes in the tropics. Annabel’s family was planning a ceremony back in Boston. They were on their way to Rarotonga to take Cody back with them. It wouldn’t be anything like this, Dawn figured. There wouldn’t be hundreds of people wearing flowers and crying noisily. There wouldn’t be guitars and the biggest feast she had ever seen. It was weird listening to a eulogy when there was no body to bury. Her attention strayed to Grace, then swung back to the preacher who was leading the service. A big silver-haired man in an ornate robe, he waved his arms a lot as he spoke. His sermon was in English and Maori, the two completely dissimilar languages fusing resonantly as he spoke. Cody sat between Dawn and Bevan. Further along the pew were the Premier and various dignitaries. Obviously Annabel had been someone important in this community. The preacher strode back and forth, pausing to direct comments to Cody. Dawn had difficulty following everything he said. He

seemed to be talking about Moon Island and the various legends connected with it. Dawn supposed it was all just superstition, but she was fascinated anyway. To the early inhabitants of Rarotonga, Moon Island was considered sacred to several goddesses. Legend had it that if men ever occupied the island, these goddesses would be angry, and no more children would be born to the Cook Islanders. This pronouncement seemed to generate considerable shuffling among the ranks of the dignitaries. The specter of infertility got the islanders pretty worked up, given they weren’t supposed to pay any heed to such idolatrous superstition. “But we are blessed,” the preacher declared, then added as something of an afterthought, “by the Lord.” He waited for the devout to say amen. “We were sent two daughters to safeguard the island for our people.” Everyone clapped. Dawn was bewildered. This wasn’t like any funeral she’d ever attended. “But one daughter could only stay for a short time. And in that time she made many gifts to our people.” This comment led to a flurry of fanning and sobbing. “Our daughter Annabel has gone,” the preacher intoned. “May the Lord grant her eternal rest.” Feverish

amens. “But our daughter Cody remains.” Audible sighs of relief. “We weep with her at the loss of a loved one.” The crying was contagious. Dawn couldn’t stop herself. She blubbered noisily into her handkerchief, squeezing Grace’s hand until her fingers went weak. Then a very strange thing happened. Cody got up as though she were in a trance and turned to face the congregation, her face startled, expectant. An awed hush fell, and like the islanders, Dawn found herself craning in the direction Cody was staring, trying to see what it was she was seeing. “Annabel?” Cody’s whisper radiated into the hush. The preacher tried to keep things in line. “Her spirit is with us.” Dawn’s spine tingled. She could almost believe it. Then a voice at the rear of the gathering said, “So is her body.” Accompanied by an old woman in very peculiar clothing, Annabel walked calmly through the throng and straight up to her lover, just in time to catch her as she fainted. In the heady chaos that ensued, Dawn didn’t know whether she was laughing or crying. There were people on their knees praying, others singing and clapping, the smell of food cooking. Annabel was all

but buried in flowers and joked about being smothered to death. Beside her, Cody looked flushed and dazed. “It’s a miracle,” Dawn declared breathlessly and gazed around for Grace in the milling crowd. She was nowhere to be seen. Jumping into the fray, Dawn elbowed her way over to Annabel and Cody. “Have you seen Grace?” she demanded as the two women caught hold of her. Annabel scanned the faces around them. “She was here a minute ago talking with Bevan.” Dawn frowned. Grace was always off talking to Bevan. A man. “She’ll be back.” Annabel smiled and gave her a squeeze. “Come with us and have something to eat.” Dawn’s mouth watered at the prospect, but she wanted Grace. She wanted her right now. “I’ll go and have a look for her first.” As Dawn turned to leave, Annabel caught her arm. “I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you. It’s been sweated on and bled on and very nearly died on.” She produced a crumpled note. “Grace asked me to give this to you the day all this started. It seemed important, so I kept it for you.” Dawn unfolded the note and stared at its contents: a New York address and phone number and some

scrawled words.

I lied. You do matter to me and I need to see you again. Please phone me. Grace Conscious she was starting to blush, Dawn stashed the folded paper in her pocket, kissed Annabel gratefully on the cheek, and hustled her way into the crowd. Grace was nowhere to be found, and neither was Bevan. The more she hunted, the more frustrated she grew. Why weren’t they here? This was Annabel’s wake-turned-welcome-home party. What could they possibly be doing that was more important? A nasty suspicion fluttered across her mind. Grace and Bevan? No. It couldn’t be possible. They’d only been spending time together because they were involved in the search for Annabel. Well, she was back now. So where the hell were they? Dawn was fuming when she stumbled on Smithy, who was drinking beer a few yards from the crowd. She tugged on his arm. “Have you seen Grace and Bevan?” He looked startled, then faintly sheepish. “It’s important.” Dawn was almost hopping from one foot to the other. Smithy cleared his throat. “The guvnor did mention

something about the hangar, Miss. But he said…” Dawn didn’t wait for him to finish. Bolting off in the direction of Main Street, she hitched a ride to the airport on the first minibus she spotted. * “How long have you been with Don?” Grace asked as Bevan twisted segments of wire together with his pliers. “Eight years.” “You’re not fed up with one another?” “Quite the opposite.” Grace smiled wryly. She could believe it. She’d spent enough time around Don and Bevan to sense they were the male equivalent of Cody and Annabel. “You mean the novelty still hasn’t worn off?” “Novelty was never really the attraction. We’d both had enough of that for one lifetime.” Grace made a fuss of the knots she was working on. “You’re quite a bit older than Don, aren’t you?” “About the same difference as you and Dawn.” Bevan returned Grace’s sharp look with an unrepentant grin. “You don’t take too many chances, do you, Grace?”

“Only the kind that pay off.” “Life must be very predictable.” “I like it that way.” “Then I guess you’ll be heading back home soon?” She nodded stiffly. “In a couple of days’ time.” Taking a few paces back, Bevan studied their masterpiece. “Well, what do you think?” Grace fell in beside him, her gaze encompassing the B-17 which was festooned from nose to tail with tropical flowers and a huge pink bow twelve o’clock high. “I’ll be honest with you Bevan. I think we could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and just put a sack over its nose. Annabel would still kiss the propeller tips.” “Yeah, that’s Annabel. No bullshit about her priorities. ” “Why am I feeling got at all of a sudden?” Grace politely inquired. Bevan lobbed a hard look in her direction. “What do you want, Grace? You want me to let you off the hook when you put yourself up there in the first place?” “Well, thanks. You’re a real friend.” “Someone has to be.” Grace was stung. “I gather this touching concern is all on account of Dawn Beaumont. I suppose it wouldn’t

occur to anyone that maybe I’m not setting out to break her heart.” Bevan raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t listening, were you?” “I’m not used to a man telling me how to run my life.” “I’m not used to giving a damn if some mate of my boss’s wants to shoot herself in the foot.” Grace’s cheeks stung as if they’d been slapped. A man was calling her an emotional cripple. “Jesus, where do you couple-cultists get off?” she tossed at him. “Wise up, Bevan. Some of us aren’t looking to be recruited.” “Sure, Grace. My mistake.” Grace slammed her pliers onto the workbench. “Let’s go get everyone. We’re late for a party.” At Bevan’s watchful silence, her anger faded. The two of them had been through some rough times, scouring the ocean for a glimpse of wreckage, trying to raise one another’s spirits when all hope had gone. Impulsively, she tucked her arm into his. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “It’s nice of you, but I’ll be okay, really.” Bevan met her eyes. “What about Dawn?” “Yes, what about Dawn?” A small, cross voice carried across the airy hanger.

Grace caught her breath and turned slowly. Dawn was staring from her to Bevan, eyes full of accusation. Bevan, yellow-gutted, wasted no time. “What say I go and pick up Annabel and Cody?” “Be my guest,” Dawn told him, hands on hips. Surveying him belligerently, she added, “And don’t go getting any ideas about Grace. She’s a lesbian.” “Dawn!” Grace stared after Bevan’s retreating figure and tried to stifle her laughter. But it came out anyway, in a thin hysterical wheeze. “What’s so funny?” Dawn demanded. “You go off with some man in the middle of the party and come out here to…to…” “Dawn, Bevan’s gay.” Dawn’s jaw dropped. Grace tried not to laugh. “It’s true. Don’s his lover.” Dawn’s cheeks reddened. “How was I supposed to know? No one ever tells me anything.” She noticed the bomber. “Why has that plane got flowers and bows all over it?” “Because it’s a coming-home present for Annabel.” “From Bevan?” “Sort of. And guess what—they’re not having an affair, either.” “Oh, ha ha. Very funny.” Dawn pouted.

“He’s giving her half ownership. We just thought we’d pile on the glitz.” “I see.” Dawn’s mouth formed a small, round pucker. Grace wanted to kiss her. “Annabel gave me this.” The young woman shyly held up a dog-eared note. “I… It means a lot to me.” “I couldn’t just leave like that,” Grace admitted. “I thought I could, but fortunately there are limits even to my stupidity.” Staring at Dawn’s upturned face, Grace felt humbled. The young woman’s expression was so revealing—hopeful, a little indignant, way too vulnerable. Grace slid her arms around Dawn’s waist and drew her close, planting a tender kiss on her forehead. The silence between them stretched into one of those unexpected and glorious moments when happiness seems there for the asking. Words fluttered precariously. “Dawn,” Grace began. “I—” A loud honking reverberated around the hangar, and both women turned in startled dismay. Bevan’s jeep blocked the doorway. Out of it piled half a dozen people: Bevan and Don, Smithy, Cody, the indomitable Violet. They led Annabel, blindfolded and making laughing complaints, across the hangar.

“What is this?” Annabel protested. “Plucked from the jaws of death, and now I’m kidnapped!” Bevan faced her toward the B-17 and removed the blindfold. Annabel looked completely stunned. Flushing dark crimson, she stumbled toward the bomber. “Oh my God, a B-17,” she whispered. A radiant smile lit her face. “How on earth did you lay your hands on this?” “I got lucky.” Annabel circled the nose, gazing up at the Plexiglass. “I thought there were none left.” “She’s one of a handful. There’s a few still in service in the States. They use them for firebombing. And there’s a couple in Europe. I saw Sally B while I was back home.” Staring up at the Vargas Girl painted on the fuselage, Annabel read, “Lonesome Lady.” “One of my uncles rebuilt her after the war,” Bevan said. “She’s been gathering dust on his farm ever since.” “And he’s given her to you?” Annabel beamed. “That’s fantastic!” Bevan handed her a sheaf of papers. “Take a look.” Annabel flicked through the ownership documents, then fell silent for a moment. “She’s registered in both

our names,” she said huskily. Bevan offered his arm. “Want a tour of your plane?” Smithy propped a ladder against the fuselage and opened the cockpit door. Beaming, Annabel turned to Cody. “Isn’t she wonderful!” Cody’s smile was blended with gloom. “Decent seats would be a bonus.” “Seats!” Smithy snorted. “Yer talkin’ about a bomber, girl. C’mon.” He cocked his head at Dawn, Grace and Don. “You lot can climb in ’er tail.” Dawn hung back a little. “You mean this plane was really in the war?” “Got the flak marks to prove it.” Smithy opened the rear door. “This old girl flew eight missions to Big B, an’ she got ’ome every time.” “It dropped bombs on people?” Dawn asked. What was it with men and their war fetish? “Enemy targets,” Smithy rasped. Eyeing the gun turrets, Dawn felt even more squeamish. Annabel stuck her head out the cockpit door. “Let’s take her up, Smithy.” “C’mon baby.” Grace lifted Dawn up to Cody, who was hanging out of the tail wearing a fleecy jacket. “I’ll

give Smithy a hand, then I’ll fight you for the ball turret.” They towed the B-17 out onto the tarmac. Grace chocked the wheels while Smithy radioed for clearance. “Delay,” he relayed to Annabel with an expressive scowl. “Some millionaire in a bloody private jet.” “My God.” Grace recognized the Argus logo. “It’s Hausmann.” She swung herself into the rear door and plunged along the B-17’s tail to the radio room. “Hausmann’s here,” she told Don. Don was silent for a moment, his brow creased. “Think you can get the asshole aboard?” “Before I break his face, or after?” Pushing past Dawn and Cody, Grace bailed out, shouted to Smithy to wait, and pounded off across the tarmac. * “We’ll all be arrested for this,” Dawn muttered two hours later as Grace and Don frog-marched Robert Hausmann up the steps onto the verandah at Villa Luna. “Nobody’s going to be arrested,” Annabel said with conviction. “We’ve committed no crime.”

“No crime!” Dawn exclaimed, following Annabel into the kitchen. “We’ve kidnapped a millionaire and threatened to push him out of a plane! We could end up in prison.” Grace had lured Hausmann away from his entourage and assorted henchmen, claiming that Cody wanted to talk with him about selling Moon Island. He had gotten quite a shock to find himself face to face with Annabel. Annabel smiled. “Hausmann is not going to bring charges, trust me.” “Well, why don’t you go out there and make sure,” Violet said. “I’ll brew some tea.” She glanced around. “Where do you keep your biscuits, dear?” Dawn tossed her hands up impatiently. “This is madness. I’m catching the next flight out of here.” “Fine.” There was laughter in Annabel’s voice. “Are you going straight back to the airstrip or will you join us for tea first?” Dawn headed for the door. “You’ve all lost your minds,” she declared. “I’m going to see Grace.” * Grace, Don, Bevan and Cody were gathered in a circle with Robert Hausmann at the center. He looked

as pale as he had when he had first spotted Annabel. It would be just their luck if he popped off with a heart attack before they could get him back to Rarotonga, Dawn thought gloomily. “—so you could view this as an opportunity,” Don was saying in a silky voice. “There’s enough material in this article to fry your ass permanently. And an attempted murder rap won’t do much for your credibility either.” “You can’t prove a thing,” Hausmann blustered. “Oh sure,” Grace said icily. “You knew Annabel would never sell so you backed right off. Then by some happy coincidence her plane went down. And before she was even reported missing, you had signed a contract with the Japanese to use the island for dumping.” “I can see the front cover of Time now,” Don said. “‘Multinational Mob Tactics. Hausmann Plays Godfather in Pacific Dumping Scandal.’ And you had it all worked out at this end, too. A couple of malleable officials are paid to shut up, and the Government has a stake in keeping things quiet. You persuaded them to buy shares at a high. If the deal collapsed, the bottom would fall out of the stock, and the Cooks would be bankrupted.” “I’m sure the Premier will be relieved to know Argus

plans to buy back those shares at a premium,” Grace added. “I don’t know how you’re going to explain it to your shareholders, but that’s your problem.” “Okay.” Hausmann raised a hand. “I’m getting the picture loud and clear. What’s your price?” He surveyed them with cynical self-assurance. “Two million and you keep the island. We’ll buy some other coconut kingdom. I really don’t give a shit.” “Then why not dump in your own back yard for a change, Mr. Hausmann?” Annabel emerged bearing a tray of teacups. Setting them down, she glanced around the small group. “I think that seems reasonable, don’t you?” Hausmann began, “What are you talking about?” Grace cut him off. “I think she’s saying maybe it’s time companies like Argus started investing in alternative solutions to waste dumping. Like maybe the people who live here have a few rights, too.” “So tell it to the French and the Japanese. Jesus, it’s not my fucking problem. They want a service, we provide it. That’s business.” “And murder?” Grace grabbed a handful of his shirt. “Is that business, too? You’re in big trouble, Hausmann. And for once you can’t buy your way out.” With an expression of disgust, she released him and turned to

Annabel. “I think we’re wasting our time. It’s you he nearly killed. What do you want us to do with him? Feed him to the sharks?” “Tempting,” Annabel mused, pouring cups of tea. “But let’s not sink to his level. The Dominie was insured, and if it hadn’t happened I would never have met Violet. I guess what I really want is some kind of guarantee that Argus will keep out of the Pacific.” “So maybe a public pledge from Argus that it will suspend all toxic dumping activities, a commitment to put a few million into researching alternatives, some significant donations to environmental agencies…” Grace eyeballed Hausmann. “And you buy back that stock from the Cook Islands government. In exchange we’ll keep quiet and you’ll stay out of prison.” Hausmann was shaking his head. “Impossible. We can’t just get out of dumping. The Mexican contracts alone run for another ten years.” Don was writing furiously. “Okay. So you stay out of the Pacific, and you pressure other corporations to do the same,” Grace said. “Argus is a major shareholder in a dozen manufacturers that I know are breaching their own countries’ environmental protection statutes. I’ll be watching for an improvement in their performance.”

“You’re serious.” Hausmann looked incredulous. He shook his head. “Certifiable fucking tree-huggers.” “You finished drafting that agreement?” Grace asked Don. “I’m not signing anything,” Hausmann protested. “Our attorneys…” “You’re screwed, old chap,” Bevan said. “Get used to it.” “You’re not going to get away with this,” Hausmann hissed. “This is not the fucking Magic Kingdom.” “You better hope it is, at 25,000 feet without a parachute,” Grace said dryly. “You’ll be needing a star to wish upon.” “Milk or lemon?” Annabel asked, handing Dawn a cup of tea as if this was a garden party. Grace scanned the handwritten document then shoved it in front of Hausmann. “Give the man a pen,” she said. Dawn held her breath. Grace’s steely determination brooked no argument. For a long moment Hausmann stared at the agreement in disbelief, then, with a shaking hand, he signed. *

“Do you think we’ll get away with it?” Dawn asked that evening on Rarotonga. They had dumped Hausmann beside the Argus jet, waved Violet off on the Silk & Boyd freighter, and were sitting in a conspicuous huddle around a table at the Banana Court. “We did already.” Don fluttered the contract Hausmann signed. “This is witnessed.” Annabel frowned. “We did obtain his signature under duress.” “It was the least he deserved, surely,” Grace remarked. “What’s a black eye? I wanted to kill the bastard.” Dawn stared at Grace, scandalized at her brazen unconcern. “You’ll lose your job,” was all she could think to say. Grace laughed, a low warm sound. “It’s a bit late for that, Dawn. I’ve already resigned.” “You resigned!” Annabel remarked. “I confess I’m touched.” Grace looked wry. “Well, as much as I’d like to take credit where it’s not due, the truth is, I was going to quit anyway.” “Tired of environmental sabotage?” Cody’s tone fell short of the lightness Dawn guessed she’d attempted.

Grace conceded the point with a slight ironic nod. “I guess deep down even I have a conscience, Cody.” “Well, that calls for a toast,” Annabel said and paused a moment while they organized their drinks. “To conscience,” she pronounced. “A saving grace in tragically short supply.” As they left the Banana Court, Dawn tugged at Grace’s arm. “Have you really resigned?” Grace took her hand and kissed the palm. “I guess I forgot to tell you.” Dawn halted in her tracks. “When? When did you decide that?” Grace’s eyes sparkled, her mouth twitched, then she started running. “Hey! That’s not fair!” Dawn hollered after her. “I can’t run.” Grace put her hands on her hips and laughed. “So crawl!” Outraged, Dawn flung her stick aside, negotiated her way through a throng of parked mopeds, and broke into a mutant form of running. “You wait, Grace Ramsay!” she bellowed. And Grace did.

Chapter Twenty-Two Grace reclined on a picnic blanket beneath a group of rustling palms. Late afternoon was her favorite time on Hibiscus Bay. The heat of the day was fading from the grainy white sand, shadows deepened beneath the palm trees, and the sky was bluer than the ocean. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to wander. They were leaving tomorrow; she for the bite of a New York winter, Dawn to Sydney. It would be Mardi Gras time soon. For a moment Grace allowed herself to wallow in envy. Sydney’s gay and lesbian community was large and thriving. She remembered her days living there as one endless party, from the Sleaze Ball to the Mardi Gras, the dances, the clubs and bars of Oxford Street. In East Sydney it was easy to forget there was a straight world out there. It was one of the best places in the world to be young, free, and lesbian. She imagined Dawn finding her feet there, pictured women picking her up, making love with her. She felt sick with jealousy. Grace was all too aware of the contradictory feelings she had for Dawn, feelings she had been trying to sort out ever since the day Annabel disappeared. It would have been so easy to pick up where she left

off. Dawn had a crush on her. Why not enjoy one another for a few months until the sexual tension dissipated? Grace had rejected the idea almost as soon as she contemplated it. She desired Dawn, yet it wasn’t just sex she wanted. For a change, a meaningless affair had little appeal. What was the alternative? A white picket fence? Honey, I’m home… With a long sigh, Grace rolled onto her stomach and told herself to get over it. Dawn wasn’t her type. She conjured her face, still bearing the last traces of childhood, eyes wide and curious, expression unguarded and at times painfully transparent. She was far too young, Grace decided, and only just coming out. It would be a disaster. Dawn would end up hurt, and Grace would end up feeling like a jerk all over again. Grace thought about her warmth and youthful arrogance, the sensitive emotions she disguised with brashness. Dawn had grit, too. The gutsy selfconfidence that had made her a champion swimmer had also helped her through her terrible accident. Young she might be, but she had character. Grace liked that. She liked Dawn’s honesty, her complete lack of guile. For a split second Grace indulged herself, recalling Dawn’s face suffused with passion, her welcoming

mouth. She could almost feel Dawn naked beside her, trembling and responsive. She was Dawn’s first lover. It should have been someone else. It should have been a woman who really cared about her. At least Grace could do the decent thing now, by stepping aside so that Dawn was free to find that woman. Grace jerked abruptly as something cold and wet landed on her back. A sponge. Groping for it, she hurled it at the laughing woman standing over her. Fending off the soggy missile, Dawn giggled. “I was looking for you.” Without further ado, she plunked herself down on the blanket beside Grace and set about removing her clothes God, she was beautiful. Grace squirmed as her companion prattled on happily about Annabel and Cody, and how crazy she must have been to imagine Annabel would ever cheat. They were so much in love and such a wonderful couple. So lucky . With a pointed look at Grace, Dawn tossed her shirt aside and rubbed sunblock across her naked breasts. There was nothing provocative in her demeanor, yet Grace found herself short of breath. Dawn’s clean, sea-washed scent seduced her senses. A thrill of awareness snapped through her. “My nipples are sore,” Dawn complained, examining

each of them with dismay. “They must be sunburnt.” Carefully she applied lotion to them. Grace laughed softly. Her own nipples were sore too, but not because of the sun. She was so aroused, her breasts were aching. “Look,” Dawn said, pulling off her shorts and pointing proudly at her more damaged leg. “Muscles.” Grace’s gaze slid down the ragged scar, noticing the improved tone and greater fullness. “That’s great,” she said, clearing her throat. She could hardly take her eyes off Dawn’s thighs, the bright triangle of her bikini pants between them. Dawn was so much less wary of showing her injuries now. Sometimes she seemed completely unconscious of them. She still took painkillers, but less often. Realizing she was staring, Grace looked away. Dawn seemed to interpret her withdrawal as something more significant. Looking crestfallen, she asked quietly, “Do my legs repel you? Is that why you …we…” “No. Not at all.” Grace ran her fingertips lightly across the scarred flesh. Her hand lingered on Dawn’s thigh. It was not the first time Dawn had alluded to their platonic friendship. During the past few days, she had

made a point of seeking Grace out, letting her know in a myriad of ways that she wanted their love-making to resume. Dawn released a small sound half way between a moan and a sigh and slid down the blanket, closing the gap between them. “Why?” she murmured urgently. “Why don’t you want me any more? Please tell me. Was I no good or something?” “No!” Grace denied emphatically. “You were wonderful.” Memories swamped her senses. Dawn hot and wet, clinging to her, crying out in startled ecstasy. “Then why? Is it because I’m younger?” “Maybe that’s some of it,” Grace didn’t want to be drawn into this. Noble self-sacrifice had never been her strong suit. She needed to get up right now and walk away from temptation, or her good intentions would pave the proverbial road to hell. She permitted her arm to drift around Dawn’s waist, planning to tell her as gently as she could that she would be better off finding someone closer in age, someone who would love her the way she deserved to be loved. “Dawn, I still desire you,” she said. “I never stopped. But—” “No buts.” Dawn removed her sunglasses and stretched a hand to Grace’s face, sliding her fingers

into her hair. She brushed Grace’s mouth with her own, whispering, “I’ve missed you so much. Please make love to me.” Their kisses deepened. Unfastening Grace’s shirt, Dawn slipped her hands beneath the soft cotton, drawing Grace closer until their bodies were perfectly aligned. Her hands felt tentative against Grace’s back, delicately caressing her prickling flesh. They stared at one another, breathing hard. Grace’s heartbeat gathered speed. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, knowing this was her last chance. If she didn’t walk away now, she was going to take Dawn Beaumont to bed and to hell with the consequences. “Your place or mine?” Dawn asked, as if Grace’s compliance was a foregone conclusion. And she was right. Grace hesitated for less than a second, and said. “You choose, baby.” Without another word they got up and walked handin-hand into the jungle, leaving their blanket and clothing languishing beneath the tropical sun. * Dawn looked nervous as they entered her bedroom, but she turned to Grace and moved into her waiting arms. Grace kissed her slowly, and they all but

collapsed onto the bed. For a long time they lay still, locked in an embrace that was replete with emotion —relief, passion, tenderness, anticipation. The heat of their bodies soon transformed to moisture, and they slithered against one another, thighs intertwined, hands caressing, mouths tasting. Grace felt wild laughter rise inside her at the sheer delight of Dawn’s touch. Nerves dancing beneath her skin, she kissed and licked her way past the full damp breasts she had missed so much, over Dawn’s rounded belly, down to the fine blonde hair that divided her thighs. Dawn gasped with delight as Grace slid an arm beneath her, lifting her slightly and capturing her clit delicately between her teeth. Exerting the very slightest pressure, she teased the tiny bud into swollen awareness, ceasing only when she could feel Dawn’s arousal climbing steeply. Grazing her tongue over skin as smooth as watered silk, she traced a sensuous path down to the salty, yielding opening, the secret passage they had shared with such intensity. As Grace buried her tongue there, Dawn’s legs closed around her head, imprisoning her. For a long while, Grace was content to respond to the demands of Dawn’s body, giving what she had withheld, building a bridge of sensation she could

cross at will. Soon she would take Dawn home, right over the edge. But not yet. She wanted to linger, to cherish every inch of this woman, to savor every moment of their lovemaking as if it might be the last. Yet at the same time, she wanted to lose herself mindlessly in the honeyed trap of passion. Grace turned her face to the pliant flesh of Dawn’s inner thighs, licking and biting softly. She found the knit of scar tissue, puckering the polished satin of Dawn’s skin, and followed it tenderly along her leg. The younger woman stiffened at first, then relaxed as Grace claimed ownership of her most sensitive self. “Please,” she whispered, quivering and hot. “Now. Please Grace.” Grace drew back, drinking in the sight of Dawn’s flushed cheeks, her eyes damp and dark with arousal. “You’re beautiful.” Taking Dawn in her arms, Grace lifted her to a kneeling position, and, facing one another, they moved as if joined, bodies and mouths aligned. Grace paused in her caresses, gasping when Dawn’s teeth sank into her shoulder. Fiercely, she twisted her fingers into Dawn’s hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. Controlling an urge to devour the sweet hollow

at its base, she gently kissed her way around the column of her neck, finding the hot, wild pulse beating as crazily as her own. Dawn’s breathing came in short harsh bursts, and her skin glowed pinkly. She murmured hoarse little pleas as Grace covered her shoulders in soft bites and licked the film of moisture collecting between her breasts. Seizing Grace’s hand, Dawn guided it determinedly between her thighs, where her soft pale hair was matted with her juices. “Please.” She gripped Grace’s shoulders for balance. “I can’t bear it.” With a sense of awe, Grace drove her fingers inside Dawn, and the rhythm of their lovemaking altered sharply. From somewhere deep in Dawn’s throat a low sound emerged. Wracked by a series of deep shudders, Dawn sagged against Grace, and they both collapsed onto the sheets, laughing between wild kisses. Limp and panting, they floated in the liquid aftermath of pleasure. Grace could not remember how she ended up on her back, but suddenly Dawn was kneeling over her, gripping her shoulders. “I love you,” she said, running her hands across Grace’s breasts. “Tell me what you want.”

Grace took Dawn’s hands, drew them to her mouth and kissed the fingers with sensual deliberation. There was a time when she could have answered that question in precise technical detail, but it felt like a thousand years ago now. For a split second she felt fearful, reluctant to expose herself. Then she smiled and said, “It’s you I want, Dawn. Today. Tomorrow. Always.”

Epilogue Three months later on Passion Bay, Cody announced, “It’s a letter from Dawn. Want me to read out the best bits?” Annabel peered out from beneath the brim of her hat. “It’s not another description of some DJ at that club is it? I think I’m getting old.” “No, they’re in Sydney now. Grace got a job with Greenpeace. Who would have thought?” Cody scanned the letter. “Dawn came out to her folks. She says they’re still praying.” “That’s nice, dear.” “The cops in New York have a suspect and the DNA matches. Grace described the other men to the sketch artist, too.” Cody read on. “She’s seeing a therapist.” “All good news.” “Dawn wants to borrow the B-17.” Annabel raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” “She’s been taking flying lessons.” “God help us.” “She wants to know how easy it is to skywrite,” Cody said. “Dare I ask why?” “For the Mardi Gras next year,” Cody enthused. “She

wants to paint a rainbow flag over Sydney.”

About the Author Jennifer Fulton is a best-selling lesbian romance writer who is a recipient of the 2006 Alice B. Readers' Appreciation Award. Born in beautiful New Zealand, the author now resides in the Midwest with her partner and a menagerie of animals. When she is not writing or reading, she loves to explore the mountains and prairies near her home, a landscape eternally and wonderfully foreign to her.

The Sacred Shore

Successful tech industry survivor Merris Randall does not believe in love at first sight until she meets Olivia Pearce. But Olivia is deeply scarred from a damaging relationship, and has no plans to love again. Thrown together in a sensuous paradise thousands of miles from home, each comes face to face with her destiny. Anthropologist Dr. Glenn Howick is also on Moon Island, but romance is not on her agenda. Chasing the career-making discovery of a lifetime, Glenn must decide whether she can exploit the spirituality of another culture for her own ends. Another moral dilemma looms in the form of her research assistant Riley Mason, a post-grad student whose love for Glenn threatens both her reputation and her most secret self. After five years of bliss, life seems complete for the island's owners, Cody and Annabel. At least Cody thinks so. But Annabel has recently woken up to the sound of her biological clock ticking. With preparations underway for the secret rituals local women perform to celebrate the goddess of the island, the topic is

consigned to the back burner. Then Annabel's cousin Melanie shows up with a young baby and a desperate problem. Third in the Moon Island Series

The Sacred Shore © 2008 By Jennifer Fulton. All Rights Reserved. ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-065-4E This Electronic Book is published by Bold Strokes Books, Inc., New York, USA Original Bold Strokes Books Ebooks Edition: August 2008 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits Production Design: Stacia Seaman Cover Design By: Bold Strokes Books Graphics

Chapter One Merris Randall contemplated the menu. The paper was handmade, the text crisply embossed and silken to the touch. In a few years time no one would remember what real printing felt like, she thought. A subtle watermark caught her eye. Two locked hearts for Valentine’s Day. How could she have forgotten? What kind of a Freudian slip was that? “I don’t know what to have,” her companion whined, as if it must be restaurant policy to frustrate their patrons with an excess of choice. Bethany, Merris reminded herself. Or was it Tiffany? She looked like a Tiffany. “The mahi mahi is good here,” she suggested. “I can’t eat fish.” Can’t. It hung there: the alluring prospect of an evening spent discussing food allergies or, better yet, the burning question of whether fish had souls. Merris allowed the opportunity to slip by. “I thought you drove a Porsche,” Bethany noted after another frown at the menu. “I used to.” “Oh, no. The ex got it. Bummer.” Wide baby-blue eyes plumbed Merris’s face for signs of emotion. “But

you got the house, right?” Great. Complete strangers knew the grisly details of her break-up. Merris supposed she had Allegra to thank for that. Her ex mistook everyone she met for her own private talk show audience. Which is how Merris had discovered their relationship was neither happy nor monogamous in the first place. “The house was mine to begin with,” she said in a discouraging tone. Bethany brightened. “I guess it must be pretty quiet with the kids gone.” Merris knew her lungs were functioning, but her breath seemed trapped in her chest. She lowered her gaze to the menu. Words waltzed before her, converging into sentences that made no sense at all. Bethany had the grace to color. “Shit. That was a stupid thing to say.” “It’s okay. You’re right, anyway. Mealtimes aren’t the same without egg foo yong being thrown across the table.” Bethany gave a nervous twitter. “I’m never having kids. I’m far too selfish!” It was socially appropriate to insist otherwise, but why debate the obvious? Merris changed the subject. “Any particular wine preference? Or shall I choose?”

Bethany shrugged. “I’m not fussy. I like the pink ones. ” This was a bad idea, Merris decided. Sitting opposite her was an attractive young woman who was willing to dress up for a blind date with a jaded thirtythree-year-old recovering from a messy break-up. For her trouble, she was being judged a shallow dimwit based on a few tactless remarks and an ignorance of wine. What is your problem? Merris asked herself. Making an effort, she put the menu down and smiled at her date. “Sam says you volunteer at the animal shelter.” “I help at the thrift store. It’s so cool. You get to see all the best stuff first, which is important.” By way of explanation, Bethany added, “I’m a Barbie collector.” Merris wanted to say You have got to be kidding. Instead she feigned interest. “Really?” Bethany promptly opened her purse and produced a studio portrait of a blonde Barbie doll posed in front of an Eiffel Tower backdrop. “Nineteen-fifty nine. Mint with her original case. You would not believe what I paid.” “Shock me,” Merris invited. “Twenty dollars!” She was almost squealing. “Some moron has a hissy fit with his wife, so he puts her dolls in a yard sale while she’s on vacation. Only she’s a

collector!” “You made out on the deal, huh?” “She’s worth like five thousand bucks,” Bethany declared, aglow. Merris gave a low whistle. So much for tech shares. Little girls all over America would make more hanging on to their dolls. Collecting was not a pursuit she fully understood. Some people were in it for the money, but for most it seemed to be a genuine passion. Apparently Barbie really did it for Bethany. Merris stole a cursory glance around the restaurant. Naturally, it was heaving with couples. Most were holding hands, and none looked gay. In fact, Merris and her date were the only same-sex diners in the place, apart from a group of four women several tables away who were decimating a large pitcher of martinis. Merris dwelled for a moment on one of them, a thirtysomething in a crimson velvet dress. She was not pretty in any clone-like way you could order from a plastic surgeon. Her mouth was full and uneven, her nose too strong, her dark eyebrows straight and unplucked. She wore her long, silky black hair loosely pulled into a Grecian knot, the effect a cross between formal and bedroom. Her dress echoed the same general theme, cut high enough to avoid the smallest

hint of cleavage, yet low enough to showcase a neck and shoulders worthy of one of those yuppie-porn coffee-table books. Merris conjured up a suitable title:

Homage to the Nape. She followed the slope of one perfect shoulder down an arm that was smooth and shapely. The left hand was naked of rings, a fact that made Merris’s pulse jump irrationally. She checked out the other three women to see if anyone was acting like her partner. They were laughing and touching one another the way gal pals do. The goddess wore a remote smile, as if she were observing her companions from her own tiny island. Merris wondered what she was thinking. *

You enter with your dreams intact. You leave them behind, scattered through the rooms you shared, taped to walls that heard too much, swept beneath rugs whose patterns you learned too well during unbearable silences. How could love fail? Olivia felt like a captain who had scuttled her ship only to discover land was not where it should be. Passion is not a reliable

navigation system. The heart is not a map you can trust. Sensible people who were not in love had told her it was doomed from the start. The signs were there for all to see. She was a fool to have convinced herself love would triumph, no matter what. Now, she too could break bread at the table of disillusion. Her friends called this getting real. “Ah, the coup de grâce,” Abigail announced as their waiter approached. “Raspberry bavarois,” he intoned, meeting no one’s eyes. Olivia stared at the dessert set before them. It was heart-shaped and shimmering blood red. Oddly, it was served on a platter of wood. Next to it lay a knife that belonged to the shower scene from Psycho. Abigail got to her feet and brandished the murder weapon with a flourish. “Happy Valentine’s Day, darlings,” she declared and plunged it into the dead center of the heart where it quivered, firmly buried in the board beneath. “To Olivia!” With over-bright smiles, everyone raised their glasses. Olivia forced a laugh and sipped her drink. “You wretches. I hate you.”

“Do you want to hack it up, sweetie?” Abigail offered. “Or shall I?” “Be my guest.” Olivia looked anywhere but at the mutilated Valentine. The room was a sea of perky couples, drinking champagne and pawing at one another, lovers savoring the bliss of mutual passion. Her eyes flooded suddenly. “Time to powder my nose,” she said, lurching to her feet. “Downstairs through the conservatory, past the Chagall print and to the right,” Abigail instructed, the consummate tour guide even on her days off. Three martinis, Olivia thought, as she made her way unevenly toward the staircase. What she really wanted to do was run as far as she could from the restaurant. In fact, from her life. The banister felt damp beneath her hand, and she stood frozen at the top of the stairs, contemplating whether a fall could be fatal. Behind her, a woman’s voice asked, “Are you okay? ” “I’m sorry.” Olivia hastily stepped aside to allow the stranger by, almost losing her balance in the process. A hand caught her arm. “Allow me.” Olivia glanced sharply sideways, encountering a squarish face, dark ash-blonde hair, and hazel eyes so

perceptive they had to be reading Bitter, brokenhearted woman drowning her sorrows. Embarrassed, she allowed herself to be guided down the stairs, past the potted palms, to the restrooms. There the stranger released her arm and held the door open. With a brief thank you, Olivia found herself mercifully alone in a small marble bathroom that smelled of some pseudo-floral perfume the previous occupant had applied too lavishly. Part of her wanted to open the door and see if the hazel-eyed woman was still there, waiting the way a husband would, a few awkward paces away. Irritated by this train of thought, she ran some cold water and cupped damp hands to her face. This had seemed like a good idea when Abigail phoned with her screw-Valentine’s-Day attitude and dark sense of humor. It was time Olivia returned to the land of the living, she insisted. There were plenty more fish in the sea, if you were still kidding yourself they were worth the price of bait. For a moment Olivia wished she could be an Abigail, a woman for whom love and having sex were unrelated pursuits. Abigail had long ago relinquished the former as nothing but grief, in favor of the latter with its reliable charm. She kept her emotional eggs tucked safely away where they could not be crushed by someone she trusted. As

a consequence, she was a happy, confident woman. Olivia stared at herself in the mirror and tried to remember the face that used to look back at her in the days when she was brimming with joy and hope and awe. In just three years, all trace of that person had been erased. Make-up could conceal the dark rings caused by crying, but not the self-doubt in her eyes. She forced her customary smile and watched the mask she hid behind slide into place. Everyone did this, she supposed. Maybe Abigail did it too. Maybe the entire world was a masked ball and you never really got to see anyone as they were. No wonder love was a fool’s paradise. No wonder people became alienated. How could you feel secure if you hid the real you from your partner? On the other hand, if you offered yourself unmasked, rejection was a blow to your very core. Did anyone get over that? Olivia applied some gothic rose lipstick to her mouth and took a step back from the mirror. Would things have been different if she looked like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model? Was Hunter that superficial? *

Merris hovered near the restroom for a moment, imagining Bethany abducted by aliens and the woman in crimson velvet accepting an invitation to join her for the rest of the evening. They would not discuss Barbie dolls or Merris’s divorce, but instead discover a shared passion for walking at night in a strange city. They would laugh that they both knew the date and time and place they had tasted the very best oysters, probably Malpeque or one of those incredible varieties from Brittany. By the end of the evening, they would be snared in an unspoken yes. She should have asked the goddess her name, she thought. Not that it would make any difference. No selfrespecting alien was about to abduct Bethany. And the stranger in the restroom was probably straight and used a database to sort her suitors by charm, wit, sensitivity, skills in the sack, and bank balance. Merris shone in none of those categories. In fact, if Allegra’s opinion were any gauge, she stank in all but the bank department. Bethany was therapy. That much Merris accepted. Her best gay pal, Sam, had fixed them up. She could appreciate his reasoning. A cute, breasty ditz who will have sex on the first date was a reliable bet for anyone with a bruised ego. If Merris had any sense she would

take full advantage. What was the worst thing that could happen? She pictured Bethany thinking about Barbie accessories while they were fucking. She needed a cigarette. Shame she’d given up. By the time she got back to the table, the waiter was lurking nearby with their meals. Bethany had finally ordered the Cornish hen. “It’s the whole bird,” she said, aghast. “You don’t have to eat all of it,” Merris pointed out. She’d ordered Maine lobster. It was the smaller kind, always the sweetest. Bethany gave her meal a tentative poke. “It’s so awful finding actual bones.” “Would you like me to call the waiter back? They can de-bone it for you in the kitchen.” Bethany seemed charmed by this. “Well, thank you. Sam told me you’re a considerate person.” Merris laughed. “Sam was selling me, hmm?” “He did a good job,” Bethany said as the waiter took her hen away. “He said you’re considerate, honest, and deserved much better than…well, you know.” That was Sam. No problem taking sides. It was an endearing characteristic in your best friends. Out of the corner of her eye, Merris caught Ms. Neck and Shoulders returning to her table. A moment ago her gal

pals had been in a conspiratorial huddle. Now they were animated again and the artsy-looking one who’d been making the toasts seized the goddess’s hand, flamboyantly kissing it. Were they together, after all? If so, it must be non-monogamous. Ms. Artsy had been cruising Merris most of the evening. “Don’t mind me,” Bethany said. With a guilty start, Merris returned her attention to her date and realized Bethany was gesturing toward the lobster, thoughtfully suggesting she start her meal. “It needs to cool off for a bit,” Merris said, replenishing their wine for something to do. Not for the first time recently, she felt profoundly disoriented. Her life had spun out of control. It was as if some cosmic wheels had been set in motion, and nothing she did would make a shred of difference to the outcome. She had no job, no relationship, and no children unless she drove across town to visit them. Everything that had given her life meaning had suddenly been swept away. “Wow.” Bethany greeted the arrival of her Cornish hen à la Gerber. “Extra topping.” All that and she probably ate about three mouthfuls, Merris observed a little later, sucking the last juices from her lobster. Now that she thought about it, she

could see Bethany didn’t just collect Barbie; she wanted to be Barbie. Eating was clearly out of the question, which explained the disproportionate appearance of the young woman’s hands and feet. Average-boned, she could never be truly petite, only thin. Then there were her breasts. It had always puzzled Merris why any woman would starve herself into a size two, then rush out for implants so she could get back the breasts she’d forced her body to consume. There were people who found big tits hanging off a child’s frame a hot look. Merris was not one of them. Looking past Bethany, she saw the four women leaving. This was her chance. What if she slipped Ms. Artsy her card? It would be worth dating her at least once if it meant getting her gorgeous friend’s name and phone number. Merris located a business card and wondered if she were brazen enough to do this. She was out of practice. “If you’ll excuse me.” She fed Bethany the same excuse she’d used earlier when she saw the crimsonclad goddess heading for the restrooms. “My beeper just went off again.” “Sure. No problem,” Bethany said. Merris thanked her and went quickly downstairs. In

the lobby, she made like she was taking a call on her cell phone. As the four women came down the stairs, she glanced up, all nonchalance. Ms. Artsy gave her a come-hither smile, but before Merris could palm a business card, one of the group began waving at her like she was a long-lost friend. “Merris! Merris Randall?” She had curly auburn hair and freckles, and Merris had never clapped eyes on her. “You probably don’t remember me. Polly Simpson. I was at your commitment ceremony. Allegra’s roommate from college.” She turned to her friends, gushing, “It was the most romantic day of my life, and it wasn’t even me tying the knot. But you know how it is with some couples. You can just tell it’s going to be happily ever after. Oh, let me introduce everyone!” Merris stuck her cell phone back on her belt and shook hands with Polly and a woman called Kate, then with Ms. Artsy, otherwise known as Abigail Zola, a name that could only be made up. “And this is Olivia Pearce.” Polly finally got around to the goddess. Merris imagined taking that cool outstretched hand and leading its owner out of the building. The evening was ice cold, stars glinting like shattered glass against a midnight sky. They could walk along the darkened

streets and pretend to be in Venice. Merris would charm the beautiful Olivia with worldly tales and polished manners, earn her trust by taking no liberties. This was not a woman you grabbed in the dark. What really happened was that she fumbled the handshake. Worse than that, she blushed, something that had not occurred in living memory. Decently, Olivia pretended not to notice. Maybe from her distant isle she hadn’t. “How do you do?” Her accent was British, her tone low and sweet. She promptly took back her hand. Merris cleared her throat, searching for something to say. “Well, nice meeting you all,” was the best she could muster. “Tell Allegra hi for me, would you,” Polly said. “It’s been a while.” “I’ll do that if I see her,” Merris replied carefully. She didn’t want to encourage questions, but she wanted Olivia Pearce to know the much-vaunted happily ever after had not transpired. Olivia appeared indifferent to this information, but Polly’s mouth froze in a small O. She started to say something, then looked helplessly at Abigail, whose role was apparently rescuing people who had put their foot in it. Abigail rose to the occasion with deadpan candor.

“Sounds like Merris should have joined us tonight. “Valentine’s Day is our annual general meeting. The Society for the Romantically Challenged, that is.” Merris grinned. “Dare I ask the eligibility criteria?” Abigail, a beat ahead, dropped her card into Merris’s top pocket. “Call me and we can discuss it. Meantime,” she glanced up the stairs, “I believe your date is looking for you.” Halfway down the staircase, Bethany could not hide a pout. Casting a poisonous look at Abigail, she said, “Honey, did you want me to order coffee?” Oh, great. Merris could almost hear everyone adding two and two. First she makes indirect allusions to her broken relationship. Now a twenty-two-year-old with home-wrecker written all over her is calling her Honey . Merris bit back the urge to proclaim, I am not a cheat. Not only would it make her sound guilty, but with her supposed ‘love’ standing right there, a real jerk as well. Summoning what dignity she could, she said, “Coffee sounds good. I’ll be right along.” To hell with introducing Bethany like she meant something. Merris knew she already looked like a rat. Did it matter if she shirked the social graces? She bade the women a hasty goodnight. Only Abigail made eye contact, and Merris had the

distinct impression she knew exactly what was going on and found it highly amusing. As for the goddess, she was already out the door while her companions were still fastening their coats.

Chapter Two The wonderful thing about Cherry Creek was high walls, Merris reflected as she waited for her electronic gates to open. The not-so-wonderful thing was that everybody assumed you were filthy rich if you lived there. The house had been her parents’ one big investment. There was no trust fund to support the property taxes and maintenance costs. Instead, Merris had worked like a dog ever since she inherited the place six years earlier. In hindsight, she could see that Allegra had never really believed she had to earn a living like everyone else. To a girl just one generation from the trailer park, a huge house in Cherry Creek meant you were wealthy, whether or not you wanted to admit it. And Allegra had behaved accordingly, spending Merris’s paychecks like so much loose change. In some regards, this had been a blessing. Merris would never have started her own software company if it hadn’t been for all her maxed-out credit cards. It was Allegra’s idea. Mortgage the house, get rich in the technology boom, and she’ll have a baby. The rest was history. Rather than join the dot com marketing bubble,

Merris’s company had developed online security and encryption systems. The business made a lot of money, and Allegra had duly given birth to twin girls. It should have been a happy ending. They had the beautiful house, the beautiful life. How could it have gone so wrong? The twins were sixteen months old when Merris accepted a takeover bid for her company that only an idiot would turn down. That same week she had discovered Allegra was seeing someone else, not just seeing her; but paying her rent and buying her groceries. The affair had been going on for six months. When had Allegra planned to say something? “I don’t see what difference it makes,” Allegra said when Merris confronted her. “I’m not going anywhere.” “My partner has been seeing another woman for the past six months, and it’s not supposed to matter to me?” “I tried to tell you,” Allegra muttered. “You tried! When did you try? Before you rented that love nest with my money?” “I knew you wouldn’t understand. I knew you’d be like this. That’s why I couldn’t say anything.” “So you cheat on me and lie about it, but it’s my fault?” “I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. It was meant to be a

fling. I was going to stop seeing her, but…” “But?” Allegra stared at the floor. “She makes me happy.” Merris drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled, calming herself. “And I don’t?” Allegra ran a hand over her pale curls. It was a weary gesture that communicated her disillusion with no need of verbal embellishment. “People grow apart,” she said as if choosing her words very carefully. “You’ve had other priorities. First it was work, then the girls. There’s always something.” Merris stifled a gasp. “I reorganized my entire life for you. I had to work around the clock because you decided to buy twenty thousand dollar pearl necklaces without telling me. Remember?” “It must be great to rub my face in that every time we fight.” “I’m sorry.” Merris reined in her anger. After their last row, she had promised she would stop bringing up that damned necklace. “This just doesn’t make any sense,” she said, breaking a terse silence. “If you were unhappy with me, why on earth did you get pregnant?” “We had a deal, remember? You wanted children.” “Are you saying you don’t want our daughters?” “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m their mother!” Allegra’s

mouth trembled. “I didn’t plan this, you know.” Merris was silent. Two alternatives presented themselves. She could be a hothead and throw her partner out, or she could find some way to repair their relationship. Having a baby took an emotional toll on any woman. Merris had read the pregnancy books. Every one of them spent pages discussing the difficult transition new mothers had to make. Many felt unattractive and insecure. After a baby, relationships came under stress. People made mistakes. But a committed couple could forgive one another and start again. Sometimes a nightmare like this could strengthen the cloth that bound two people. Merris studied the fluffy blonde curls Allegra insisted on repressing with mousse and gel. Vibrant and hopelessly spoiled, her partner was accustomed to being the center of attention. Merris could only imagine how devastating it must have felt to be unable to fit her clothes, to find most people no longer related to her as a woman, only as a mother. On top of that, she had to manage not one but two babies when it turns out she didn’t want children at all. By contrast, Merris’s life had barely changed after the twins were born. She got up and went to work every day, stayed late if things were hectic, had drinks with

friends, traveled on business. She couldn’t wait for weekends to spend time with her daughters; it was one of the reasons she had agreed to be bought out of her company. What few personal compromises she’d had to make were well worth it. Her life felt complete and whole and balanced. It had never occurred to her that Allegra did not feel exactly the same way. Merris took a measured breath. “Look, just answer me this. Do you want our relationship or not?” “I said I wasn’t going anywhere.” Allegra’s tone was flat. “Nothing in your life needs to change. I’ll be here looking after the house and the girls and your clothes and your donations, and making sure the yard guy turns up, and your dinner parties get catered, and your friends get birthday cards. Isn’t that what you want?” “I thought you wanted it, too,” Merris said stiffly. “Whatever. Look, plenty of people have arrangements like this.” Feeling obtuse, Merris asked, “Like what?” “They stay together for the children and they get their needs met by other people.” “They stay in the material comfort their partner provides and fuck around on the side?” Merris translated. “You stopped making my sex life any of your

business a long time ago.” “That’s not true,” Merris objected. “Oh, please. When was the last time you treated me like a lover instead of your fucking housekeeper?” Allegra fell silent as if shaken by her own sudden fury. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. She grabbed a glass of water from the table next to her and took a gulp. “Are you saying this is all about sex?” Merris was incredulous. Allegra stared past her to some distant point. “If it makes you feel better, go ahead and make it that simplistic.” “What then? You’re in love with this…this Romeo?” “Her name is Corey, and she makes me feel like a woman. She puts me…us…first.” “And I don’t?” Allegra stared into her glass. “There’s no point in this,” she said, almost to herself. “You twist everything I say.” Merris could hardly believe what she was hearing. “We have a dry patch so you go get a lover instead of talking to me?” “You’re incredible. I have the twins and our sex life is over. I did talk to you. For months. I was the one asking if we could work on it, remember? I was trying to save

our relationship.” “Choosing someone else is a funny way to go about it,” Merris retorted. Allegra released a slow sigh. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to make this my fault. I’m the shallow bitch who used you, and you’re the wonderful partner who got screwed. It’s all about your ego.” Merris controlled the urge to slap her. “No, it’s about trust. And loyalty. And honesty. We’re in a relationship.” “Is that what you call it!” Allegra hurled her glass at the fireplace. For a long moment, Merris studied the crystal shards scattered across the hearth. She felt oddly detached, almost dazed. Her gaze shifted to her wristwatch. How could so much change in a single sweep of the second hand? Feeling light-headed, she got to her feet. “Let’s stop before we say anything else we’ll regret. I’m going to go spend the weekend in Vail. While I’m away I want you to break it off with what’s-her-name. When I come back, we’ll start again, and I promise things will be different.” Allegra’s eyes flooded. “It’s too late, Merris. Starve something long enough and it dies.” *

For a woman who claimed she had no head for finances, Allegra had lost no time suing Merris for child support and half her net worth. Merris’s lawyers thought a custody suit was the appropriate response, but she could not bring herself to use their daughters as a bargaining chip. Whatever her faults, Allegra was their mother. Eventually they reached a settlement Merris could live with; a trust fund in her daughters’ names and a monthly allowance paid to Allegra for their support. In exchange, Merris had full visitation rights, and the girls could not leave Colorado without her consent. As of today, the papers were signed. Officially, they were no longer a family. Merris stalked through the garage into the house. What she wanted to do was smoke one cigarette after another and get very drunk. Instead she took a shower. It wasn’t every day you signed a check for two million bucks to pay off a woman who’d betrayed you. She felt sweaty just thinking about it. For a long time, she stood beneath the water. The hot jets felt so good she didn’t want to move. What now? she thought.

Chapter Three The beech trees in front of Olivia’s house marked the passage of time. Like love, they came into bud bursting with promise, unfurled, rejoiced in the sun before it became their enemy, then withered, fell, and were trampled. Ten months had passed since her break-up with Hunter, and still each long empty day converged into another just like it. She knew months had passed and seasons had changed because the trees told her so. Once more they were barren. This would be her second winter alone. A squirrel danced across the red and gold palette of her lawn, its dainty hands clasping some tidbit. One day soon it would snow, Olivia thought as she drove out of her garage. The world would be sugared white. The air would shock her lungs and paint her cheeks. Thanksgiving would be a very different holiday this year without the usual influx of Hunter’s family. For an only child, Olivia thought she had handled the rivalries and informality of Hunter’s large family very well. There were five sisters and four brothers. Most of them had married young and, like their parents, had more children than they could afford. But they were a happy crowd and didn’t seem to have a problem with

Hunter’s sexuality. Life was straightforward for them. You worked if there was work to be had, fed your kids, went to church, and belonged to the NRA. Only rich city folks like Olivia had time for navel gazing. Olivia had found this uncomplicated approach refreshing. It was one of the things that had first struck her about Hunter. Here was a woman who would tell it like it is, she had thought. No bullshit. No hidden agendas. After a few years in LA, it was like a glass of fresh mountain water to a parched traveler. Olivia couldn’t get enough. She had never met anyone like Hunter. They didn’t grow them like that where she came from. Women did not wear Stetsons in London. They did not drink beer, rest their cowboy boots on the table, or play love songs on a guitar. Olivia’s friends found Hunter anachronistic. Olivia had found her breathtaking from the first hello. It was a Saturday night almost four years ago, and Benny Berenbaum, Olivia’s agent, had said he wanted her to meet someone. She had to wear a low-cut dress and some fancy earrings. It was a cocktail party. They drove to a mock-Tudor mansion in Beverley Hills and were greeted at the door by a butler who, Benny confided, was the real thing from England. He had been headhunted by the guy they were about to eat

canapés with, Steve Shaw. Mr. Shaw owned Zane Records. His label had just bought six of Olivia’s songs for some discovery they described as ‘the new kd lang’, as if the old one had already hung up her hat. “I told him there’s plenty more where these came from,” Benny said, waving the contract. “Isn’t Zane a country label?” Olivia tried not to sound horrified. “A great tune is a crossover tune.” “I write blues.” “You write hits,” Benny corrected. “Who gives a shit if there’s a fiddle involved?” Steve Shaw saw it that way, too. He loved her work. “Train Rolled By” made him cry the first time he heard it. He took her arm and led her across an expanse of Italian marble to a room where people were congregated around a white Steinway. A bow-tied pianist was playing jazz. Steve interrupted him, waving the room into silence. He thanked some people, made sincere-sounding compliments about someone’s new film, said a few words about the Grammys, then announced, “I am proud to introduce the young lady who’s going to take the New Country Artist award next year, Hunter Carsen.” The clapping quickly subsided as a latte-flavored

voice suffused the air with emotion. “I bruise easily …and you hold me too tight…” At first Olivia could only see her hat through crowd. But Benny hustled them closer. “I smell platinum,” he said, chafing his palms. Olivia hardly recognized the song as one of hers. Hunter Carsen sang it like she owned it, breathing life and truth into each phrase, infusing the lyrics with meaning Olivia had scarcely realized was there. Her voice was a drug. Steve Shaw was not exaggerating the Grammy potential. This woman was more than a good singer; she was mesmerizing. Whatever that elusive something was that everyone wants a slice of, she had it by the truckload. Olivia took in her well-worn jeans, cowboy boots, an ornate belt buckle, a plain black shirt, black Stetson, and astonishing lapis blue eyes. Hunter removed the hat when they were introduced. Her hair was short and bleached blonde. She wore no make-up and a smile that was clean and open. Nothing about her was contrived. In a world where people knew they were consumables, she had no need to invent herself. Hunter Carsen was the real thing. “Songs like yours make me want to sing,” she said in low, soft accent Olivia could not place.

“I had no idea my songs were like that until you sang them.” Because this was LA, she added, “I’m not just saying that. I mean it.” Hunter smiled full force. “Guess I just sold my first album.” Olivia laughed then blushed. Astonished by the heat in her cheeks, she said, “Where are you staying?” “At the Hotel California.” Hunter’s lips twitched. “Only been wantin’ to say that my entire life.” Olivia knew her own laughter sounded forced and unnatural. She seemed to have lost control over the muscles in her face. Even Benny noticed her discomposure. “Glass of water, babe?” he asked. “Please,” Olivia said too quickly. Telling herself to stop acting like a star-struck twelve-year-old over a woman who was not even a star yet, she said lamely, “I’ve never stayed there.” In fact, she had no idea it existed outside the Eagles song. “Well, actually I was kidding. I’m at the Beverly Hills on Sunset.” Hunter’s gaze was level and tinted with amusement. “If you’re not doing anything later, maybe you could stop by.” “I think Benny has plans for us after this.” “So tell him you’re busy,” Hunter drawled. Her blue

eyes traced a languorous path over Olivia’s body. “There’s an arrangement I’ve been working on for one of your songs. I could really use your input.” Olivia felt a flurry in her ears as her pulse quickened. She hesitated, searching Hunter’s face. “You think I’m hitting on you?” Olivia blinked. “No. I…” “I wasn’t, but I sure would like to.” Olivia knew she should say something sophisticated and neatly sidestep the invitation. This was the music business. You had to make it first, then announce your sexuality, not the other way around. Someone should tell Hunter. Instead, she said, “Let’s get out of here.” That was only four years ago. It seemed like a lifetime. * Olivia pressed the play button on her CD as she stopped at another set of lights. The Cherry Creek traffic was already heavy. Everyone went out on Saturday mornings. Finding a place to park near The Tattered Cover would be today’s karmic test. Either the gods were with her, or against her.

Olivia reminded herself that signs and portents were for grannies gambling their social security checks in Vegas. A well-educated, sensible Englishwoman was not a prisoner of flaky superstition. She would end up in the parking garage anyway, she reasoned. Why circle the block and expose herself to some cosmic lottery? On the other hand, maybe she should be open to the universe, no matter what they’d taught her at the Presbyterian Ladies’ College. Against all the odds, Olivia found a spot on Fillmore. She was still gloating over this triumph ten minutes later as she leafed through a London tourist guide in her favorite bookstore. It was always interesting to see what other people noticed about the place where you were born, she thought. Strangers drew such wonder from the sights you took for granted. Olivia had grown up in one of the elegant white row buildings that encircle the Kensington Gardens. Her early childhood had revolved around boating on the Serpentine, exploring the local museums, and attending various concerts and political demonstrations in Hyde Park. People traveled from all over the world to experience what she took for granted: the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Tower of London. Yet these were not the

sights she missed most about home. She missed the intense green of England, the clouds of daffodils flanking every country road, the tiny doorframes in pubs that were built hundreds of years ago, when people were not much over five feet tall. Sometimes she even missed the gray skies and the imminent threat of rain almost every day of the year. Smiling, she turned her attention to the European travel section. Tuscany was always reliable. Prague was fun. Or there was the incomparable Peloponnese, where Paris had stolen Helen of Troy and sparked the Trojan War. As a child, she’d spent many happy summers wandering the Continent with her parents, who considered travel an excellent substitute for formal schooling. Eventually they had succumbed to social mores and dispatched her to the same boarding school her mother had attended. They still lamented this decision, holding the Presbyterian Ladies’ College responsible both for Olivia’s meat eating and her penchant for expensive shoes. Like most socialists from upperclass backgrounds, they had chosen a private education for their child only to wallow in perpetual guilt over it. They would be thrilled to see her, Olivia reflected. It

had been a while. If she had to hide somewhere and continue licking her wounds, why not choose the familiar comforts of home? She pictured herself explaining what had happened to her relationship. The sympathetic but unsurprised faces. Going back to England would feel like a defeat when she’d made a whole new life for herself across the pond. She had to find some other way to move on. Almost a year had gone by. Why hadn’t the fog lifted? Olivia had the strangest sense that there was a destination lying in wait for her. Somewhere unknown. The miraculous parking experience this morning was a sign, she decided. She had cast herself upon the mercy of the Fates, and they had answered. Her hands roamed the shelves. A slender volume caught her eye. Paradise Found. It was a travel cliché, but she pulled the book anyway. The jacket claimed it was an insiders’ guide to Pacific hideaways for travelers who sought privacy. Naturally she did what any selfrespecting intellectual would do and went straight to the pictures. One idyllic beach setting always seemed much the same as another to her. Yet Olivia caught her breath over a long shot that appeared to have been taken from a shady verandah. It depicted a turquoise lagoon

encircled by sand that seemed impossibly pearlescent. The caption read Honeymoon couples

can forget about Moon Island. Local custom banishes men from these sacred shores! Olivia flipped a few pages, only to find that someone had removed the Moon Island section and, just her luck, this was the only copy on the shelf. More annoying still, Moon Island wasn’t mentioned in the index of any other book on the region. Perplexed, she headed for the information desk. “I can’t even find the place in an Encyclopedia,” she pointed out. “Your best bet is probably a travel agent,” the young woman at the desk said, handing Paradise Found back to her. “This is out of print now.” “Of course it is,” Olivia rolled her eyes. And if The Tattered Cover didn’t have any other book that mentioned Moon Island, the place probably didn’t exist. Irritated, she bought the defaced book anyway and took it upstairs to the café. As usual the place was packed, no sign of anyone departing imminently. She’d have to sit with strangers. Normally she didn’t mind, but this morning she was not in the mood. At a table nearby someone was

enmeshed in a newspaper, their entire face screened. Another anti-social coffee drinker—perfect. Olivia approached the table and politely asked, “Mind if I sit here?” “No problem.” The bent head did not even lift to see who was asking. Thankful, Olivia set her coffee down and politely angled her chair. Facing away from the stranger, she opened her book and studied the picture anew. Could a place like this actually exist? Olivia allowed herself a daydream: warm sand slipping through her toes, coconut milk on her breath, the reassuring pulse of waves reaching the shore, a romantic sunset, the strum of ukuleles, Hunter kissing her. * Merris glanced up sharply at an odd sound from the woman who occupying her table. Had she choked on something? Peering over her newspaper, she caught her breath in a jolt of recognition. The woman from the restaurant, all those months ago. Olivia Pearce. Today her black hair was in a single heavy braid. On anyone else the style might have looked dowdy. Olivia, however, wore a pair of long ornate gold earrings set

with garnets that drew attention to her perfect ears and of course that long velvet neck. She looked like a Frida Kahlo portrait, Merris thought. There was a stillness about her that spoke of inner tranquility. Maybe she was Buddhist. Or she meditated or did yoga. She had the poise of a dancer or a model without the brittle self-consciousness. This was a woman disinterested in veneer, Merris decided. How often did you meet someone completely comfortable with herself? She repressed an urge to reach out and touch her as one might a painting, instead striking up conversation with a phony line. “Excuse me. Haven’t we met somewhere?” “I believe you were kind to me in a restaurant once.” Polite, but not encouraging. “Planning a vacation?” Merris indicated the book. “Tempting myself.” A slight smile. Merris folded her newspaper. “I’m getting another coffee. Want to join me?” Only the briefest hesitation. “I don’t usually take espresso from strangers. But why not?” Why was she doing this? Merris asked herself as she ordered two double shots. She had flunked the partner test. This was not the time to start looking for anything more than the meaningless encounters that

had punctuated the last nine months for her. Since signing that big check, she had done some serious thinking and reached an unavoidable conclusion. She had sabotaged her own relationship. It was a disturbing insight, more so because she had absolutely no idea why. She set their coffees down and told herself that there was nothing wrong with making a new friend. Just because she found this woman attractive did not mean she was going to do anything about it. For all she knew, Olivia was straight and married. “I think my friend Abigail was hoping to hear from you,” Olivia remarked. “Oh?” Not the ideal direction for their conversation. “She mentioned you a few times after that evening in the restaurant.” Was this Olivia’s way of letting Merris know her artsy friend was gay, and by inference herself? “To be honest, I haven’t really been seeing anyone,” Merris said. “Just the occasional date. You know, so I don’t forget how to open the passenger door.” “Ah.” No turnabout disclosures. No intrusive questions. Just the slightest nod of empathy, an invitation for Merris to speak or say nothing, as she pleased.

In a bid to get beyond meaningless small talk, Merris said, “I’ve no idea how long it’s supposed to take after a breakup. Maybe I’m slow.” Olivia sipped her coffee, eyes veiled. “Messy?” “You could say that.” Merris surprised herself by adding, “I feel tired. Incredibly tired.” Olivia made eye contact. “You look it.” “Great.” “Amazing, isn’t it, the damage we do one another?” A ripple passed beneath the surface tranquility of Olivia’s face. In its wake, Merris glimpsed pain so naked and real it jolted her. “Sounds like you have experience.” “Don’t we all?” She wasn’t biting. “You live nearby?” Merris steered the conversation back to safe banality. “Cherry Creek.” “Me, too. We’re probably neighbors.” “If we are, perhaps you could tell your gardener to stop blowing leaves in my yard,” Olivia said gravely. “Fall.” Merris groaned. “Don’t you hate that leaf pressure?” “It’s like mass paranoia in our street.” Humor warmed Olivia’s voice. “Last year the guy over the road sent everyone a bill for leaf clearance.”

“You’re kidding.” “Now he’s installed extra security cameras on his gates and—wait for it—they point outward. My yard guy says he’s collecting evidence. You know, whose leaves are blowing onto his driveway.” “Schmuck.” Merris laughed. “How long have you been in Denver?” “Two years. I used to live in LA.” “Part of the Californian migration?” “You could say that. We came for the snow and stayed.” We. On an impulse, Merris said, “Speaking of snow, I’m taking a drive in the mountains tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me.” There was an unmistakable flicker of interest in the dark eyes, before her face grew shuttered once more. “I can’t do that. But thank you for asking.” “Another time.” Merris shrugged, guessing that was unlikely. For some reason this unsettled her. She knew she could not simply say goodbye and walk away. From the moment she first saw Olivia Pearce, the woman had preyed on her mind. It was nothing so simple as a case of lust or the usual post-relationship quest to prove oneself viable. With a shock of awareness, Merris

understood that her universe had been disturbed. It was as if a clock, long unwound, had starting ticking and she could not escape its persistent hammer. She knew, with a certainty as irrational as it was compelling, that in Olivia she was staring at her destiny. Queasy all of a sudden, she thrust a hand into her pocket. “If you change your mind, here’s my card.” For a split second it seemed Olivia might not accept it. When she did, she did not offer hers in return. She glanced down at the card and immediately looked up again as if pleasantly surprised. “You’re just a block from me. I’ve probably walked past your house a thousand times.” “Well, next time stop in.” It took a huge effort to make the invitation sound casual and friendly instead of pleading. Quit while you’re ahead, Merris told herself. She knew instinctively that Olivia would not respond to being railroaded. “I may do that some day.” Olivia’s expression was impossible to read. She tucked the card into her book and slid her chair back. Merris made a mental note of the title, Paradise Found. Something about the Pacific Islands. “It’s been nice talking with you.” Olivia gathered up her coat and purse. “Enjoy the mountains.”

“I always do.” Merris found a casual smile. “Take care of yourself, Olivia.” Willing her to look back, but not expecting her to, she watched Olivia walk away. Her shoes seemed too frivolous for her dark pencil skirt and cream blouse, and Merris felt her jaw drop a fraction as she noticed something else. Stockings. With seams up the back. Merris knew she was wearing a stupefied expression when Olivia glanced back. Casting the merest ghost of a smile at Merris, she lifted a hand in farewell. With every fiber of her being, Merris wanted to run after her and insist on taking her home or at least carrying her parcel to the car. Telling herself to get real, she waved back, picked up the newspaper and opened it at random. The first headline she saw proclaimed, “Lovestruck Drivers A Menace Says Report”.

Chapter Four “Cody?” Annabel Worth gathered up her leather flying jacket and aviator sunglasses and headed for the door. Her lover reclined on a hammock on the verandah, dark head drooping, a gruesome-looking mystery novel splayed across her stomach. Her small breasts rose and fell in the tempo of slumber. It was that kind of day, hot and tranquil, palm trees inert against a cloudless sky, the pulse of the ocean sluggish, insects too lethargic to fly. Even after five years on Moon Island, Annabel still found the concept of endless summer astonishing. It was an East Coast thing, she figured. Thirty years in Boston, and you came to expect foul weather right around the corner. She contemplated awakening Cody, but instead stooped to drop a soft kiss on her forehead. Before Annabel could retreat, her arm was seized. “Not so fast,” Cody wrestled her into the hammock. “You’re not sneaking off without a proper kiss!” “This thing will collapse,” Annabel protested. Cody’s dusky gray eyes regarded her with a mixture of mischief and invitation. “Not if we stay very, very still.”

She kissed Annabel with slow deliberation, and began easing her shirt from her pants. Annabel swatted her hands away. “Don’t even think about it, Cody Stanton. We have guests waiting to be taken to Raro.” Dodging further kisses, Annabel struggled to her feet and pointedly dusted herself off. Cody groaned. “Sometimes I wish this place wasn’t so popular.” “So that you could spend your entire life reading detective novels?” “So we could make love any time we felt like it,” Cody said huffily. “I get sick of sharing you. Who’s coming this week? Another closet case having a fling behind her girlfriend’s back?” “Honey, it’s no business of ours what our guests get up to. We run a resort, not a correctional institution.” “I don’t like home-wreckers.” “Well I don’t think we have any arriving in the near future.” Annabel consulted her introduction sheet. “Tomorrow there’s a Chris Thompson coming off a cruise boat.” “Rich and lonely mid-fifties who lucked out at the Dinah Shore,” Cody interpreted. “Then there’s those anthropologists from UCLA coming for the Hine te Ana rituals.”

“Oh, great.” Cody pulled a face. “I forgot about them. It’ll be Birkenstocks on every doorstep. Naturally Dr. Whatever is a vegan.” “Dr. Glenn Howick,” Annabel supplied. “We’re going to make them very welcome. The University has offered a scholarship to a young Cook Island woman.” “In exchange, Dr. Howick gets to treat this place like a human zoo?” “I’ve spoken to her and she seems very sincere. Look, it says right here in the file she’s a world authority on ancient tribal religion and practices in the South Pacific. She has written seven highly regarded texts on the subject.” Cody grunted. “You are going to be charming to her,” Annabel reiterated. “She’s wasting her time anyway,” Cody muttered. “It’s not as if she can watch the ceremony unless the island women invite her, and that’s not happening.” “She says she wants to explore the sacred sites and interview some of the women who participate. It sounds harmless enough.” Annabel had informed Dr. Howick that the rituals the local women conducted on Moon Island were secret. Men were forbidden, and non-Islanders could only

attend if invited by the ruahine. Like most pre-Christian traditions, the Moon Island rituals had been stamped out by missionaries in the previous century, and for many years women who persisted in making the dangerous canoe journey to the island were punished when they returned. Eventually no one came, and Moon Island lay abandoned. Finally, in the 1960s, Annabel’s aunt Annie had moved to the island with her lover and child. Local women interpreted this as a sign from the old gods that they too should return, and before long a ruahine, or priestess, was appointed. Nowadays, once each year, the local women held a special ceremony in honor of Hine te Ana, one of three goddesses believed to dwell on Moon Island. According to legend, Hine te Ana was a princess washed ashore after trying to save the life of her small daughter who was claimed by the sea god Tangaroa. Stricken, she had climbed the dangerous cliffs above the beach and retreated into a cave to mourn her child. There her tears formed a great pool and when Marama, the moon goddess, looked down into the cave and saw Hine’s weeping reflection in the silver waters, she took pity on her. For one night she granted the princess’s greatest wish: to see her daughter

again. To this day, the islanders believed that any woman invited by the goddess to look into the magical waters inside the cave was granted a wish. However, any trespasser looking down into the sacred pool without her blessing was cursed. The cave’s exact location was a mystery, but during the rituals it was said the goddess sometimes singled out a woman and led her there. No one made the journey to Moon Island by canoe any more. Annabel picked up the ruahine and other participants on Rarotonga and flew them in. Cody then delivered them by boat to the Sacred Shore, as Hine’s beach was known. They were picked up two days later. What happened in the intervening period was strictly tapu, or sacred, and discussing it was forbidden. “Where are we putting the doctor?” Cody asked. “Over the other side of the island, I trust.” “They’ll be in Marama Bay where we can keep an eye on them.” “I can hardly wait,” Cody mumbled. “You are completely incorrigible.” “Let’s go make out on the beach, while we’ve still got the place to ourselves.”

There was an edge to Cody’s voice Annabel seldom heard. She tilted her head in unspoken question. “I want you,” Cody said. “Is that so hard to believe?” “When it’s in that tone. Yes.” Annabel touched her arm. “You seem cranky. Want to talk about it?” Cody swung her feet to the wooden boards. “I feel like we never get any time together. And it’s not just that. Ever since that fight about the baby, you’ve been distant from me. I hate it.” Annabel shook her head, bemused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re together all the time. And this is the busy season.” “Let’s go away somewhere. Just us.” An urgency entered Cody’s tone. “We could shut the place up for a month or two.” “Darling, we’re booked solid. We won’t have any time clear until the middle of next year.” Cody sighed. “Can’t we say something has come up? There are plenty of other islands ’round here.” “None that are women only. Our guests choose us because that’s important to them.” “Okay, so let’s plan a time and take no reservations.” “Good idea,” Annabel took Cody’s hands and lifted them to her mouth, tenderly kissing the palms. “I love you,” she said, very serious. “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve

been shutting you out.” “I don’t blame you, after what I said.” Annabel shrugged. “Well, you were right. I’m not the motherly type.” Cody colored. “It was a stupid and cruel thing to say and I’m sorry. Anyway, I didn’t rule out the whole idea,” she added defensively. “I said I had to think about it.” “That was six weeks ago.” “There’s a time limit?” Annabel felt a quick surge of frustration. She had promised herself they wouldn’t have this discussion again. Her lover wasn’t ready for a baby. It was that simple. Cody was five years younger than she. Annabel’s biological clock was ticking, and Cody’s was not. Like a fool, Annabel had convinced herself that Cody would be completely thrilled with the idea of starting a family. She had broached the subject one night after they had made love, anticipating that they would fall asleep in one another’s arms united in their decision to begin a wonderful new chapter of their lives. Instead, Cody had behaved as if Annabel must be kidding. Then, when she realized Annabel was serious, she had made her opinions very clear. Cody had no interest in raising a child and, even more discouraging, she

seemed to think Annabel would make a lousy mother. Annabel had spent the rest of the night crying in the spare bedroom, and for the next few days they had barely spoken. Finally, Cody accused Annabel of using emotional blackmail to get her way, and they had a fight even worse than the first. They made up eventually, but the damage was done. If she were honest with herself, Annabel knew Cody was right. She had been distant ever since, not trusting herself to have another discussion. The issue was too emotional. Forcing an even tone, Annabel said, “Let’s not go there. Okay? Can you understand that because it was important to me, I wanted it to be important to you, too. I’m just coming to terms with the fact that it’s different for each of us. If I seem to be pushing you away, I’m truly sorry.” Cody’s mouth trembled. “I know you want a baby. I know it’s important. I was trying to give it time, that’s all. You know, trying to picture how it would be. It’s been just the two of us for five years, and it feels perfect. I can’t imagine us any other way.” She broke off and wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her arm. “I’m sorry I was such an idiot. Please, can we talk about his again when I’ve gotten used to the idea?” Touched, Annabel kissed her lover’s wet cheek. With

a flash of insight, she understood Cody had her own process to go through, and she was just doing her best. Annabel had been thinking about a baby for at least a year. In her excitement at having made her own decision, she had expected Cody to come to terms with the idea in less than five minutes. “I haven’t been fair about this. We can talk whenever you’re ready,” she said. “I’m sorry, honey.” Cody held her tight. “Maybe I’m pre-menstrual.” “Well, we can do something about that later,” Annabel said. “But first…” “I know.” Cody made a face. “Someone has to unload the pineapples.” * Four thousand miles away, Riley Mason checked her watch and jiggled her car keys impatiently. “That comes to twenty-six dollars fifty,” the librarian at the returns desk informed her tonelessly. “One of these was on reserve.” “I’m sorry.” Riley foraged in her satchel. Her wallet was trapped beneath a heavy binder. She could hear the next guy in line swearing beneath his breath. “Here…” She located a couple of crumpled twenties.

Without lifting her head, the librarian indicated a sign that said. WE DO NOT GIVE CHANGE. PLEASE PAY FINES IN CORRECT DENOMINATIONS. Riley stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets and produced a handful of quarters. “Look, all I need is five bucks. Can you…” “There are people waiting.” The librarian glanced pointedly at the growing line. “You can make change at the help desk.” “And wait in line again? Please, Sarah.” Riley humiliated herself by begging, “I’ve got a class, and I need to get this re-issued. It’s for Dr. Howick.” Sarah was unmoved. “Then she will need to come down personally. I’ll put the book aside.” The moral–never date a librarian. Riley had only gone out with Sarah for three weeks. There was no chemistry. Their lovemaking had been mutually unrewarding, and they had little to say to one another when they weren’t in bed. But Sarah still referred to “our relationship” long after their fling was over and had told everyone that Riley Mason had internalized homophobia and a hang-up about oral sex. Since then, the offers had flooded in. Not! “Okay, you win.” Riley pocketed the unwanted cash and snatched the books out of the indignant Sarah’s

hands. They were already late. How much worse could it get? She would go get the goddamned change and stand in line again. She was taking that book to the Cook Islands tomorrow. Period. “By the way,” Sarah called after her. “Those Nikes you left at my place. I gave them to the Salvation Army.” Why? Riley asked herself two hours later in the local Starbucks. What did she do that brought out the very worst in women? She glanced at a group of students sitting at a window table. They were deep in importantsounding conversation, laughing and touching and making the occasional sweep of the room to ensure they were being noticed, preferably by someone cute. Riley caught herself returning a flirtatious stare and hurriedly swung her attention back to her laptop. Didn’t she have enough problems? She had an essay to complete before she could leave town. Her subject was the impact of deforestation on female spirit mediums in Pattani province, Thailand. Naturally, she would get a C. Faculty don’t enjoy being dumped any more than librarians, especially when they’ve risked their career to date a student. This campus wasn’t big enough for her and twenty crazed ex-girlfriends. She was getting out in the nick of time. She had been stunned when Dr. Howick invited her

to join the Moon Island research team. The woman was her idol. Intense. Scholarly. Self-assured. Deeply hot. They would be sharing a cottage on a tropical island. Riley could barely draw breath at the thought. They would be working into the night, perhaps taking moonlit walks on the beach to clear their heads. The stars would be low and bright, the sea an expanse of shimmering ripples. They would discuss the socioeconomics of gender oppression in the Asia Pacific region. Glenn Howick’s throaty voice was such a distraction that her words would be lost even as Riley fantasized about silencing them with kisses. “In your dreams,” she mumbled to herself. It wasn’t going to happen. For a start, who knew if Dr. Howick was even a lesbian? There were rumors, but no one had ever heard of her with a partner of either gender. The Time magazine article Riley had pinned on her bedroom wall described her as “intensely private,” a well-known press euphemism for closet queer. But Riley wasn’t so sure. She was an expert at spotting lesbians in deep cover, and so far the mysterious professor had stayed under the gaydar. Dr. Howick revealed nothing of herself to anyone, it seemed. She kept her students at a distance and made people respect her boundaries. No one had an ounce of dirt

on the woman. Was she human? Riley pictured herself at Glenn Howick’s side, taking notes that would eventually be forged into a seminal work on female tribal customs. People already said Howick was the next Margaret Mead. This book would make her a world authority. She would need a faithful assistant on her lecture tours. By the time they had finished their study on Moon Island, Riley planned to be the prime contender.

Chapter Five Chris Thompson stared down at the boat-shaped papaya dessert on her plate. Tucked beneath it was a decorative slice of rubbery coconut cut in the shape of a flower. Hibiscus adorned the table, orange and red hues as vivid as the sunset she had enjoyed from the deck that evening. In the background, a band in white dinner jackets played uninspiring jazz. The bald man seated next to her invited her to dance, explaining, “My wife’s seasick.” Chris declined the offer. “I’m lucky. I haven’t been sick once since we left Hawaii.” “You traveling alone?” She had been asked the same question at least a hundred times during the past week. “That’s right.” He responded with a sly wink. “Give it time.” Did she look like she was on the make? Chris took stock of herself as others might see her; a sturdy woman in a plain cream shirt and olive pants, silverthreaded sandy brown hair brushed back from her forehead, her face free of make-up. She glanced across the table at the other unaccompanied female present at the evening meal. They had spoken briefly at the swimming pool that morning. The woman,

clutching a cocktail extravaganza with a slab of a pineapple clinging to the side, had introduced herself as Linda. She had no intention of swimming, she’d said, offering to reserve a deckchair while Chris swam a few lengths. She’d had her legs waxed that morning and looked like a plucked chicken. Linda was on the make. She had spent the evening sizing up the men at their table and asking those she found interesting to pass her various condiments. She had danced with a couple of the married ones, perhaps so she wouldn’t seem too obvious. Catching Chris’s eye, she smiled conspiratorially, as though they were fellow strategists in the same man-hunt. Chris returned a smile that was politely discouraging. She was not sure if this cruise had been such a good idea. Certainly she had relaxed, exercised, tanned, and eaten well. She had met some pleasant people—versions of her parents, mid-west folk on the vacation of a lifetime. She had considered going on a women-only cruise, but did not feel ready for the cut and thrust of the meat market. It was eighteen years since she had been ‘out there.’ Besides, she still felt married to Elaine. She’d spotted a few lesbians on board the cruise boat, mostly closeted couples who seemed anxious to

remain so. They had not encouraged her overtures of friendship. Perhaps she looked too lesbian. Her unfeminine appearance was guaranteed to draw speculative attention to any woman she was with. Or perhaps the couples she encountered were simply in love and snatching precious time together. Three was a crowd. Her hand moved to the heavy locket suspended between her breasts. She could remember that feeling. “Going ashore tomorrow?” her bald neighbor inquired, adding, when she turned blank eyes toward him, “Rarotonga?” “Yes. Actually, I’m leaving the cruise. I’m spending the rest of my vacation on one of the islands.” “You don’t say.” Chuckling, he lowered his voice. “Now you watch out. They eat white folks ’round these parts.” Chris swallowed her final mouthful of papaya, doubting the guy had any idea how offensive he’d been. “Well, I’ll look forward to that,” she said solemnly. “It’s been a while.” * “It’s just writer’s block,” Polly said. “You’ll get past it.”

“It’s sexual frustration,” Abigail corrected. Olivia rolled her eyes. “I can’t write because I’m not getting any?” “How many entire albums did you write when you and Hunter got together?” Abigail demanded. “And how many songs over the past year? You do the math.” “I think it’s slightly more complicated than that,” Olivia said. Abigail was unimpressed. “Whatever. But a change of scene is exactly what you need. Trust me. You won’t believe this place.” “It sounds fantastic,” Polly enthused, reading from the brochure, “The undiscovered jewel of the Cook Island group. A paradise decreed by ancient tribal tradition to be for women only.” “I’ve reserved the two-week Celebrity Seclusion package,” Abigail continued. “They even offer discreet bodyguard surveillance as an option.” Polly giggled. “Imagine it. Some hunky butch hanging around holding your towel.” “Oh, please.” Olivia groaned. “And I don’t need a celebrity package, for God’s sake.” “Just thought you might be missing the excitement …stretch limos, TV cameras, sycophantic hangerson…” Abigail said, all innocence.

“Uh huh.” Olivia had detested the relentless public scrutiny life with Hunter entailed, and her friends knew it. “So you’ll do the luxury getaway instead?” Abigail typed into her laptop, which, thanks to wireless technology, was no longer relegated to its case when they dined out. “Your own secluded cottage…private beach…snorkeling…scenic flights…” “It could be worse,” Kate chipped in. “I mean if you can’t write songs on a desert island, where can you write them?” Olivia removed the olive from her martini and chewed it thoughtfully. She had begun to wonder if she would ever write again. It happens. No one can come up with hits indefinitely. Maybe songwriters only had so many great ideas and once these were all on paper, you were condemned to recycling. It didn’t help that every time Olivia thought of a line, she heard it in Hunter’s voice. “It’s not like I need to write another song in my entire life,” she said candidly. “All it takes is one hit, and thanks to Hunter, I have six.” “But it’s not just the money, is it?” Kate said. “You wrote songs for years without making a dime.” “They were not very good songs,” Olivia pointed out.

“Oh, I don’t know. I always liked that one about the wilting rose. How does it go?” Polly forged a few words together with some off-key humming. Olivia winced. Here was a solution to her creative angst. If it were Polly’s voice instead of Hunter’s she heard as she composed, she wouldn’t miss her work at all. “Guess what. We scored a cancellation, so you leave at midday tomorrow,” Abigail announced. “I’ll house-sit.” “Tomorrow?” Olivia was aghast. “I can’t leave tomorrow.” “Why not. You’ve started packing, haven’t you?” “It’s not that. It’s just—” Abigail tapped her squared off nails on the table. “Give me one good reason why you should wait.” * Two hours later, with piles of folded clothing all over her bed, Olivia still couldn’t come up with a single excuse to cancel. Somehow, she had known she would journey to Moon Island from the moment she had picked up that book in The Tattered Cover. When she’d raised the topic with her friends, Abigail had

immediately insisted it was the perfect destination. She knew about the place from colleagues in the travel industry. It was one of those best-kept secrets. And being women only, families and straight honeymooners were ruled out. What could be more ideal? Olivia studied the brochure again. The photographs depicted expanses of white beach, palm trees, crimson sunsets on a shimmering sea. The place was operated by two women. A picture showed them standing in front of a gorgeous tropical villa, obviously a couple. Everyone who stayed there was probably a couple, too, Olivia thought. How depressing. The phone rang, and for a moment she vacillated. She didn’t recognize the caller ID. Probably a sales call. She picked up impatiently. “Hello?” Silence. Then, “Olivia?” Had she responded? Olivia didn’t know. Her mouth was frozen. “I’m in town,” Hunter’s voice poured into her ear. “Can I see you?” Olivia held the phone away from her face and took several short sharp breaths. She felt winded. Hunter was here? What did she want? “That’s not possible,” she finally managed. “Please.” That low husky beg she’d never been able

to resist. “It’s important.” Olivia closed her eyes. The phone was slippery with sweat. She knew she should say no, but she couldn’t. Ten minutes later, Hunter stood slouched against the sitting room fireplace, thumb in her belt, a booted toe awkwardly tracing a pattern on the tile. “You look great,” she said. “You look awful.” Olivia handed her a shot of Sazerac, reminding herself to throw the bottle out later. There was no reason to keep rye whisky in the house any more. “We’re recording.” Hunter said as if to explain her pallor and reddened eyes. She drank the shot and handed the glass back for another. “It’s all my own stuff. ” Since when was Hunter any kind of songwriter? “Your fans will be thrilled,” Olivia commented dryly. These days Hunter only had to breathe into a mike and you could hear the money being printed. “It sounds like shit. Nothing’s working.” “Too much coke, not enough sleep?” Olivia suggested, pouring a second shot. Hunter looked defensive. “It’s the songs. Steve is pissed. He says my writing sucks.” Olivia shrugged. This was news? “Well I’m sorry to

hear that,” she said insincerely. “It doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” “Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for.” There it was. That crooked flash of a smile. Those wayward eyes making promises they both knew she could keep. Olivia could feel color swamping her cheeks. It seemed at any moment her heart would force her ribcage open like a clam. She willed her legs to carry her back across the room to the liquor cabinet. With shaking hands she poured some vodka on ice and made a show of sipping it. Hunter was flirting with her. She flirted with every woman, Olivia reminded herself. “Baby, I’m sorry,” Hunter burst out. “I’m sorry I hurt you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I blew it.” She sidled across the room to stand just a touch away from Olivia. “I’ve been practicing this for months, and I always figure you’ll slap my face about now. So knock yourself out.” She inclined her head and tapped her cheek lightly. Despite herself, Olivia smiled. Her heart had lost all sense of rhythm. Hunter had come to apologize. It had taken the best part of a year, but she was here, and the look in her eyes told Olivia she really meant it. “I want to make it up to you,” she continued huskily. “I can’t handle this not-talking shit any more. Nothing

works when you’re not there.” Olivia was struck by her thinness. The torn 501s were hanging from her. She must have lost fifteen pounds since they broke up. Of course, without Olivia around to rain on everyone’s parade, Hunter was surrounded by people who only said yes. There were no limits. No drug she couldn’t buy. No one she couldn’t bed. “Are you using again?” Olivia wrapped her suspicions in a neutral tone. “Shit. You sound like my mother.” It was Hunter’s standard response to anything she didn’t want to hear. “God forbid the people who love you actually give a damn,” Olivia remarked. Hunter grinned. Her eyes were softly challenging. “That sounds like you’re saying you care.” Olivia was overwhelmed with the urge to say yes, to seize whatever it was Hunter was offering. Yet something jarred. This was not the Hunter who had colonized her mind every waking moment since the day they met. The singer seemed to have aged ten years in ten months. There was a brittleness about her, a tautness in her face Olivia had never seen. Hunter had always maintained that she could control her drug use, insisting that getting high occasionally

did not mean she had a problem. When occasionally became every day, she went into denial. From the look of her, Olivia was certain she was at the every day stage. “I can help you,” she said. “I’ll make some calls right now and check you into rehab. No one needs to know.” As if she hadn’t heard a word, Hunter slid her arms around Olivia and drew her close. “You feel amazing,” she murmured. “I’ve missed this. I miss us.” Me, too, Olivia thought. For a few seconds, she managed to hold her body stiff. Then her flesh began melting against Hunter’s. People messed up, she reasoned with herself, especially in this business. There was so much temptation, so few boundaries. One minute Hunter was a complete unknown; the next, women were throwing their panties at her. Was it any surprise she had trouble staying grounded? If they were back together, Olivia could help her get clean and stay clean. This time everything would be different. Hunter’s mouth was on her neck, the kisses slow and hot, and suddenly Olivia was where she had longed to be every painful day since they parted. “Remember Aspen,” Hunter murmured. “Those songs you wrote.” In bed. Between lovemaking. Days in a row. Olivia

caught Hunter’s shirt in her hand, twisting her closer. How often had she played this scene in her mind? Hunter coming back to her, full of remorse, knowing she’d made a mistake, knowing they belonged together, and promising nothing and no-one would ever come between them again. “I miss that,” Hunter whispered in her ear. “I miss your words. What have you been writing lately?” “Nothing much,” Olivia admitted. “My work’s shit, too. ” They laughed softly against one another. “I’m guessing that could change,” Hunter said. Her blouse was on the floor, Olivia noticed. And Hunter’s hands were unfastening her bra. Now was a good time to stop, she thought. Instead she reached for Hunter’s belt. Hunter caught her wrists and pulled her to the sofa. “Will you do something for me?” she asked, softly biting Olivia’s throat. “Opportunist.” Olivia released a sharp sigh as Hunter’s teeth moved to a nipple. “Write.” Hunter placed her hands over Olivia’s hips. “Now. Like we used to. Write something wonderful.” She slid her knee between Olivia’s thighs. Olivia did not even pretend to resist. A tiny voice in

the back of her mind shouted warnings, but listening would mean sending Hunter away, and that was something she couldn’t do. The fog that had enveloped her for almost a year had suddenly parted to reveal a bright, blazing world. All Olivia wanted to do was run toward it. Hope and elation evicted all doubt from her mind. The Fates were sending her a signal. Hunter would not be here; Olivia would not feel so right in her arms, unless they were meant to be together once more. Mock reluctant, she said, “I don’t have pen and paper.” She’d once written a song in felt marker on Hunter’s back during lovemaking. Hunter promptly got off the sofa and made a show of looking around the room. “Tease,” Olivia pointed to the notebook and pens on her desk. They had played this game before. Hunter would make it worth her while. “Take those off first,” Hunter said, indicating Olivia’s garter belt and stockings. Arms folded, she watched Olivia unsnap her garters and roll down her stockings, and held out a hand to take them. “Now go get that paper.” Obediently Olivia crossed the room and collected what she needed. When she returned, Hunter was

sitting on the sofa, still fully dressed, legs carelessly extended, hands linked behind her head. She might have been watching a football game. Her hot stare said otherwise. Olivia knelt beside her, rested the paper on Hunter’s denim-clad knees and pondered a first line. Anticipating how she would be rewarded focused her mind like nothing else. She scribbled, “Restless heart. You play me too well,” and offered it up to Hunter. A fingertip trawled the length of her spine. “Touché. It even sounds like a country song.” Hunter moved a caressing hand over her ass. That irritating little voice in the back of her mind borrowed a megaphone, informing Olivia, Yes ma’am,

heartbreak and betrayal make for great material. “It’s blues,” Olivia said. This was a standing joke. She wrote blues and Hunter labeled it country. “We’ll see.” Hunter set the paper in front of her once more. Olivia had no problem with a second line, then a third, and the chorus; notes and lyric in effortless tandem. She was writing. Just like that. All the proof she would ever need that without Hunter she was incomplete as an artist and as a woman. As lines filled the page, their lovemaking shifted

from exquisite teasing to that familiar fierce cadence Olivia had missed so desperately. By the time the song was complete, she was astride Hunter’s lap, sweating, shaking, consumed by her creature self. There was nothing but sensation, converging in the sweet hot core where her thighs met. Blood coursed through her body, sweeping aside the numbness she had known for months. She was present in her skin so intensely it was as if the pores were imploding. Her release, when it came, was more than mere letting go. It was at once surrender and empowerment, the truest expression of her secret self. Eyes closed, her breath coming in small gasps, she felt that heady rush she had thought was lost to her forever. Once more she was perfect and whole, part of the universal organic harmony that connected every living soul. Hunter ran the tip of her tongue across Olivia’s bottom lip. “Let’s do this again very soon.” Olivia stretched her arms languidly above her head. “How does later tonight sound?” Hunter groaned. “I wish. But I need to go, baby.” “Go? Where?” Hunter looked abashed. “I have to drop someone off. She’s waiting in the car. I wasn’t expecting…this. I thought you’d throw me out after five minutes.”

It was a bucket of ice water. Olivia’s stomach knotted. “Who is she?” “No one. There was a party last night. Her ride went without her or something.” Olivia had heard it all before. Mechanically, she swung her legs to the floor and gathered her clothing. “C’mon baby. Don’t give me a hard time.” “Did I say a word?” Olivia pulled on her blouse, suddenly chilled. Her teeth began chattering. She seemed to have become two people. One set about buttoning the garment over her naked breasts, the other walked from the room and floated out the front door into the chill solace of night sky. “It’s none of my business what you do,” the earthbound Olivia said as her moon-clad twin drifted far, far away. “We broke up. Remember?” “Don’t be like that. Didn’t I just make it up to you?” Hunter finished buttoning her jeans. Her body language was indolent, almost cocky. She pulled on her boots, polishing the tops against the back of her jeans, one foot at a time as she always did. With slow deliberation, she buckled her belt, the performer seducing her audience. The bold sensuality that had once been so unselfconscious was now calculated and premeditated. Hunter had said the power was

addictive. At first she’d felt uncomfortable with it, then it excited her, now she could not function without it. Was that what tonight was about? Had Hunter set out to prove she could win back her toughest critic and most disillusioned fan? Olivia used to laugh at the absurdity of magazine features that promised the real Hunter Carsen, as if her interviews and candid shots were anything but scripted and stage-managed image building. All media was advertising, Benny Berenbaum always said. Olivia had understood a long time ago that Hunter was never off-stage. Not even in their personal life. “Why did you come here?” she asked flatly. Hunter folded the two sheets of lyrics Olivia had just written. “I told you. I miss us. I want you back in my life.” She slid the song into her pocket. A small white corner protruded, trapping Olivia’s stare. Hunter was still talking her talk. But Olivia heard nothing she said. Between one breath and the next, she understood what she had never understood. Hunter did not love her, Olivia, the person. She loved what Olivia could do for her. She had not come back to Olivia, she had come back to her music. There had been no epiphany for Hunter. She did not wake up one day and realize she truly loved Olivia; she woke up and

realized her next album would stink. She had just made love to Olivia because that’s what it took to get a song she could use. There was a time when Olivia would have convinced herself that this judgment was unfair and cynical, colored by her own insecurities. Not any more. She knew with absolute certainty it was the truth, a truth she had concealed from herself. Hunter was a user. She used people the same way she used smack, and with as little regard to the consequences. “I can’t wait to have you back in the studio, baby,” Hunter said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?” “I won’t be here.” Hunter gave her a knowing look. “Oh, I think you will.” She collected Olivia’s panties on the toe of her boot and flicked them into her hand—another of her stage tricks. “Mind if I keep these?” she said, tucking them into her belt with a candid grin. Olivia was vaguely aware of Hunter dropping a hard confident kiss on her mouth, of her boots echoing in the hall, the front door closing with hollow finality. Then she sank slowly down to the floor and curled up on her side. In the corridors of her mind, doors slammed, windows shuttered, walls closed in. Unable to move or think, Olivia listened to her grandfather clock tick the

night away. Just before dawn, she got stiffly to her feet and gazed out the window. It had snowed. Her world was white and cold and silent.

Chapter Six When a B-17 Flying Fortress is your guest transport, you get used to twitchy passengers. Lonesome Lady was a genuine warbird rebuilt after World War II and now converted into a comfortable passenger plane. She was as safe and reliable as any commercial craft. At least that’s what Annabel told skittish arrivals who seemed reluctant to hand over their luggage and climb aboard. The sandy-haired woman standing on the tarmac today had no such problems. “I don’t believe this,” she exclaimed. “Is she for real?” “Eight missions over Berlin.” Annabel indicated some flak marks. “Very few of these ever came back. There’s less than fifty in the world.” Chris whistled. “My dad was a Spitfire pilot. I can’t wait to tell him about this.” She pulled a camera from her cabin bag and asked, “Would you mind?” Obligingly, Annabel snapped their new guest in a classic pose in front of the plane one arm resting on the twin .50 caliber machine gun protruding from the nose. She did not seem the kind of woman who would be taking a vacation alone. Guests of Chris Thompson’s age and common-sense demeanor

typically came to Moon Island with a partner. Singles out shopping after a broken relationship went where they could find a crowd. “You ought to give this a plug in your brochure,” Chris remarked. “It’s a real marketing plus.” Annabel refrained from pointing out that the thought of flying to the island in a sixty-year-old bomber did not float many skirts in her experience. Their guests had enough problems coping with an antiquated telephone system and electricity that seemed to function at random. Moon Island was a far cry from the Cancun Club Med. Annabel handed Chris’s luggage over to Smithy with the usual pang of guilt. Now almost eighty years old, Smithy, the wiry little British engineer, still insisted on loading the plane. “Got another passenger for yer,” he said, waving toward the hangar. “Turned up ’ere yesterday. Told ’er she’d be waiting a while.” Puzzled, Annabel consulted her guest roster. “Are you sure she’s for us?” Sometimes the Information desk at Rarotonga International sent people over on the off chance of a charter. Bevan, who co-owned the Lady, ran joy-rides around the islands on his fly days and would take strays if he had enough room. Annabel generally restricted her flying to the shuttle between

Moon Island and Rarotonga. It was her concession to Cody, who had wanted her to quit flying altogether after she crashed their last plane on Solarim Atoll. With a friendly smile at Chris, she said, “If you’d like to step aboard and choose a seat, we’ll push off shortly. I’ll go see what’s happening with this other passenger.” Chris looked delighted. “Mind if I explore?” “Feel free. If you have any questions, Smithy will be able to help. He serviced these during the war.” Chris grinned at the Englishman. “I’ll bet you have some stories.” “Chris’s dad was a fighter pilot,” Annabel commented. As far as Smithy was concerned there were civilians and there were heroes. He had very little to say to the former, and a wealth of conversation for the latter and their kin. He’d have Chris in the top turret taking aim at imaginary bandits at twelve o’clock high before she could blink. Annabel strolled across to the hangar, her cotton slouch hat pulled down low to cut the painful glare from the tarmac. A woman sat in Smithy’s favorite armchair in front of the cooling fan. Her head drooped low to one side. In her arms lay a young baby. They were both sound asleep in the muggy afternoon heat.

Annabel removed her hat and sunglasses, and crouched down for a better look at the woman’s face. “Melanie?” She gave the woman a gentle shake. “Is that you?” A pair of sweet doe eyes blinked back at her and her cousin’s delicate features lifted in a smile. “My God,” Annabel exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Melanie pulled herself up slightly in her chair, careful not to wake the baby. “Don’t tell me I’ve arrived on the wrong day.” She extended an arm and gave Annabel a hug. “I’m so happy to see you.” “The wrong day? Mel, I hate to sound like an idiot, but I don’t seem to have a reservation for you.” “You don’t?” Melanie looked stunned. “Are you saying I can’t come?” “No, no! I just wasn’t expecting you. I mean I’m thrilled you’re here, but it’s a surprise. That’s all.” “Oh dear,” Melanie’s voice grew thin. “This is probably really inconvenient for you. I was worried when your mom suggested we write. I suppose the letter hasn’t even arrived yet. Look, I’ll make other arrangements.” “Don’t be silly!” Annabel laughed. “I love that you’ve come. And you brought the baby.” She drew the light

cotton shawl aside gently and lowered her voice. “Oh, she’s gorgeous. Briar, isn’t it?” Melanie nodded. “She’s just getting her first tooth, so she’s exhausted, poor darling.” Damp black curls clung to the baby’s tiny head like silk rosettes. In her sleep, her mouth puckered every now and then in a sucking motion. Annabel was overwhelmed with tenderness. “Let me take her,” she said, “And we’ll get you on board.” To Annabel’s astonishment, Melanie burst into tears. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to help me. I’m so tired. I just can’t do it.” Wiping her face, she reached for something behind her chair. Shocked, Annabel noticed a folded wheelchair propped against the workbench. What on earth had happened that Mel needed this? She lifted Briar gently against her shoulder and pulled the wheelchair out. “It’s not that I can’t walk,” Melanie said. “But when I’m tired, I…” She broke off and eased herself into the chair. “It’s all in the letter.” Annabel returned Briar to her and knelt beside the wheelchair, her mind spinning. “Did you have an accident? No one told me…” “No, nothing like that. I haven’t been well for a while and having Briar was hard. You know, the pregnancy.”

She was terribly pale and her skin felt clammy. Melanie had never been heavy, but she was as slight as a reed now. “What on earth is wrong?” Melanie hesitated. Obviously it was a difficult subject. “I have ALS. It seems to be progressing very fast.” Reading Annabel’s puzzlement, she explained, “The medical term is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.” Annabel must have looked as mystified as she felt. “Is that like multiple sclerosis?” With a weary sigh, Melanie took her hand. “Can we talk about this later?” * Chris waded along Passion Bay at water’s edge. The ocean was warm and shimmering, more clear and blue than any ocean she could have imagined. Beneath her feet, fine white sand sucked and swirled. The sun was sinking slowly against the vast curve of the Pacific horizon, a blood-orange curtain descending with it. The Cook Islands were the only land for thousand of miles. No wonder the mutiny on the Bounty had happened in these waters, she reflected. Imagine months at sea without sight of land and suddenly the heady vision of a blue lagoon and islands so beautiful

they must have seemed the stuff of myth. Elaine would have been enchanted. She had always wanted to travel further than Hawaii and Key West, where they vacationed most years. They had often discussed their dream holiday in the South Pacific, starting with a tour of Australia and New Zealand, continuing with a cruise around the islands, and finally stopping somewhere hopelessly romantic where they would have a second honeymoon. “I’m so sorry,” Chris said aloud, closing her fist over the locket she always wore. They had put the trip off year after year. There was always some reason they could not take a month out of their careers and spend a lot of money. Finally their time had run out. Chris had kissed Elaine goodbye one morning, like any other morning, only it was their last. Elaine was killed twenty minutes from their home. Chris had passed the wreckage herself and recognized the car. Nothing in life prepares you to watch your partner carried from a mangled pile of metal, her body so torn and broken they urge you not to look. Chris opened the heavy gold keepsake and stared down at the face imprisoned there. Elaine had liked to say she was plain and nothing would change that fact.

But Chris saw only beauty in the warmth of her eyes and the way her face crinkled when she smiled, which was often. She loved the silken softness of her fine straight hair. Its style had never changed from the time Elaine was in elementary school. She wore it bobbed, parted on one side and pinned back on the other with a tortoiseshell slide. As the gathering darkness swallowed that familiar face, Chris wondered if there would ever be a time when she could think of her lover without this terrible grief. There was so much she wished she had said while she still could. Of the two of them, Elaine was the more expressive. It was Elaine who lit candles and made romantic dinners, Elaine who cried over films that made Chris cringe. She had always seemed to understand that it was not in Chris’s nature to be demonstrative. Now Chris wondered if she’d made Elaine as happy as she deserved. There had been times when she’d caught a wistful expression on her lover’s face when she saw a couple holding hands or one of those grandiose movie kisses. Had Elaine just settled for what they had in default of anything better? Had she had regrets? What exactly would it have cost her to be a more

romantic lover? Chris berated herself. Instead, she had allowed months to become years and had made no effort to change her comfortable habits. She hated to think of the opportunities she had squandered to enrich their life together. Since the accident, she had become acutely conscious of her failings as a partner. The worst of these, it seemed to her, was that she had allowed Elaine to walk out the door alone that morning. It didn’t have to happen that way. Most of the time they drove into work together. Elaine had waited for her that day, but Chris had taken a call when she should have been in the shower. Eventually Elaine had left without her, irritated and running late. Knowing Elaine, she would have driven a little faster than usual, passed a few more cars, taken extra risks. She loathed being late for a meeting. If only Chris had made different choices that morning. If only the phone hadn’t rung. If only she had told the caller she would phone him back later. They would have left in the same car. Chris would have been driving. Maybe the accident would never have happened. Or maybe it would have and Chris would have been killed instead of Elaine. Or perhaps they would both have died. Anything would have been better than what transpired that day.

Chris retreated up the beach and sat in the warm sand to watch the sun vanish into the sea. In theory, she knew it was not her fault Elaine was dead. But she was haunted by the what ifs. She pictured Elaine beside her right now, leaning against her the way she did. “I love you,” she said. “I wish you were here.” * “What are you doing?” Cody rolled over, squinting at Annabel’s bedside lamp. Annabel was dragging something bulky into their bedroom. It looked like a chair. “Everything’s fine,” she insisted. “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk later.” Rubbing her eyes, Cody sat up in bed. “It’s three in the morning.” Annabel arranged the chair in the corner of the room near her side of the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, heading out the door. Cody got out of bed and shambled into the bathroom. First she comes home with some long-lost cousin and her baby, then the two of them disappear together for the rest of the evening. Now she was moving furniture in the middle of the night. What would be next?

As Cody dried her hands, she became aware of some peculiar sounds. Sticking her head around the door, she asked, “Is that you making those weird noises?” “Not exactly,” Annabel replied. She was sitting in the chair, a strangely contented expression on her face. In her arms, Melanie’s baby was making all kinds of grunting, crooning, and sucking sounds as it drank its bottle. Cody was dumbstruck. Not only had Annabel moved an armchair into their room, there was a bassinet right next to the bed. “If it’s okay with you, I think Briar should sleep in here tonight,” Annabel said as if it were no big deal. “Mel needs to get some sleep. The travel was rough on her.” “Sure,” Cody said. Like she had a choice. She sat on the end of the bed, struck by the sight of Annabel tenderly looking down at Melanie’s baby, her pale hair spilling across the blue silk of her kimono. Somehow Cody had never been able to imagine Annabel with a baby, yet she seemed completely at ease, like she knew exactly what she was doing. And she looked as beautiful as Cody had ever seen. Annabel caught her eye. “Isn’t she adorable?” “Amazing.” Cody hoped she didn’t sound as

unenthusiastic as she felt. “I didn’t realize you knew this stuff. Baby stuff, I mean.” “I don’t,” Annabel replied. “But it can’t be that hard. They’re just little people who need us.” She lifted the baby against her shoulder and slowly rubbed her back. “So how long is your cousin going to be staying?” Annabel wiped the baby’s mouth where she had spat up, and cradled her close. “It’s hard to say.” Her face grew serious. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Cody felt a small prickle of alarm. Annabel looked upset, as if it was a struggle to speak. Cody braced herself for alarming information. Did Annabel want to go back to Boston to help her sick cousin for a while? It seemed like the woman meant a lot to her, and clearly the baby was a draw card. “It’s Melanie. She’s sick. Really sick. That’s why she’s here. Both her parents are dead and her older brother is the family nut job. So she was staying with Mother last month and they cooked this up between them.” Annabel shifted position, set the bottle aside and slowly rocked the baby. “She and Briar will have to stay in the Villa with us. She can’t manage alone.” “Sure, no worries,” Cody agreed, thankful that Annabel wasn’t about to go anywhere. It wasn’t going

to be easy having two extras in the house during a busy period, but it wouldn’t be for long, she figured. “Maybe the climate will help her. Is that what she’s thinking?” Annabel got up and put the baby in the bassinette. “Honey, she has something called ALS. It’s a motor neuron disease. She has about six months left to live. Maybe less.” Tears rolled down her face. Cody was at a loss for words, consumed with guilt for resenting the woman’s unexpected arrival. “That’s awful. She’s so young.” Annabel leaned heavily against her shoulder. “It’s funny, we barely saw one another when I was little. But we were at Radcliffe together and we had a blast. It was great. Just like having a sister all of a sudden.” Cody stroked her hair. “I remember you telling me about her.” She found a tissue and wiped Annabel’s tears. “Mel is a fantastic person. I can’t imagine how terrible this is for her.” “Did she know?” Cody asked. “I mean before she got pregnant?” Annabel shook her head. “She had some early symptoms but she thought it was nothing. She didn’t even go to a doctor. After Briar was born, she got very

sick and that’s when they found out.” Cody stared down at the sleeping baby. “God, the poor little thing. She won’t know her mother.” “Or her father,” Annabel said. “It was donor insemination.” “Great. She can’t even say her first word and she’ll be an orphan.” Cody lay down with Annabel and pulled the sheet up over them. Annabel curled against her. “No child should have to suffer that.” Her voice was thick with sorrow. Cody could tell the subject pushed buttons. In a sense Annabel had been orphaned too, brought up without knowing that the woman she thought was an aunt was, in fact, her birth mother. Annabel’s parents had adopted her as a baby and had kept the truth from her. It was only when her “aunt” had died that Annabel learned of her true identity. “We’ll do everything we can for her,” Cody said, gently caressing her back until she could feel Annabel starting to drift back to sleep. “I knew you’d say that,” Annabel murmured against her shoulder. “I love you.” Cody bent and kissed her partner’s warm, damp cheek. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Seven Merris shifted down and drove past Olivia’s house at a crawl. It was only the hundredth time she’d done this since that coffee encounter at The Tattered Cover Bookstore a few weeks ago. You’re behaving like a stalker, a warning voice insisted. Either ring the bell, or go home and get on with your life. Bad enough she had scoured the telephone directory for Olivia’s address, let alone she’d all but staked out the place. She knew what days Olivia went shopping, when she took her long walks, how often her housekeeper came. Destiny or not, it wasn’t healthy. Merris stopped the car at Olivia’s wrought iron gates and got out. It was biting cold, and the late afternoon light was fast fading. An ominous sky had long ago swallowed the mountains. Heavy snows were forecast for the next few days. She planned on spending these blimped in front of her widescreen TV watching Julianne Moore movies and ordering in pizza, activities unlikely to appeal to a woman like Olivia. That was okay. Merris had a Plan B. If Olivia seemed receptive, she would suggest an elegant dinner. They would have a romantic evening, then say goodnight. She would phone the next day and invite her on another date.

Clutching her peacoat together and wishing she’d had the wit to wear a woolly hat, Merris pressed the buzzer. A disembodied voice answered. Merris gave her name and said, “I have something to drop off for Ms. Pearce.” The gates opened, and she drove toward a sprawling white mansion that made her place look like a crab shack. She wondered how Olivia came to own real estate like this at her age, which Merris guessed was barely thirty. She had moved here from LA, Merris recalled, wondering what kind of business she was in. Something that paid silly amounts of money. Movies, maybe. It was beginning to flurry more intensely, a haze of snowflakes congealing across the windshield. Merris halted at the front entrance behind a black BMW she supposed must be another of Olivia’s cars. When Olivia wasn’t driving the practical fully-optioned Subaru it seemed everyone in Colorado had to own, she was in one of several highly idiosyncratic vehicles. There was a decrepit green Jaguar with seats that had been re-covered in astonishing peach suede, and a perfectly restored cherry red ’67 Mustang convertible. She probably had others, Merris guessed with a glance at the vast garaging.

Grabbing a small package from the passenger seat, she headed for the front door, rehearsing what she was going to say. Before she could get her first sentence together, the door opened, and she found herself facing Olivia’s artsy friend, who looked somewhat taken aback to see her. “Well, well,” she greeted Merris. “Fancy meeting you here. Abigail Zola, in case you’ve forgotten.” She stuck out a hand. Collecting herself, Merris produced an urbane smile and the requisite handshake. “I’m sure people don’t easily forget you, Abigail,” she remarked, meaning it. Olivia’s pal had one of those bad angel faces with a wide wicked smile and innocent blue-green eyes. This she framed with some very expensive hair tinting that converted dull mouse to multi-hued honey. If you couldn’t remember her face, she made sure you would remember her appearance. Numerous silver and glass bead bangles were stacked up each arm. Her neck was festooned with more of the same, and her nails were individually painted with a flowery design on a background of pale iridescent blue. She wore a tight top of matching blue lace that called attention to the tiniest breasts Merris had ever seen on a grown woman. In keeping with this summer-in-December

theme were strappy high-heeled sandals and a rose pink chiffon skirt of many layers. Olivia must keep the house pretty warm, Merris surmised. Her breath fogging in wreaths, she said, “I have something for Olivia.” “I’m sure you do.” Abigail gave her an old fashioned look. “She’s not home right now, but that’s no reason to leave you out there freezing to death. Come in, for Chrissakes.” She beckoned for Merris to follow her. “Your timing’s perfect. I was about to mix a martini.” “Sounds good,” Merris said, distracted by the swish and cling of the pink skirt as Abigail walked ahead. “So, will Olivia be long?” She hoped not. She knew Abigail would flirt with her, and it didn’t seem diplomatic to piss off Olivia’s buddy by not playing along. On the other hand, she didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression, especially Olivia. The room they entered would have been named the den in an average home, but in Olivia’s mansion it was obviously the library. Breathing a silent wow, Merris removed her coat and glanced around. At least fifty feet long and lined with hundreds, if not thousands, of books, the room was warm and restful. At the far end, a black baby grand piano stood surrounded by huge potted palms in Chinese porcelain planters. In the

center of the room, club leather chairs and a sofa were arranged before a crackling log fire. Dark wood paneling set off a modest but carefully chosen collection of art works. One of these, a huge painting hanging above the fireplace, made Merris catch her breath. It was a nude: a woman sitting in a window, her body modestly turned to the landscape beyond. But she looked back across her shoulder, directly at her viewer. Her expression was not the inviting tease so typical of vanity portraits and pseudo-art. It was more of a challenge, as if she had caught someone watching her without permission. There was no doubt it was Olivia. Abigail was listening to the kind of droning new age music Merris loathed. She turned it down and took Merris’s coat, inviting, “Make yourself at home.” It seemed she had no plans to answer Merris’s earlier question about Olivia’s return. Merris chose a big leather armchair near the fire and stretched out her hands to be thawed. “This is a great place,” she remarked. “I know. Aren’t I lucky getting to house-sit?” Abigail draped Merris’s coat over the back of a nearby sofa and began hauling bottles out of a liquor cabinet. Merris’s heart sank. If Abigail was house-sitting, that

meant Olivia hadn’t just stepped out for a few minutes. Cursing her timing, she asked, “Olivia’s away?” Abigail sloshed some Vodka into a shaker. “You just missed her. She left this morning.” Merris guessed her face must have told a gloomy story, because her companion added archly, “Cheer up. I don’t have plans for this evening.” Merris forced a smile. On a small table near the fire was a chess set with a game in progress. Indicating it, she asked, “Do you play?” “Good Lord, no. It’s way too slow for me. Olivia’s the grand master ’round here.” Merris eyed the board. If she was not mistaken, white was mounting a Nimzovich defense. Unorthodox, but frequently effective. “I suppose you play,” Abigail remarked. “Was that one olive or two?’ “Two, thanks. And make mine a little dirty.” “I knew that.” A wicked glance. “So, what did you get her?” “A book.” Merris removed it from the bag. “ The Happy Isles of Oceania by Paul Theroux.” “Sounds like the sequel to Prozac Nation,” Abigail quipped. Waving a bony hand around the library, she

added, “Well, you brought it to the right place.” “She was reading something about the Pacific Islands last time I saw her,” Merris explained. “So I thought she might like this.” “Very resourceful,” Abigail handed over a great looking martini. “I hate to tell you, but you’re wasting your time.” “What do you mean?” “Do you know anything about Olivia? I mean, have you two been seeing each other or anything?” “No. Nothing like that.” Merris felt uncomfortable. “I didn’t think so. Olivia said she thought you were interested. But I got the impression she wasn’t going to do anything about it.” Merris felt herself flush. This was not a conversation she wanted to be having with a pal of Olivia’s. She took an unsociable slug of her drink and glanced at her watch. “I should go before the snow gets heavier.” Abigail shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t you want to know why Olivia won’t date you?” She had Merris’s attention and she knew it. Toying with her bracelets, she said, “Hey. I’m her best friend. I don’t usually talk behind her back either. Okay?” “Okay.” Merris set her cocktail down on the coffee table. “By the way, this is a great martini.”

“I know. But thanks anyway…for the endorsement.” Merris found herself warming to Abigail Zola. People probably misjudged her all the time. She was so much sharper than her flaky appearance suggested. “So, what makes you think Olivia won’t date me?” “You mean other than her telling me she was never going to have another relationship as long as she lived?” Not the answer Merris had hoped for. “I know,” Abigail commiserated. “Kind of discouraging, wouldn’t you say?” Merris was not sure what to feel. The good news was she had made enough of an impression that Olivia had discussed her with a close friend. The bad news was that Olivia seemed to be contemplating entering a nunnery some time soon. “Do I look like her type?” she enquired, guessing that Olivia’s preferences probably did not include average-looking, moderately conservative linear thinkers like herself. Abigail kicked off her sandals and tucked her feet up underneath her. “In a word, no. You’re completely different from most of her exes. But trust me, that’s a huge plus. Her last girlfriend…what a piece of work!” It was always helpful to win over the best friend, Merris told herself. Abigail apparently cared a great deal for Olivia and wanted her to be happy. “You’re

saying she has lousy taste in women?” Abigail responded with an exaggerated shrug. “You didn’t hear it from me, sugar.” “How long ago did she break up with the er…piece of work?” Merris asked, keeping things rolling in the right direction. “Almost a year ago. But you would not believe the cheek of this bitch. She turns up here last night and screws around with Olivia’s head some more. I arrive this morning to take her to the airport, and she’s a complete mess. Not dressed. Not packed. Not waxed. Nothing. I could kill that woman.” Perfect, Merris thought gloomily. Olivia was stuck on her ex. “How long were they together?” “About three years. You’ve probably heard of her. Hunter Carsen. She’s a country singer.” Merris took her time processing that fact. Hunter Carsen was a household name, at least in lesbian households anyway. And if the media were any indication, she was huge in the straight country market, too. Allegra had all her CDs and had dragged Merris to one of her concerts a couple of years ago. The woman had an astounding voice, Merris conceded. And she was hot. If that was Olivia’s type, Merris didn’t have a prayer. “So, what happened?” she asked.

“Olivia threw her out. Hunter was fucking around. I think there was more to it than that, but who knows what goes on in someone’s relationship?” Abigail fell silent for a moment, seemingly weighing her next remark. “You broke up about the same time, didn’t you?” “Yep. There was someone else involved. My ex is living with her now.” Abigail pulled a wry face. “And people wonder why I won’t have a relationship.” “There are good ones out there,” Merris said. “I take it you’re the marrying type?” “I guess I am.” Not that it had stopped her messing up. No matter how much she wanted to blame Allegra for everything that had gone wrong between them, the depressing truth was that she had allowed their relationship to disintegrate. The signs had been there, loud and clear. But for some reason, she had imagined she could ignore them and everything would stay the same. Now her daughters would be stuck with the consequences. “Pity,” Abigail said with dry candor. “I guess I can’t interest you in a cheap encounter, then?” Merris laughed. “Actually, you probably could. But I get the impression that wouldn’t play well with Olivia.”

Abigail held her eyes in a frank stare for a long moment, then heaved a playful sigh. “Okay, so we got that out of the way. Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s your plan? How are you going to woo her?” “Woo her!” Who used that expression any more? “You can’t seriously imagine Olivia is just going to fall into the sack with you,” Abigail said bluntly. “She’s no pushover. You need a plan.” “Well, I thought I’d ask her out to dinner and…take it from there.” “Dinner with you is going to rock her world?” Merris reminded herself she was a mature, intelligent, reasonably attractive woman of thirty-three. “I’m good company.” “So is a dog.” Abigail ate an olive. “Do you have a better idea?” “Actually, I do,” she said without guile. “I’m all ears.” Abigail’s smooth forehead crinkled as though she’d just been struck by some puzzling thought. “Just by the bye. You seem like an intelligent woman. How could you not notice your partner was shacked up with someone else?” Catching Merris’s dismay, she said, “C’mon. This is a small town and your ex is a blabbermouth. Polly—you remember her?—well she

told me everything.” Merris groaned inwardly. “And you told Olivia?” “I left out the stuff about your sexual performance,” Abigail said, like butter wouldn’t melt. “So, do you see much of your kids—what were their names?” “AnaWs and Chloe,” Merris supplied. Abigail’s sharp eyes widened with amused alarm. “Tell me your ex didn’t name her children after perfumes.” “What can I say?” She really did know everything, Merris thought, appalled. “I have them twice a month for the weekend.” The girls had found it upsetting to be shuttled back and forth each week, so after a few hellish weeks she and Allegra had agreed on bimonthly visits. Abigail pondered on this for a moment. “Painless parenting. You get the fun, she gets the chores. Sounds ideal!” “I guess it would be. For someone who didn’t like kids.” Abigail waved a tsk tsk finger at the inference. “Another martini?” “I should get going.” “Oh come on. I’m teasing. I promise I’m going to tell you how to win the fair Olivia.” Abigail gave the fire a

tentative poke, sending a fountain of bright orange sparks spraying in all directions. “Oops.” She grabbed a sandal and slapped a couple of embers off the Persian rug near their chairs. “May I?” Merris took the poker from her and rearranged the logs, adding some fresh wood. “Just what I don’t need,” Abigail muttered almost inaudibly. “To burn down Olivia’s house while she’s basking on a beach in the Cook Islands.” “The Cook Islands?” Merris echoed. “I know.” Abigail glanced at the book Merris brought over. “Very serendipitous. And now, since you’ve been so patient and I’ve decided you might be exactly what Olivia needs, I’m going to tell you what I think you should do. But first, let’s get really trashed.” Grabbing Merris’s glass, she headed back to the bar. It could be worse, Merris thought. It was a lousy night and she was sitting in front of a great fire with Olivia’s best friend, who was kind of fun and actually seemed to like her. With any luck, she would leave with a plan that would help her win the woman who had occupied her thoughts almost constantly since they’d met. Tonight was not what she had expected, but maybe it was all part of some bigger and better picture. She raised her fresh martini in a toast. “To Plan B.”

Abigail tapped glasses, adding with suitable drama, “Conquer or die.”

Chapter Eight A sign outside the Rarotonga International Airport terminal said Moon Island. Sitting on the bench beneath it was a woman with glossy black hair combed severely into a braided knot. She was reading a book, dark glasses screening her eyes. Muted lipstick set off the most perfect skin Riley had ever seen. The color of gardenia petals, it looked impossibly cool and soft in the tropical heat. She would have been gorgeous wearing a sack, but this woman was in a tangerine sundress with a tight bodice and a big skirt. She looked like one of those 1950s pinups. Betty Paige, Riley decided, only more French or something. Babe-struck, Riley dumped her luggage on the pavement close by. “I guess we wait here,” she remarked for something to say. “It would seem so.” The accent and dry wit were not French, but unmistakably British. “You’re from England?” The woman closed her book with a small firm movement that hinted at irritation. “Originally. But I live in Denver these days.” “So did you come in on the LA flight?” Riley asked, amazed she could have missed this hottie at the

departure gates. “I didn’t see you.” “I stayed in the lounge ’til the last minute.” Riley contemplated making a weather remark, but that would be pathetic. Instead she said, “I’m Riley Mason. I’m here with a UCLA research team for a couple of weeks.” “Olivia Pearce,” the pinup returned politely. “What are you researching?” “You might have heard of Dr. Glenn Howick, the cultural anthropologist. She’s leading a study into some secret rituals Rarotongan women conduct on Moon Island.” “Ah, so they won’t be secret anymore,” Olivia remarked in a tone that was vaguely schoolmarmish. Her cool reserve reminded Riley of Glenn, only Glenn would never be seen dead in peep-toe turquoise high heels with little orange bows on the top. “Dr. Howick is very culturally sensitive,” she said a little defensively. “I’m happy for her.” Olivia’s attention crept down to her book. Clearly, she was not in the mood for chitchat. Riley repeated her name silently. It sounded strangely familiar. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you an actress?” There was a long pause. She was probably

someone famous trying to get away from the public gaze, Riley deduced with a pang. And here she was, pestering her with snoopy questions. No wonder the reception was frosty. “Forget I said that,” she hastened. “It’s none of my business. Your name just seemed familiar, that’s all.” The woman removed her dark glasses and regarded Riley with a calm direct stare. Her eyes were somber gray, almost granite-colored, and heavily lashed. Something in their depths unnerved Riley. It was as if Olivia saw straight through her and, within a split second, had compiled a mental laundry list of Riley’s yearnings, secrets and pretensions. “I’m not an actress,” she said in her clipped English way. “I’m a songwriter. Perhaps you’ve seen my name on a CD label and tucked it away in your subconscious.” “That must be it.” Riley was aware that her usual charm had abandoned her. The woman made her feel like a gauche eighth-grader. “Well I won’t interrupt you any more,” she apologized, with a glance at the novel. “It’s okay. I’m feeling anti-social today. Don’t take it personally.” “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Riley relaxed as the temperature between them rose a few degrees from icy to lukewarm. “I hear this island is incredibly

private.” “I’m counting on it,” Olivia said with dry humor. She indicated the bench next to her. “Do sit down.” “I’m fine.” Riley glanced around. “I think we’re supposed to be met any minute.” A woman pushed a laden baggage cart toward them, but she didn’t look like their pilot. Riley was slack-jawed at the sight of platinum hair in bunches secured with big plastic daisies, cotton candy pedal pushers, and a thin white nipple-enhancing shirt knotted below unnaturally round breasts. Naturally she was chewing gum, which she removed and folded around one finger to greet them. God, Riley thought, a porn star. “Hey, there. I’m Trudy.” The new arrival beamed a white, perfect smile and gazed around, her frosted pink mouth parted in moist surprise. “Way cool. This is like …Survivor.” Or maybe Clueless. Riley exchanged a brief look with Olivia, who seemed completely unfazed. “I’m Riley and this is Olivia. I don’t know where our ride is.” “They better show up soon.” Trudy pulled off her little round sunglasses and cleaned them with the tail of her shirt. “Is your mascara, like, melting?” she asked no one in particular.

“Totally chocolate syrup,” Olivia replied without missing a beat. Trudy collapsed on the bench, fanning herself with her hand. “So I guess it’s true then,” she said with a pointed look at Riley. “The man ban, I mean.” “Moon Island is women only,” Riley responded, bracing herself for the homophobic remarks. Trudy was fishing around in her purse. “I thought Daddy was kidding me!” She produced a mirror and set about fixing her lipstick. “So are you two gay and everything?” Catching Riley’s frown, she added, “Hey, I’m cool with that. I like girls, too. You know, whatever.” “You’re bi?” Olivia enquired. “I’m not into labels.” Trudy shared her philosophy. “I’m like…a feel-good person. You know what I mean. Whatever feels good.” Olivia gave a thoughtful nod. “How about you, Riley?” she enquired, chatty all of a sudden. Riley had the distinct impression Olivia was toying with them. This was paranoid, of course. She simply had good manners. She was trying to put this intellectual pygmy at ease by conversing on her level. “Sure. I’m into feeling good,” Riley said, playing along. “So long as it involves a woman.” “Lesbian and polyamorous?” Olivia interpreted.

“Polyamorous…” Trudy repeated the big word. “Multiple sexual partners,” Olivia supplied. They both waited expectantly for Riley’s response. Feeling about as sophisticated as string cheese, she said, “Single and playing pretty well sums it up.” “So you’d be monogamous if you were in a relationship?” Olivia continued the twenty-one questions. “Hopefully,” Riley said, ignoring her history. If she were in a relationship with someone like Glenn Howick she would never play around. She was quite sure of that. “Your turn,” she told Olivia. “Sexuality. Relationship status. Monogamy.” Olivia tilted her head slightly and gazed past her with a bland smile. “Alas, I think we’ll have to put this riveting conversation on hold.” Riley turned her head as a strikingly fair woman in fawn fatigues gave a casual wave. She was dragging a huge, empty baggage trolley with a black leather bomber jacket slung over the handle. “Welcome to the Cook Islands,” she said. “I’m Annabel Worth, your pilot, and that’s our plane, the Lonesome Lady.” She gestured toward a plane parked in front of a hangar a few hundred yards away. It was like something out of a war movie. Painted

light khaki green, a pin-up decorating the fuselage, it still had machine guns sticking out from its nose and turrets. Riley was shocked that any self-respecting feminist would consider using a retired war plane to take guests to an island that must be one of the only places on earth free of male energy. Annabel started loading their bags onto the cart. Hastily, Riley lent a hand. Hard as she tried to overcome her cultural conditioning, she was uneasy that their pilot was a woman. Not just a woman, but a woman with long straight blonde hair who looked like she’d be more at home in a shampoo commercial than flying a plane. Annabel handed out earplugs, casually explaining, “You’ll be needing these. She gets kind of noisy. Now if you’d follow me…” She didn’t protest when Riley insisted on dragging the baggage cart, instead asking them socially appropriate questions about their flights and the cold weather they’d left behind. Trudy seemed ecstatic at the prospect of taking a ride in the museum piece. “Do the guns actually work?” she breathed as their luggage was getting stowed. “They would if we loaded them,” Annabel replied. “You know that expression, the whole nine yards?

That’s how much linked ammunition was fed through one of these Browning machine guns at a time.” “Wow.” Trudy twiddled with her hair. “That was like …what…a hundred years ago?” “Sixty,” Annabel said. “She’s a World War Two bomber.” “Oh right,” Trudy said gravely. “Hitler and stuff.” “I didn’t know that…about the whole nine yards.” Olivia commented. “These were high-altitude bombers, weren’t they?” “They could reach thirty-five thousand feet, but they usually flew at around eighteen thousand,” Annabel replied. “No heating. No pressurization. Don’t worry. We won’t be doing that today. There are coats and blankets on board, and if any of you want socks, you’ll find them in the mesh baskets by your seats.” “How cold those boys must have been before they died.” Olivia’s voice was suddenly thick with emotion. She was almost in tears, Riley noted with astonishment. Evidently her detachment was reserved for people in the here and now. “Shit, Olivia,” she said. “What kind of songs did you say you wrote?” For a moment it seemed as if the glamorous British woman might have taken offence, then her mouth twitched and the permafreeze cracked just enough for

Riley to glimpse a whole different person. “That would be blues.” “Uh, no kidding.” Olivia laughed. Her eyes were still sparkling twenty minutes later, as Rarotonga receded in the distance and they leveled out above the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean. * Chris rolled onto her stomach and turned her face toward the palm trees at the far end of Passion Bay. She could just make out the gabled rooftop of Villa Luna, the beautiful home where the island’s owners lived. What a lifestyle, she thought with brief envy. No morning commute, no office politics, no nitwit clients destroying their own carefully constructed case in the courtroom. Sleepily she closed her eyes. She had only been sunbathing for an hour beneath a huge shade umbrella, and already she felt soporific. A lazy tide lapped at the white sand, its sluggish pulse inviting even the most determined reader to fall asleep in the middle of a thriller. Her hosts had warned her about over-doing it. This was the tropics. It was easy to become

dehydrated or burnt to a crisp. At first, Chris felt sure Annabel had been exaggerating. Understandably, she was neurotic about the sun because of her pale skin. Chris couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for an albino to live in the South Pacific. The sun was one thing. But with her strange lavender-colored eyes and dead straight white-blonde hair, Annabel Worth must attract all kinds of attention among the tanned tourists and local Polynesian population. Returning her concentration to her book, she managed another few pages before she found herself drifting toward sleep again. This was another one of those times when she felt terribly alone. If Elaine were here, Chris would have asked her to keep an eye on the time and wake her up after an hour or so. Instead, she would either have to get up right now and go for a swim, or take refuge indoors. It was simply too risky to fall asleep alone on a beach in this heat. Slipping the marker in her book, she got to her feet and strolled down to the water’s edge. The lagoon was incredibly warm and bright turquoise blue, a color she hadn’t thought existed except in travel magazines. Chris splashed her face and waded out to her knees, stopping every now and

then to pick up unusual shells. Passion Bay was not a vast beach, but with its crescent of white sand, tranquil waters and swaying palms, it was storybook perfect. She hadn’t had a chance to explore the other beaches around the island yet, but she planned to take a hike the next day. The guest information in her cottage said something about caves in the makatea, a fossilized coral reef that was now covered in jungle. One of these was home to a rare swallow that used sonar to navigate in the darkness beneath the earth. Chris was keen to see it, if only because that’s what Elaine would have wanted. Adjusting her cotton hat, she glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around, yet she had the oddest sense that she was being watched. Neck prickling, she gazed west, then east. The beach was deserted. A little unnerved, she crossed the sand toward a belt of coconut palms and stood in the shade, careful to avoid the drop zone directly beneath the heavy clusters of fruit. It was not the first time since Elaine had gone that she’d felt another presence when no one was around. At first Chris had ruthlessly ignored the sensation, ascribing it to her heightened emotional state. But lately she had started to wonder if Elaine’s ghost was

trying to communicate its presence somehow. Was it really such a farfetched idea? Guided by the faint thud of music coming from the hilltop above, Chris began climbing the slope toward Villa Luna. Now seemed as good a time as any to ask for directions to the caves she wanted to visit tomorrow. The music grew louder as she cut her way up through mango trees, frangipani, and banana palms, their musky sweetness flooding her nostrils. Recognizing an old Fleetwood Mac hit, she hummed along, trying to put all thought of the supernatural out of her mind. As Cody and Annabel’s gracious looking plantation villa loomed through the trees, Chris halted, gazing up at a towering mango seductive with ripe golden fruit. All over the island, mangoes plopped periodically to the ground, creating one of the distinctive nighttime sounds her hosts had mentioned. Stepping over fallen fruit, Chris smiled to herself. Could anything be more tropical than a front yard littered with mangoes? It was not Minnesota; that was for sure. Someone turned down the music as she drew closer to the house, and a dark-haired woman on a cane chaise lounge waved from the vast front verandah. “Hello. Come on up.”

“Hey there.” Chris waved back. “I didn’t see you. I’m Chris Thompson.” She climbed the wooden steps and shook hands with a woman who looked exactly like Audrey Hepburn, only thinner, if that were possible. “Melanie Worth. I’ve been watching you. Want some iced tea?” She gestured at a pitcher on a nearby table. “Don’t mind if I do.” Chris poured a tall glass. She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment that it was this woman’s regard she had sensed, not some spiritual presence. Raising the pitcher, she asked, “Would you care for some more?” “Thanks. It’s a wonder I haven’t floated away. I’ve done nothing but guzzle fluids since I got here.” “Are you staying close?” There were other cottages dotted around the island, but Chris didn’t know how many were occupied. “Actually, I’m here in the villa. Annabel is a cousin of mine.” Melanie smiled as Chris shot her a quizzical second glance. “I know. Incredible family likeness.” She reached for her glass but her hand was so shaky she withdrew it, plainly embarrassed. For a split second Chris wondered if she were drunk, then she started adding two and two. A wheelchair was propped against the wall, and several bottles of medication stood next to Melanie’s glass.

Then there was the dull pallor of her skin. Without fuss, Chris lifted the drink for her, releasing it only when she had a firm grasp. Melanie thanked her sweetly, adding, “This is getting old.” “Not one of those people who love getting sick so they can be a patient?” “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Chris repressed the urge to ask what was wrong. Not everyone wanted to discuss their health problems with complete strangers. “Cody won’t be long,” Melanie said. “She had to go get some of the cottages ready for new guests.” Chris claimed an armchair and drank her iced tea. The deep verandah was a welcome respite from the heat, and it provided a breathtaking view of Passion Bay. “I’ll hang out ’til she gets back if that’s okay,” she said. “I need some directions for a hike I’m doing tomorrow.” Melanie perked up. “I love hiking. This would be a great place to explore. It’s so beautiful.” “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, maybe you could come. It’s kind of strange doing everything alone.” Chris fell silent for a moment, her throat tight. Surprising herself, she did not change the subject, but

instead said, “I lost my partner recently. A car accident. ” “Oh, no.” Sympathy flooded Melanie’s voice. “I’m so sorry.” “We were together eighteen years.” “I don’t know what to say. It’s such a shock, isn’t it? When something happens and your life is changed forever. You’re so powerless.” Exactly, Chris thought. She had taken for granted her complete control over her life. She was healthy, she had a successful career, a nice home, a lifestyle that was comfortable in every material way. Yet she had lost the person who meant the most to her in the world, and nothing she did could change that. “I guess it’s part of the grieving process. Anger. Helplessness. Self-blame. ” “I think they should call it the twenty -five stages of grief,” Melanie pronounced. “Yeah. Then they could include impatience, rudeness, and bad driving.” Chris knew she sounded harsher than she intended, but Melanie seemed unfazed. “No kidding.” The sweet-faced young woman grew animated. “Don’t people say such stupid things!” “My personal favorite is You’ll find someone else.

As if Elaine was…hell, I don’t know…a piece of furniture or something.” “I know just what you’re saying. The trouble is there’s no etiquette for tragedy. People feel guilty that it’s you and not them, and you end up feeling responsible for making them uncomfortable. So you avoid talking about it, and everyone starts pretending nothing is happening.” Melanie broke off, her expression rueful. “I’m sorry. You got me started.” “Hey, it’s fine by me. You sound like an expert.” “What can I say? I have a terminal illness.” Her light, laughing tone almost convinced Chris she was joking. But her eyes told another story. With a small shrug, she added, “I have ALS. Most people don’t know what it is. Not that it really matters. It’s incurable. I’m dying. There’s no nice way to say it.” She met Chris’s eyes and they remained silent for a long moment, as if each knew exactly what the other was feeling. On an impulse, Chris reached over and took Melanie’s hand. It felt frail, the skin tautly stretched. Even without her illness, she would have been a slightly built person, but she was wasting away. Chris had no idea how ALS was treated. All she knew was that people lost their muscle function. In silence, they sat looking out to sea, two strangers

sharing a moment of empathy. For the first time since Elaine’s death, Chris felt truly comforted by another person. The slight pressure of Melanie’s fingers communicated more plainly than words. Chris squeezed back, tears welling, and Melanie tugged her hand gently, saying, “Come sit with me.” A little awkwardly, Chris perched on the edge of the chaise lounge. They were still holding hands, but she could feel Melanie’s grip fading and wished she could transfer some of her own strength to the young woman. “I truly believe we see the people we love again,” Melanie said with conviction. “I’ll see my daughter, one day. And you’ll see your partner.” “You have a daughter?” Chris was surprised, then dismayed. “Briar. She’s nine months old.” Melanie glanced toward the house. “She’s sleeping. Would you like to see her?” “I’d love to.” It felt only natural to lean over and lift Melanie like a child. “Put your arms around my neck.” Melanie uttered a giggling protest as Chris swung her off the chaise. Grinning, Chris said, “Oh please. This is what I pay gym fees for,” and headed down the hallway to a door Melanie indicated.

The room they entered was airy and plain. Wideslatted plantation blinds screened out the intense afternoon light and a huge ceiling fan languidly moved the warm air. Chris set Melanie down next to a bassinette shrouded in filmy white mosquito nets. It was an ancient-looking wood and wicker affair decorated with brightly colored beads. The name Lucy Annabel Adams was carved into a small, heartshaped plaque at the head. Melanie’s baby lay within, sound asleep on her tummy, head turned to one side, hands balled into little fists. “She’s so tiny,” Chris whispered, parting the nets for a better look. Briar. The name suited her. She was an unusually beautiful baby, Chris decided, calling to mind the few she had seen. Most were bald and scrunched. Melanie’s baby was like a miniature of her mother, the same delicate features evident already. “She’s the best thing I ever did.” Melanie wobbled slightly and Chris slid a supporting arm around her waist. She had so many questions. Where was Briar’s father? What was going to happen to her afterwards? She was filled with pain for Melanie. How terrible to know she would have to leave her child, would never see her grow up.

Melanie seemed to sense her train of thought. “I didn’t know I was sick when I was planning her. And even if I did…it’s hard to say. She makes everything worth it.” “Her father’s back home?” Chris asked. Melanie was silent for a moment. “She doesn’t really have a father. I never met anyone I wanted children with, so in the end I used a donor program.” “Shit,” Chris muttered before she could bite back the reaction. Melanie met her eyes. “I know.” * Salt air stung Olivia’s cheeks. Holding her skirt down with one hand and tightly clutching a metal grip on the side of the boat, she gazed at the brilliant colors swirling beneath the water. She’d had no idea coral came in so many hues: loud pink, bruised violet and soft gold. Normally, the extraordinary beauty of this sight would have enchanted and inspired her. Yet she felt oddly detached from her own responses. Intellectually she knew she was seeing something wonderful. Emotionally, she drew a blank. She had Hunter to thank

for that, Olivia reflected. Like a physical blow, anger shook her body. White-hot and gut-wrenching, it shocked the breath from her. Eyes stinging, Olivia tightened her grip on the rail to steady herself. Yesterday’s degrading encounter had played over and over in her mind throughout the journey here. How could she have allowed herself to be treated that way? Did she have no pride? Olivia pulled herself together. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to find some way to let it go. Only, she had no idea how. “Hibiscus Bay,” Cody shouted above the noise of the motor. Pointing up at a jungle covered slope, she added, “There’s your cottage.” Olivia compelled her clenched fists to relax. She could vaguely discern a thatched roof amidst a mass of green. Her accommodations were every bit as secluded as the brochure had promised. Cody wheeled the outboard in a semi-circle and slowed to a puttering crawl. As they approached a jetty jutting from the rocky point at the southern end of the bay, she said, “We used to row people in.” She indicated a small dinghy on the beach. “That’s yours if you want to row around to the Villa any time. But I can pick you up if you’d rather not take your chances.”

“Actually, I rowed for Cambridge University,” Olivia said, slightly peeved by the inference. In all fairness, Cody wasn’t to know she’d once prided herself on her skills. “Get outta here!” her host exclaimed. She secured the boat and tossed Olivia’s luggage onto the wooden planks. “We should race one day.” “I’m not exactly in shape.” Olivia sized up the woman in front of her. Lean, tanned and athletic, Cody Stanton looked as if she was never out of peak condition. To make matters worse, her would-be opponent said, “I’ll even give you a head start.” Olivia laughed. “Those are fighting words.” Something about Cody reminded her of Hunter as she used to be: fun-loving, self-assured, seductively ingenuous, very charming. Cody pushed a cabin bag at her and calmly picked up the other eighty pounds of luggage. With a dubious look at Olivia’s footwear, she said, “It’s a bit of a walk up to the cottage.” They set off up a winding path through dense fleshy tropical plants. Trailing behind, Olivia felt as if she’d been dismissed as a hopeless wuss, a one-time athlete gone to seed. She contemplated pulling off her sandals so she could keep up, but instead decided to

keep her feet clean and avenge herself on the water. “You’re on,” she said, as they emerged from a thicket of frangipani. “For the race, I mean.” “That’s the spirit.” With a grin, Cody deposited the luggage in the front yard of the cottage. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a week to train. Just be careful where you row. It gets rough heading south and that side of the island is off-limits to guests anyway.” “I can take care of myself,” Olivia said, picking flowers out of her hair. Before her, Frangipani Cottage stood picture-perfect in a setting Hollywood could not have invented. Huge pink, cream and apricot flowers spilled from wall trellises. Glossy creepers tangled with bougainvillea along the verandah. The warm air was thick with the green crush of jungle foliage and a sweet mix of vanilla and jasmine that made her senses reel. It was for such a glimpse of paradise Gauguin had left Paris, Olivia thought. “It’s perfect,” she said. “There’s another cottage that way,” Cody pointed at a jungle path that led north. “There’ll be a new guest in there tomorrow. Mary. No…” She frowned slightly and cocked her head. “Merris. That’s her name.” Olivia gave a small start. The name was quite a coincidence. She had thought about Merris Randall on and off ever since they’d first met. If things had been

different, she would have accepted her invitation to drive in the mountains that day. She still had the card Merris had given her at the bookstore. Several times she had come close to calling, but she always changed her mind at the last minute. Lately she had seen her a few times at a distance. Once she was in the parking lot at the supermarket loading groceries and Merris drove past her. Their eyes had met briefly, then she was gone. Olivia had felt a little piqued that she did not bother to stop and say hello. But then, why should she? The last time they’d spoken, Merris had left the ball in her court. And Olivia hadn’t phoned. It was not that she found Merris unattractive—quite the opposite. Perhaps that was the problem. Sometimes she felt as if any woman she was ever attracted to treated her badly. Even Abigail had commented on her lousy taste in girlfriends. How did a person break out of a pattern like that? After Hunter, Olivia doubted she would ever trust her own judgment again. “We don’t lock doors,” Cody said as she ferried Olivia’s luggage into the cottage. “The only way anyone can get here is by air or sea, so you don’t have to worry about security. And there are no wild animals. At

least, not the man-eating kind.” The room they entered was airy and unpretentious. Woven mats decorated a painted wooden floor, and the whitewashed walls were hung with colorful tivaevae quilts like those she’d seen on display at Rarotonga airport. Olivia gazed out the deep bay window that overlooked the ocean. She could be comfortable here. She would get some space. Maybe she would even write. And maybe she would find some way to move on.

Chapter Nine Riley awoke to the sound of tapping on her door. Disoriented and half asleep, she stumbled out of bed and tweaked the wooden plantation blind so she could see behind it. No one was there. Yawning, she wandered out onto the balcony and looked around. It was barely daybreak. High above, the moon was a watery gold, almost green. To the south, above the dark hills in the center of the island, the first tentative blush of dawn slithered across the sky. Beyond her cottage, the jungle was still but for the first birdcalls of the day. To Riley, the silence was velvet and unreal. Never in her life had she awoken to such tranquility. She heard the tapping again and turned sharply to see a plump pigeon sitting on the railing with an expectant look on its face. Instead of flying away when she swooshed her hand, it hopped calmly along the balcony toward her. “Oh, I get it,” Riley said. “You’re here for breakfast.” She went back indoors, contemplating her options. There didn’t seem any point returning to bed. She had already slept for hours. Flying thousands of miles did that, she supposed. The time zone changed, you were exhausted and dehydrated, and there was something

anti-climactic about arriving at an exotic destination like this and having no one to share the moment with. Glenn Howick was not due until tomorrow. Riley intended to be fully prepared, proving herself worthy of Glenn’s confidence. She would need to rig up platforms for camera gear, cordon off locations, and make preliminary notes. She had already requested a boat for this morning so she could scout the search areas Glenn had flagged. Cody said she would take her to Passion Bay, where the boat was anchored. Hopefully she would show up soon. Riley inspected the contents of her refrigerator with interest. There was a bowl of what looked like purple custard and a platter of chopped fruit and assorted muffins. The previous evening she’d sampled some exquisite juice from a pitcher labeled fruit cocktail. A couple of other delicious-sounding combinations were lined up beside it. She opted for pineapple and papaya smoothie, spooned some of the custard and fruit into a small bowl, and chose a muffin. This gratified her visitor, who perched on the opposite side of the small outdoor table to solicit crumbs. In just another day, it would be Glenn sitting there, eating slices of mango and drinking tea that

Riley had freshly brewed. She had packed a box of Twinings Lady Grey, Glenn’s preference, as well as a pot of the imported ginger marmalade she liked to have on toast. By the time they left the island, Glenn was going to find her indispensable. Riley often wondered where Glenn was from. She was American, but her accent was devoid of the characteristic vowels that signified either North or South. She spoke quickly, which made Riley suspect New York, but her consonants were very soft. All anyone seemed to know was that she’d earned her Ph.D. from Cornell and she had taught at Minnesota State before joining the UCLA faculty. In her late thirties, she was already a keynote speaker published in every important academic journal in her field. Riley had no idea why, of all her post-grad students, Glenn had singled her out for a place in her handpicked tutorial class and now this coveted assignment. Her grades were mediocre at best, and she had never had much success ingratiating herself with her teachers. Glenn said she found Riley’s essays fresh and well considered. Everyone else thought she was overly opinionated and took short cuts in her research. Riley was both thrilled and bewildered that Glenn was taking such a special interest in her. Could

it be personal? She took another mouthful of the purple custard, which was actually a coconut-flavored rice pudding unlike anything she had ever tasted. The rice was kind of nutty and chewy, bursting sweet coconut across her tongue. It was to die for with the chunks of mango and banana she had piled on top. After a breakfast like this, how did anyone go back to pancakes at IHOP? Riley spread out a map of the island and leafed through Glenn’s notes again to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Glenn had written pages on the myth of Hine te Ana’s cave. One of her aims was to investigate the cave’s existence. She had identified an area northeast of the cliffs of Hine te Ana as a probable location. If they could prove the cave actually existed, it would suggest the legend of the goddess could have a basis in real events. For a passionate scholar of pre-Christian wisdom and traditions like Glenn, this was a big deal. Determined to contribute in any way she could to her idol’s professional kudos, Riley rushed through the rest of her breakfast, tossed the leftovers to the pigeon, and set about preparing equipment for the day. *

Less than an hour later, Cody led Kahlo along the narrow pathway through the jungle toward Annie’s Cottage. The coal-black mare knew the way by heart, like most of the tracks around the island. She always noticed the slightest change in their surroundings, lifting her head and whickering with interest if they passed a different coconut palm or encountered an article of clothing some guest had slung over a branch. This morning she was acutely interested in the camera equipment piled in front of the cottage doorway. From the look of it all, Cody could only assume Riley Mason was planning an entry for Sundance. Tethering the mare to a banana palm at the rear of the cottage, Cody unloaded fruit and sodas from the saddlebags. A chef prepared most of the meals on the island, leaving platters of food in a refrigerated room at Villa Luna. Guests had the option of dining at the Villa each night or having their meals delivered. During the day, Cody dropped fresh snacks and drinks into each cottage and provided any advice and information women needed. Annie’s Cottage was their most recently constructed guest accommodation, featuring two bedrooms and a big sitting room all with balconies that overlooked

Marama Bay. Cody had built most of it herself. Carpentry was an essential skill when you lived in a hurricane zone and your partner could not hammer a nail. In the five years they’d lived on Moon Island, they had experienced only one major hurricane, but it had virtually flattened the place, destroying the small cottages in the west and laying waste to many of the mature mango and guava trees that covered the island. Since then, they had systematically replanted and rebuilt, adding additional cottages to cope with expanding demand for accommodations. They could easily treble the rooms they had and still fall short, but neither she nor Annabel wanted to increase guest numbers. Moon Island was their home. It was one thing to have a few guests share it, quite another to operate a tourist mecca. “You’re right on time.” Their new guest emerged wearing hiking gear and a big grin. Appreciative dark eyes traveled over Cody’s face and down her body. “Need a hand?” Annabel always said a little flirtation was harmless, but Cody saw it as an affront to her relationship. It never failed to irritate her when one of their guests acted like the host was served up with the rest of their

holiday package. Cody had lost count of the times she had ended up in some woman’s cottage on one or another phony pretext. She gave Riley a stony little smile and shoved a couple of pineapples at her chest. It was time she took a break from the public, Cody decided. This young woman hadn’t done a thing and already she was fantasizing about pushing her out of the boat. Feeling guilty, she made an effort to sound enthusiastic. “So, where are we going this morning?” “I’ll show you.” Riley dumped the pineapples on the kitchen counter and squatted down by her pack. “This is the area Dr. Howick is interested in,” she said, pulling out a map and pointing to a big red circle. Loading the refrigerator, Cody glanced over her shoulder. “That is only the most inaccessible place on the whole island.” “I figured we could land on this beach, then climb up here.” Riley traced a finger from the Sacred Shore to the cliffs of Hine te Ana. “We could if we had a death wish. It’s the wrong time of day to approach the cliffs from the sea. The currents would sweep us against the cliffs if we tried to row ashore. And you can’t swim it. There’s a rip current that drags you out and dumps you over a ledge.” Riley looked startled. “Then how does anyone get to

it? Don’t they swim in for the rituals?” “Not unless they’re completely nuts. That’s why the legend of the goddess is a big deal. It’s impossible to swim in there, but supposedly she did it.” “They used to row canoes over from Rarotonga, didn’t they?” “Once upon a time. These days I boat them in, and when the currents are right we take a Zodiac ashore. After the ceremonies, I pick them up, or some of them walk out as far as Hibiscus Bay. There’s a pathway up one of the cliffs from the Sacred Shore.” “Can you show me?” “I’m not sure exactly where it is, but I can take you to the trailhead for the cliffs.” Cody pictured Riley Mason wandering in circles, trying to find the right pathway. The jungle southeast of Hibiscus Bay was the thickest and the makatea the steepest on the island. “You’ll need a compass.” Riley adjusted a ball cap over her short, spiky brown hair and flashed a flirtatious smile. “I’d prefer a guide.” “I wish I could help,” Cody said in a solemn voice. “But if I don’t get all my chores done Annabel beats me. ” It took Riley a couple of blinks to realize she was kidding. “You shouldn’t joke about domestic violence.”

“I know.” Cody adopted a hangdog air. “Shame on me.” * It had rained in the night and, inland, the jungle smelled intensely green and fecund. Chris was sweating profusely, her shorts and tank top soaked. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, inhaling air thick with evaporating moisture. The route Cody had explained took her deep inland across the makatea, a fossilized coral reef that had originally been underwater. Evidently, this geographic phenomenon was found on a number of islands in the Cook group. Some of the ancient coral formations were hundreds of feet high. Cody had shown her photographs of the precipitous cliffs at the southernmost tip of Moon Island, explaining that these were also part of the makatea. Carefully Chris picked her way down a steep slope. The makatea was razor-sharp and pockmarked with holes, most of which were invisible beneath a fleshy tangle of creepers and plants. To avoid ankle sprains, she had converted a broken branch into a makeshift hiking pole, testing the ground as she went. The track

to the kopeka cave was helpfully signposted with coconut shells spray painted glow-in-the-dark yellow. There would always be someone dumb enough to try and find their way out of the jungle after nightfall, Chris supposed, reaching for her water flask. She was keenly aware of trespassing in a world that did not belong to human beings but to the countless unseen creatures that made the undergrowth stir and creak. Strange, shrill cries pierced the jungle around her, as if every living thing within ten miles was warning of an intruder in their midst. An audience of tiny apricotand-brown birds maintained a constant twittering commentary on her progress, darting along the route ahead of her and hopping from branch to branch to scrutinize her every move. Chris wondered if they were kakarori, an endangered species Cody had said she might see. Conservationists had recently established several populations of rare birds on Moon Island, which was one of the few Pacific islands free of rats. She halted and stood very still, extending an arm. To her delight, one of the birds swooped down and landed on her wrist. It was similar to a sparrow but much prettier, with its pale apricot breast feathers and brown speckled wings and tail. Like the starlings and fruit doves that

assembled each morning outside her villa, it seemed remarkably unafraid of human beings. She could almost feel Elaine standing next to her, thrilled by this encounter with a rare species. Elaine had always brought along binoculars and bird-watching guides when they went hiking, and she lived for the chance of a sighting she could report. Maybe she was watching now, Chris thought. Despite her own innate skepticism, she kept coming back to the idea that ghosts might actually exist. Sometimes she felt a prickling certainty that Elaine was present and trying to speak to her. Was it such a crazy idea? After all, if things had been the other way around, and had she died instead of Elaine, wouldn’t she try to communicate? On the off chance, Chris said, “I wish I could hear you.” She stood very still, willing her mind to clear. Talk to me now, she thought and waited. The jungle clicked and vibrated with life, but there was no white light, no disembodied voice. Telling herself she had watched Ghost too many times, Chris turned her attention back to the track. Abruptly, the descent grew steeper and she realized she was entering the huge mouth of a cave. Setting her pack down, she located her flashlight and camera.

Once you were deep inside, the kopeka birds could supposedly be seen hanging like bats from the roof. If you got really lucky, they would descend and buzz you. Some people found this pretty creepy, Cody had warned. The occasional guest panicked and broke an ankle trying to get out of the cave in a big hurry. Chris could see why. The entrance rapidly contracted to a dim passageway, the cave itself yawning darkly ahead. Already she was being strafed by tiny creatures that felt like bats. That would be enough to send most nervous types back where they came from. But Chris wasn’t prone to claustrophobia or vampire fantasies. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness, she eased herself over a rocky lip and dropped down into a huge limestone chamber. Enormous stalactites dripped from above illuminated by an eerie light that seemed almost phosphorescent. This was filtered through a series of narrow chimneys that also supplied the cave with air. The place smelled musty but not foul. The first chamber she encountered was like a ballroom, oval in shape with high vaulted ceiling and shawls of pinkish limestone draping the walls. Shining her flashlight around, she made out the remains of several campfires. Some adventurous guest had spent

a night or two down here, she surmised. Immediately beyond the campsite, several immense limestone columns marked the entrance to a smaller cavern where it seemed most of the kopeka birds were gathered. As Chris entered, she was met with a swirling mass of wings. Laughing and covering her face, she backed up a few steps only to lose her footing on the slippery rocks at the base of the farthest column. Struggling to regain her balance, she found herself on a steep pathway that had not been visible from the campsite. Pitch black, and lined with what felt like bunches of hard slithery grapes, it narrowed sharply, forcing Chris onto her butt. As the ceiling closed in and the passageway became little more than a hole, she shimmied down the wet rock for five or six feet, wishing her flashlight were more powerful. She could see maybe twenty feet ahead and it seemed like the hole might lead to another cave. But if it didn’t, getting back up the slippery neck was going to be a problem. Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Chris stuffed her camera inside her shirt, dug her feet in, and turned back. A few years ago she would have made it up the narrow hole with a modest effort. She had basic caving skills. The ascent was awkward but

well within her fitness level. Instead, she lost traction, dropped her flashlight, and slithered down the hole, unable to control the speed of her descent. This is it, she thought without emotion. At the same moment, the passage leveled out and she managed to brake herself with her feet before she hit bottom. Heart pounding, she groped around. As far as she could tell, she was not in any immediate danger. This was not some narrow ledge that spilled into a chasm. The walls around her were solid, and there didn’t seem to be anywhere else she could fall. Searching systematically, she located the flashlight. Like her, it was still intact, and it revealed a sight that would warm the heart of any caver. Directly ahead, a wide fissure parted the rock. Beyond this, Chris could make out a cavern. With any luck there would be a way out of it. Sucking in her stomach, she squeezed through the gap. The sight that greeted her made her blood freeze. Someone else had also fallen down the hole, only they hadn’t made it back. Reclining in a hollow fringed with tiny stalactites, a human skeleton leered at her. Chris’s yelp of horror bounced off the cave walls like echo on a bad long-distance call. Breathing hard, she swung her flashlight around to ensure no one else was

there. It was silly, of course. The skeleton could do her no harm and any companions the unfortunate caver had were obviously long gone. The truth was, she was in no danger from anything but her own poor judgment. If only she’d been content to see the nice birdies, then climb back out, none of this would be happening. As it was, she would probably be stuck here until help arrived. It could be days. Her batteries would run out. She would be in pitch darkness. And starving. Willing herself to chill out and stop with the disaster scenarios, Chris trained her flashlight on the skeleton. It was in a sitting position, one leg bent, the other extended. The skull was tilted to the side, cradled against a rock protrusion. Hanging from the yellowed frame were the remnants of a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants with what looked like a sash tied around the middle. Men’s clothing, Chris decided, squatting down for a closer look. Tracing the legs, she saw the one extended was broken not far above the ankle, eloquently revealing the fate of its owner. He had died sitting here, probably waiting for rescuers who never came. Somewhere in an old newspaper there would no doubt be mention of a fisherman lost at sea. Chris wondered if he was carrying any identification. Delicately she inspected his pants. There were no

pockets and she was surprised by their stiff texture. They were suede leather, old and rigid, not at all what you would expect to find a Polynesian fisherman wearing. Chris checked the walls nearby for a satchel or pack and was intrigued to find a pair of boots. They were unlike anything she had ever seen; tall, with wide tops that folded down and laced up at the back. One boot was much heavier than the other and Chris slid her hand cautiously inside, hoping she was not invading the living quarters of one of those huge, hairy spiders that lived in places like this. She withdrew several objects and laid them on a dry rock in front of her. The deceased had not died this century, she deduced, fascinated. His pistol belonged in a museum; a flintlock made of wood with ornate silver fittings, it looked about two hundred years old. Several large gold coins appeared to hail from the same era. They featured a coat of arms on one side and a man’s head on the other. There was a Latin inscription around the rim, and below the coat of arms, Chris could just make out the year 1791. Her fingers trembled as she set the coins down and picked up the most intriguing discovery of all, a vellum roll heavily sealed with wax. Written along the sealed

edge were the words Kaua e whàki, waiho kia muna ana. Chris was almost afraid to break the seal. She glanced at the hollow-eyed skull with a pang. Whoever this man was, he must have written the letter she was about to open. It was important enough that he had sealed it to prevent it being read by just anyone. Chris pictured a woman waiting tirelessly for word of her sailor husband. She had died without ever knowing his fate or his final words to her. Respectfully, she unfurled the stiff vellum. At first she was puzzled, then her heart accelerated and she felt sweat bead on her forehead. She was not looking at some long-lost sailor’s love letter, but a map. Her eyes flew straight to a point in the center that was marked with a large X. All she could think was, Buried treasure.

Chapter Ten Behind a gauzy film of cloud, the moon seemed screen-printed against the night sky. Like candlelight, its muted glow spread across Hibiscus Bay, transforming the ocean surface to buttery quicksilver. It was almost enough, Merris thought. If nothing else happened to make this trip memorable, it was worth it just to see this. She had slept for a few hours after unpacking, and it was dark when she awoke. So much for her plan to watch the sun set on her first night. Intending to have a nightcap on her verandah and contemplate the universe, she pulled on a t-shirt and shorts. But the moon soon lured her down the short pathway, through the stand of palms below her cottage to the long white beach beyond. A hesitant breeze cooled the heat that had built up during the day and swept the voluptuous scents of different flowers as far as the waterline. Sitting there, with the languid tide lapping at her feet, Merris tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. Maybe she would sleep here, beneath the stars, in the warm safe cocoon of the tropical night, she mused. This train of thought was so completely out of character, no one at Randall Software would have believed their one-time boss

capable of it. With a sigh of satisfaction, she lay back on the sand and closed her eyes. She was here, and she was just a few minutes walk from Olivia’s cottage. Getting a reservation had not been easy. At first, the island’s owners were oddly reluctant to take her proposal to the couple who were supposed to be spending the next three weeks in Merris’s cottage. But, as Merris had pointed out, twenty grand plus a first class allexpenses-paid vacation in a luxury villa in Tuscany was the kind of offer people had a right to hear about. “Oh!” said a startled voice. “I almost fell over you.” A woman in a sarong materialized at Merris’s feet. Dark hair cascaded over shoulders as creamy and lustrous as a South Sea pearl. Her face was cast into shadow, but it was unmistakably Olivia. “You must be my neighbor. I’m so sorry to disturb you.” Hastily, Merris sat up. “Don’t be.” She grappled for the perfect thing to say. The best she could manage was, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Olivia moved a little closer, her head cocked to one side. “Merris? Merris from Cherry Creek?” “Olivia?” Merris hoped she sounded every bit as astonished as her companion. “Good grief. It is you.”

“How bizarre,” Merris said. “I know. What an incredible coincidence.” She didn’t sound suspicious. In fact, Merris thought she detected a note of pleasure. “How long have you been here?” Merris asked. “Only a day. I can’t believe this. What a surprise. I mean, it’s a good surprise.” “You don’t sound so sure about that.” Olivia laughed softly. “No, I am. Really. I guess I just never expected to run in to anyone I know.” “Me either,” Merris said with plausible conviction. Olivia sat down on the sand an arm’s length away. “What made you come here of all places?” “Well, for a start, I’d never heard of it. So I figured no one else would have either.” “Exactly my thought,” Olivia chimed in. “I needed a vacation, and I figured, if you’re going to get away from it all, why not go the whole hog?” “How ironic. We both came thousands of miles so we wouldn’t see anyone we knew and…” “Here we are.” Merris finished her sentence. Caught off-guard, Olivia seemed open, girlish somehow. Being somewhere new and far away made it easier to step outside of normal behavior patterns, Merris guessed.

“Well, it could be worse,” Olivia mused aloud. “At least we get along. Imagine coming all the way here and finding yourself next door to…I don’t know…” “The ex,” Merris suggested. Olivia hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Appalling. The ultimate negative fantasy.” “Weird isn’t it? When you fall out of love.” Merris made the observation almost without thinking. Olivia met her eyes and looked quickly away. Her voice tightened a little. “My friend Abigail has a theory about that. She says being in love lasts two years because that buys enough time for the real thing to take root and grow. Assuming it’s going to.” “So when the rose-tinted specs come off you’ve either got something or you don’t,” Merris said. “Hence those folks who only ever have one two-year relationship after the next.” “Addicted to the in-love high,” Olivia concluded with a small sigh. “I blame our culture. We’re sold the idea that’s what the real thing is supposed to feel like. If we don’t have the whole many-splendored deal, by definition we don’t have love.” Merris detected a shift in her mood. The playfulness had gone and there was a pensive sobriety in its place. Opting for a lighter note, she said, “Well,

speaking for the huddled masses who have no idea what the in-love feeling is actually like, I am happy to report that I don’t miss it at all.” There was silence for a moment, then Olivia released a peal of laughter. “How did this conversation happen?” she said in mock protest. “I can answer that,” Merris adopted a professorial tone. “We are two people at crossroads in our lives. We traveled far, hoping for perspective, and stumbled upon one another at the very same intersection of place and time. Which means the dice are rolling and all bets are off.” “Very philosophical. And of course, travel is always a license to do all manner of things we would never permit ourselves back home…to write our own rules.” “You bet,” Merris agreed, determined to exploit this unexpected rapport. “For example, we could have a rule that you and I will meet here every night and talk about absolutely anything we want.” “Unmasked.” Olivia spoke so softly, Merris was not sure she caught the word. “Why not? What’s to lose?” “All manner of things. The comfort of shallow small talk…our respective mystiques…”

“You flatter me,” Merris said with irony. “I have about as much mystique as a barbecue grill. What you see is what you get. Now, you, on the other hand…” “Pray continue,” Olivia invited. “No, you tell me,” Merris countered. After the briefest pause, Olivia said softly, “What you see is what you want to see.” “And you think I’m philosophical.” Olivia was silent, resting her forehead on her knees. Slowly she turned her head on its side to face Merris. “I should have called you.” Merris heart jumped into her throat. “It’s not too late.” A faint smile. “That’s relative.” “No, that’s opportunism.” Olivia laughed. “You’re funny.” “So, it’s a deal then?” Merris went for the close. “Tomorrow. Same time, same beach. We talk about anything we like, no strings.” “You’re not in car sales, are you?” Merris grinned and got to her feet, dusting the sand from her limbs. “I’ll be here waiting for you.” “Okay, it’s a deal.” There was a gratifying hint of disappointment in Olivia’s voice, as if she wasn’t quite ready to end their conversation. Yet Merris steadfastly pulled on her

sandals and said goodnight. She could feel Olivia’s eyes on her as she strolled up the beach. It took real willpower, but she did exactly what Abigail had told her to do; she exercised restraint. Not a wave, no looking back, no finding an excuse to linger. According to Abigail, Olivia was like a cat. If you were too easy, she would lose interest. * Disgruntled, Riley slouched her way along Marama Bay, wondering what she was going to say to Glenn tomorrow. No thanks to Cody, she had finally stumbled onto the cliff tops above the Sacred Shore. There was a sheer drop of a couple of hundred feet down to the small beach where the rituals would take place. Nowhere did any reasonable vantage point for observation or filming present itself. As for a pathway down, Riley had almost gotten herself killed exploring one dead end after the next. If Hine te Ana’s cave was anywhere in the vicinity, she had no idea how anyone would ever get to it from the beach. The more she explored, the more convinced she was that the cave was one hundred percent myth. She had done the best she could to prepare the site,

flagging a couple of spots near the cliff edge where they could mount a camera, and marking out the areas she had already searched. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but tomorrow was another day. She plunked herself down on the beach and popped the cap off a beer. Once Glenn was here, everything would fall into place. She had a way of making that happen. Riley took an experimental swig of the local ale. It was surprisingly good; smooth and ice cold. As she lowered the bottle, her heart sank. She had company, but not the kind a dyke alone on a romantic moonlit beach hoped for. Trudy the porn star tossed a towel down next to her, coyly demanding, “Got another one of those?” Why she bothered to wear that shred of string pretending to be a bikini, Riley could not imagine. It wasn’t like her breasts needed support; they appeared to be helium filled. She produced another beer from her shoulder bag and handed it over. Trudy stared at the cap like it was radioactive. Taking the hint, Riley plucked the bottle from her hand and removed the offending top. This earned a breathless thank you. “This beach is so cool.” Trudy observed after a moment lost in thought. “Imagine a five star resort right over there.” She waved a hand in the general direction

of Annie’s cottage, adding, “Of course, the man ban would have to go.” “It’s a local tradition,” Riley said. “The Cook Islanders think any man who sleeps on this island, or sets foot on it without permission, will be cursed.” “Oh, like anyone believes that stuff. My Daddy says it’s amazing how fast a story changes when there’s money to be made.” “Sounds like your daddy has friends in low places.” Trudy blinked. “You shouldn’t say mean things about someone you don’t even know.” Her father’s proud mouthpiece, she declared, “Daddy isn’t a crook. He’s legitimate.” Riley took that to mean the guy had laundered enough money that he was now part of the establishment—yet another fine American tradition. She recalled an essay by Gore Vidal which referred to the United States of Amnesia. The old guy had a point. “What line of work is your father in?” she enquired, expecting to hear ‘garbage disposal’. “He’s in post-life.” “Which is a euphemism for…?” “You know,” Trudy trotted out some more doublespeak, “Pre-need services, memorial real estate.” “The funeral business?”

“Uh huh.” She rearranged her towel and fidgeted with a conch anklet. Death was a socially awkward topic, all the more so for those who made their living from it, Riley concluded. She changed the subject. “So, what made you pick this place for a vacation? It doesn’t seem your style.” Trudy took a moment. In a slightly breathless tone, she said, “If I tell you, you have to promise not to say a word to anyone.” “Wait, let me guess. You’re a CIA operative.” “Just promise.” “I promise, okay? Now what’s the big secret?” “Well, Daddy thinks this could be like…ground zero for his new concept.” She paused for dramatic effect, then intoned, “Deluxe Transition Retreats. The bereaved accompany their loved one to an exotic destination to commence his or her final slumber. All compassionate services take place in a customized luxury environment; the viewing, the funeral, catered mourning functions, and of course five star accommodations with therapeutic activities available …like, say, golf.” Clearly, she had memorized the entire promotional pamphlet. Riley wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t that funny. “You’re saying your father wants to set up

cemeteries in far off places and run a kind of funeral getaway. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.” “Cool, huh?” It was not the word Riley would have used. “So, you’re here to scope the place out?” She wondered if Cody and Annabel knew. “Virgin real estate doesn’t grow on trees, and when you find it, there’s usually a catch. That’s what I’m here for. To see what it will take to make the problems go away.” “So, is there a catch with Moon Island?” As if she couldn’t guess. “The way I see it, the problem is those two women, Cody and Annabel. They really don’t get the bigger picture. Like, this could be a Sandals St. Lucia for the bereaved. Daddy would do a sweetheart deal. But you can lead a horse to water…” Amused, Riley finished her beer. “Money isn’t everything for some people. If you assume it is, you’ll never get to square one.” Trudy appeared to weigh this novel idea carefully. “If it’s not money, it’s sex…usually it’s both.” Giggling, she said, “That could be fun.” “Are you saying you’d have sex with someone so they’ll do business with your father?” Riley was

appalled. What sort of man pimped his daughter to build a cemetery? “No, silly!” Trudy gave her a soft kick. “With guys, I just pay them some attention. Make them feel…you know, big.” She let the word linger. “Then Daddy closes the deal.” “Somehow I don’t see that approach working with Cody and Annabel.” Trudy sighed. “I know. It’s so weird. Like, guys think I’m hot. And lesbians are supposed to be into girls. But I tested the waters, and they are so not going there. I mean what’s up with that?” “Cody and Annabel are a couple,” Riley stated the obvious. “Anyway, just because men find you sexy doesn’t mean a lesbian will.” “You’ve got that way wrong.” Trudy’s voice got a little squeaky. “I’ve fooled around with untold girls. They were into it.” “Wild guess. They were straight or bisexual.” “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “That’s because you’re not a dyke.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “You people are obsessed with labels. C’mon, be honest. Do you think I’m sexy?” “Being honest, you’re not my type,” Riley said, sparing her feelings.

Trudy set down her beer bottle, crawled across their towels and linked her arms seductively around Riley’s neck. “Really?” She teased Riley’s ear lobe with the tip of her tongue. “Prove it.” Riley gave the idea room to breathe. She had just endured two celibate months after the Sarah disaster and she was feeling pretty horny. Why not have a little fun? She tried to picture herself between Trudy’s legs. It wasn’t happening. “Look I need to get some sleep,” she said, disengaging herself as politely as she could. “I’m working tomorrow.” Trudy’s bewildered pout was evident even in the moonlit shadows. “Okay. Whatever.” She watched Riley pick up her gear. “Come to think of it, you’re not my type either.” Happy to leave it at that, Riley gathered up the empties and said goodnight. It would be the decent thing to walk Trudy back home, but who needed the excitement? “See you ’round,” she said like a real cad. “Have fun.” “I plan to,” Trudy replied, sweet as ant poison.

Chapter Eleven Olivia rolled onto her back and tuned into the vibrant cacophony of the new day. She had gone to bed with her windows wide open so she could fall asleep to the distant pulse of the ocean. This morning the wind was up, making the palms sigh and groan, and chasing scented gusts of frangipani into her room. The jungle spilled over with birdsong and the toil of tiny creatures getting about the bustle of life. Dangling her feet over the side of the bed, she wiggled her toes in the cool green air. She felt strangely contented to be here. It was as if her real life had been frozen in time and she had stumbled, instead, into another dimension. She would have to go back in the end, but for now she was happy to be lying in this simple room, inhaling tropical aromas and contemplating a day that could be anything she wanted it to be. Her mind raced ahead to the evening and her rendezvous with Merris Randall. There had to be some reason the Fates had thrown them together. It could not be random coincidence. Her imagination instantly generated a snapshot of Merris here in her bed, trapping her hands and kissing her. Disconcerted, she

sat up and pushed her hair back from her face. In the entire time she was with Hunter, she had never once thought about making love with any other woman. Even now, almost a year after their break-up, the very idea made her feel queasy and disloyal. Yet Merris preyed on her mind. And why not? Olivia reasoned. She was attractive and interesting. Tonight they would spend some time getting to know one another. Why limit the options to friendship only? Olivia tried to imagine herself having a casual encounter. It was hardly her style. But since when had her style paid off? She had spent the past ten years not falling into bed with just anybody. She had dated eight women. Of these, only four had become steady girlfriends. None of her relationships had come to a good end. Sometimes she wondered if she had limited her own romantic experience far too much. Maybe she kept picking lemons because that was all she knew. Here, far from home and familiar habits, it seemed the Fates were offering her a chance to do something different. Why not be open to it? Didn’t she owe herself that much? Feeling edgy, Olivia knotted a sarong over her breasts and headed for the bathroom. Her cheeks were hot and her pulse was uneven. She splashed cold

water on her face and told herself firmly that she was a normal woman with normal needs. There was no need to panic because she’d had a sexual thought about a woman she barely knew. In fact, it was healthy. They were two adults on vacation in a place made for romance. Other people would hook up and have some fun. Why not her? Assuming Merris was interested, which seemed obvious. Olivia scrubbed her teeth, showered, and was sitting on the verandah drying her hair when the subject of her angst calmly walked up the path and presented her with a bunch of wild orchids. “I know these grow everywhere but I thought you might like some for your cottage.” Warm hazel eyes held Olivia’s in a steady regard. Flustered, Olivia took the flowers and thanked her. She could feel color seeping into her face and hoped Merris would attribute it to the shower. “Would you like to come in?” she invited in a tone she hoped was relaxed. “I was about to make a pot of tea.” “Sounds good.” Merris followed her indoors, looking around with interest. “This is nice. Yours is bigger than mine.” Olivia stifled a small gasp. “I love this place,” she managed. What was the matter with her, reading

innuendo into a comment about their rooms? “It’s so authentic and unpretentious. Simple décor, and these decorative quilts are fabulous. They must take weeks to make. I was thinking I’d look for one to take back home. Cody says they sell them at the Punanga Nui market in Ruatonga so I’ll probably take a ride with Annabel one day and—” She broke off, aware she was chattering inanely. Merris was staring at her with unnerving intensity, those laser-sharp eyes combing her face for what was not being said. Olivia found herself unable to look away. It was as if she had never really seen Merris until that moment. She hadn’t noticed her straight, determined nose, her equally straight mouth or the small dimple that played in one cheek when she spoke. Today, her eyes looked more green than hazel. Short, thick lashes lent a sensuality to them that was echoed in her body language. In a loose white linen shirt and lightweight chinos, she looked both polished and completely at ease. Merris struck her as unpretentious, the kind of person who chose what she wore, where she dined, how she lived, based on common-sense principles like quality, value and functionality. Olivia could imagine her unmoved by designer labels, buying something for no

reason other than that she liked it. She paid attention to detail. Her hair was short and perfectly cut, her nails were neatly manicured, her clothes were immaculate. It wasn’t about presenting any particular image, Olivia sensed. She was simply being her well-groomed self. “Is something wrong?” Olivia realized she had been completely transfixed. “No, not at all.” Summoning a bright social laugh, she said, “I guess I’m not really awake yet. I need that tea.” She set the orchids down on the kitchen counter and found some cups, conscious all the while of Merris watching her with frank appreciation. Automatically, she checked the knot at her breasts, feeling entirely too aware of her nakedness beneath the flimsy cotton. Hot water spilled across the top of the teapot onto the counter, and Olivia stared down at it, befuddled. “Let me do that.” Merris took the teapot from her and carried it over to the sink. She drained the excess then poured their tea. “Want to sit outside?” Olivia nodded, feeling stupid and cross with herself. Why was she so affected by this woman’s presence? It made no sense, even if she had spent the past hour contemplating the possibility of a holiday fling with her. It must be a rebound thing, she decided. Merris was the first woman she’d felt drawn to since Hunter. These

feelings were proof that one day she would be able to move on. Until now she had wondered if Hunter had destroyed all hope of that. If she could, she would make love with Merris right now, she realized with disquiet. Not because she cared for her or even truly desired her. Not because she thought something might develop between them. If she were honest, it was all about proving she still existed as a woman and she could get beyond Hunter. Ashamed of herself, Olivia inspected her tea. She barely knew Merris but she seemed like a good person. She deserved better than to be used as selfesteem therapy for a woman who was an emotional basket case. They were both waiting for the other to speak. Reaching for her self-respect, Olivia said, “I was thinking. Maybe we shouldn’t meet tonight.” Merris sipped her tea. “Why?” she asked in a neutral tone. “What’s on your mind?” Olivia was torn. She had an urge to trust Merris with the truth, or at least part of it. But she was loathe to reveal herself to a person she barely knew. “I like you, Merris,” she said eventually. “I wish some things were different. I broke up a while ago. It was one of those scorched-earth relationships, and I feel like it

colors everything for me. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t think I’m good news for any woman right now.” When Merris finally spoke, she sounded very matterof-fact. “This is when I say I can respect that and some bullshit about how we can be friends. Right?” Olivia swallowed. Her companion was nothing if not direct. “I’m trying to do the right thing,” she said quietly. “I know we’re meeting just to talk, but things have a way of getting complicated.” “What is it you’re afraid of? Getting hurt again? Hurting me?” “All of the above.” “I’m a big girl. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I get a wounded ego because you don’t answer my calls?” “I would never be so rude,” Olivia said. “Let’s stop a second.” Merris’s tone was gentle. “What are we discussing here? No one said anything about getting married, or even getting laid. We’re just going to get together and shoot the breeze, like people do.” “Let’s not pretend people always stick to the rules they make for themselves. I’m trying to be realistic.” “I can respect that. But we’re not powerless pawns in some mysterious cosmic game. We’re in charge. We

choose what we do or don’t do.” Her face serious, Merris continued, “Forgive my saying this, Olivia, but you’re second-guessing yourself way too much. I can see your ex has left you with some baggage, and I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. But it’s up to you to decide whether you’re going to allow the past to control you forever, or not.” Olivia felt her eyes prickle. Merris was right. But it was all very well in theory. Emotionally, she felt utterly stuck. “I understand what you’re saying…” “But?” For a moment it seemed Merris was going to get up and walk away. Instead she lifted a hand to cup Olivia’s cheek. “I know it’s not that simple, but I can help if you’ll let me.” “Why? I mean, why would you bother?” “Do I need an agenda? I’d like to get to know you. No drama.” Her touch was comforting, her gaze tender. Olivia placed her own hand over Merris’s and closed her eyes briefly. Her throat was tight. She felt a tear trickle down her face. Merris brushed it away, then slid her fingers through Olivia’s hair. “You should wear it out more often,” she said, caressing the back of Olivia’s neck. Something in her expression altered and she drew

closer until with each breath their bodies almost connected. There was a frank question in her eyes. Olivia hesitated, leaned forward, and answered it with her mouth. First a tentative kiss, a recognition of the inevitable. Then a second, soft and curious, inviting a more urgent third. Olivia was one of those people who believed in kissing. When real kisses cease, you know your lover has secrets to hide. Hunter’s kisses, once so honest and passionate, had become automatic, bloodless, sometimes punishing. Olivia was a specialist in their shades of meaning. There was the guilty kiss, tender and tainted with betrayal; the dutiful kiss, the resentful kiss, the grateful kiss, the payoff, the blow off. Finally, there was the last kiss. Hunter didn’t know it, but Olivia did. Life took curious turns. Sometimes you had no idea you were kissing a lover for the last time. Olivia knew she would never kiss Hunter again. They would never make love, and if she had any say in the matter, neither would they see one another again. There would be no transition to friendship, no revolving door flings for old time’s sake. It was over. Period. And now, here in this far away world, was a first fledgling kiss—mouths meeting as strangers: cautious,

a little formal, still bearing the sense-memory of other lips, hovering and tasting like hummingbird to flower. It felt new and good and real. Breathless, both women drew back at the same time, checking in with one another like two innocents sampling the forbidden. Merris smiled. Olivia smiled back. They kissed again. It was that easy. Olivia was flooded with relief. A kiss was just a kiss, but even a day ago she could not have conceived of this. Lightly, with her fingertips, she explored the contours of Merris’s face—her smooth wide forehead, the square set of her cheeks and jaw line, her straight determined nose. Their kisses deepened. Olivia felt herself sinking back into the sofa as Merris’s weight shifted over her. She was aware of her sarong loosening as Merris’s hand slid beneath it. “I want to make love to you,” Merris murmured against her mouth. “I can tell.” Merris’s mouth moved to her throat. “Is that a yes?” “I don’t know.” Her body did, skin prickling, nipples tight. Olivia shivered. Merris took her shoulders and drew her up so they were sitting once more, facing one another. Tenderly kissing her cheeks and forehead, she held her close,

arms strong and possessive. Her body felt warm and solid, well exercised. Olivia all but sagged against her. In that moment, her mounting desire was overtaken by an intense craving for comfort. Merris must have sensed her mood change, for she pulled Olivia onto her lap and cradled her as naturally as if they’d done this a thousand times. For the longest time, Olivia took refuge in her embrace, content simply to breathe. Merris smelled as clean as salt air, her skin tinted with the faintest trace of sweet lime. Beneath the weave of her shirt, her heart beat against Olivia’s cheek, robust and full. Olivia was certain her own heart must sound quite different, pounding with the uneven gait of a cripple. “Let me stay with you tonight,” Merris murmured. Another woman inside her body. New hands wiping her clean of Hunter’s touch, making it safe for the exiled self to return. Olivia opened her eyes. It had to be more than that. She studied Merris anew and saw a real person, someone who could see her too. “Yes,” she answered. *

Yes! Merris threw open her cottage door and paced

back and forth through the small rooms. She had twelve hours to fill. It seemed like an eon. She had no idea how she had managed to leave Olivia on that sofa, flushed and yielding, when every competitive instinct said there was a deal on the table and she should close it. It struck her that when she was with Olivia, she was tuned into a frequency that was theirs alone. She could sense Olivia’s shifts in mood and found herself responding to her emotional needs whether or not they were articulated. Moments ago, holding her, something had told Merris it was not the right time to make love. Innately, she knew that, more than anything, Olivia needed to be able to trust someone…to connect with another person. Merris could never have imagined having this unconscious rapport. With previous girlfriends, she’d always felt they occupied two different planets. Communication involved carefully negotiating a minefield littered with misinterpretation and flawed assumptions. Merris was eternally on tenterhooks, certain she would put her foot in it at any moment. She thought about Allegra. It had become too much effort for too little reward. With the benefit of hindsight, she could see they had

never really been in love. She had been in lust for a time, which was followed by a period of adjustment in which she rationalized her loss of interest as part of a natural cycle in any relationship. She had been in love with the idea of building a stable home and family. Having grown up an only child and hating it, she wanted several children. It had never bothered her that Allegra had no career ambitions. Merris supposed she was a little old fashioned. She wanted a wife who would be happy to be at home with the family when that day came. Allegra had seemed to want that role too—Merris now suspected it made no difference with whom, so long as there was money. Allegra was in love with the idea of living the life her mother never had, with the big house, the status-symbol cars, designer clothes and showy jewelry. When they were first together, Merris had been puzzled but mildly entertained by her obsession with photographs. It was as if nothing was real to her unless there was a frame around it. Eventually she understood that Allegra was an actor in her own life. Photographs authenticated her carefully constructed reality. As a consequence, their home was awash with narcissistic portraits. Some included Merris or the

twins, arranged like accessories, for effect. Lately, like any proud parent, Allegra had started a wall for their daughters. Merris couldn’t think of a single picture she liked. To her, they all looked like greeting cards, the twins, usually in theme costumes, posing for the camera like tiny professionals. Merris felt sure they would already be singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” at the Little Miss Kentucky Cuties pageant if Allegra were not at such pains to reject her roots. Not only did this obsession involve a change of name from KarleeBeth, but also speech therapy to ‘redesign’ her accent. And it meant their home was generically stylish and wholly devoid of personality. Allegra had systematically redecorated to remove all trace of the mundane comfort Merris had grown up in. Her parents’ solid but dull furniture was banished to a storage facility, with the exception of a few antiques singled out because the decorator said they were valuable. In most of the downstairs rooms the wood flooring had been replaced with a sea of pale marble that made little sense in the Colorado climate, besides being dangerous for small children. Original art deco bathrooms were ruthlessly gutted and replaced with black granite and gold fittings; brothel décor, Merris’s friend Sam had termed it. What the house had lost in

cohesive style and charm, it made up for in self-aware opulence. Merris should have put a stop to it, but she had been a coward. Allegra considered their home a testament to her personal good taste, rather than the design literature it faithfully mimicked. She saw nothing absurd in a modernist bar adjoining a dining room furnished in mock Italian rococo. Any tactful suggestion Merris made about change led to hysterics, so she avoided the topic entirely. When Allegra left, Merris said she could take all the furniture she wanted. Most of it was now crammed into the apartment she occupied with “Romeo” and the twins. Recently, Romeo had walked right into a chandelier that had once graced the Randall entrance hall and had to go to the hospital. Pity. It was disturbing to acknowledge that she had been willing to make a life with a woman she did not love, in fact barely liked. Instead of asking why Allegra had had children when she really didn’t want them, the real question was, why had she pushed Allegra to get pregnant when she knew in her heart their relationship was never going to work? It wasn’t pleasant to take a good hard look at herself and realize she had been both selfish and cowardly. She should have had the

guts to end her relationship long ago, instead of making Allegra so miserable she was driven to look elsewhere. She could be as judgmental as she liked about her ex’s pretensions, but at least Allegra had honestly tried to be the best partner she was capable of being. It was more than Merris could say. Feeling very sober all of a sudden, she poured herself a glass of fruit juice and wandered onto the balcony outside her bedroom. The sky seemed a little darker than usual on the horizon, she thought absently. Perhaps it would rain later in the day. She conjured up a delicious fantasy of herself and Olivia in one another’s arms, lulled by a rainstorm after hours of profound lovemaking. This time it would be different, she promised herself. She was not going to screw up. She would never give Olivia the slightest reason to doubt her. Okay, so she was getting ahead of herself. Merris finished her juice and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. She barely knew Olivia and maybe it would come to nothing. But tonight was a sure thing. For now, that was more than enough.

Chapter Twelve Chris blinked and rubbed her eyes with hands she knew were filthy. Groaning, she stretched her cramped limbs. At forty, the body did not take kindly to a night of broken sleep on a slab of rock. Chris had fashioned a makeshift bed by removing her clothes and piling them onto the stiff suede pants and leather boots that had belonged to the long-dead sailor. She wondered what the time was and wished she had worn a watch with a luminous dial instead of the dressy one Elaine had given her for her birthday last year. She felt sure it must be dawn by now, not that it would make any difference. The cave was pitch black and she could see only one route out, back the way she came. Getting through the fissure was the easy bit. Chris had no idea how she was going to climb the narrow chimney up to the main cavern. Reluctantly, she flicked on her flashlight. She had been conserving the batteries for her big push and now was the hour. Slowly, she panned the cave looking for any indication of another exit. Something caught her beam, and she jerked to her feet. Just yards away, coated in a pall of dust and cobwebs, lay an antique sword alongside some kind of dagger.

Chris’s heart accelerated and she licked her dry lips. The sword was heavy, and she doubted it would be of any use to her. But the dagger was another story. A solid weapon, its blade was straight and fairly thick, like the heirloom Scottish dirk Elaine’s father had once showed her. Chris cleaned the knife and dragged it experimentally along the cave wall. Its point found the first available groove; she pushed hard. The blade did not snap and remained in position. It wasn’t a rock anchor, but Chris figured it could provide some much needed leverage if she could wedge it into cracks and pits. Charged with optimism, she stuffed everything into her backpack, careful not to damage the treasure map. Instead of changing into her spare t-shirt, she tore it strips and used these to bind her hands and knees. “Okay, I’m out of here,” she informed the grinning ancient mariner. “Nice making your acquaintance. Sorry it was a couple of hundred years too late, pal.” * Cody opened Melanie’s door, balancing her breakfast tray. “Good morning,” she said, knowing her cheerfulness sounded fake.

Melanie was sitting up in bed, brushing her hair. She gave her usual sweet smile and set the brush aside. To Cody’s horror, it was choked with hair. “I know,” Melanie said, catching her shocked expression. “At this rate, I’ll be bald by Christmas.” “Why is it coming out?” It was better to be forthright. Melanie said it made her feel invisible when people pretended nothing was happening. “Did you have chemotherapy?” Melanie shook her head. “It doesn’t usually happen with ALS, but I guess I just got lucky. My doctor thinks it’s a reaction to one of the drugs.” Cody set down the tray and poured a cup of tea. “I’ll draw a bath for you. Annabel will be in to help as soon as she’s fed Briar.” Melanie’s soft brown eyes fixed on her. “This must be pretty strange for you. The baby…me being sick like this. I shouldn’t have come.” Cody felt like kicking herself. Obviously, she had done something to make Melanie feel unwelcome. “Annabel’s thrilled that you’re here. And I’m really glad, too. If I’ve said anything to make you feel I’m not, then I didn’t mean to.” “Oh, no.” Melanie touched her arm. “Quite the opposite. You’ve both been wonderful. It’s just, I had

been managing fairly well, and all of a sudden I’m like this. I know neither of you has time to look after a baby, let alone run around after me.” “Mel, you’re family. You can stay with us as long as you want.” Melanie’s expression was suddenly beseeching. “Cody, I need to ask you a favor.” “Anything.” “Don’t send me to the hospital.” Her fingers closed weakly around Cody’s wrist. “I don’t want to die by myself.” “Now stop talking like that.” Cody was alarmed. “That’s a long way off. You don’t have to think about any of that now.” “Please listen,” Melanie begged. “We can bring all the equipment I need here. The oxygen. The drugs. I’ll hire a nurse.” Cody sat on the bed. She felt profoundly inadequate. Melanie was trying to deal with her situation like an adult, and she was being no help at all. “I’m not sure if we can do that. I mean nothing we could fix up would be as good as a hospital.” “Cody, I don’t want to be kept alive on machines. Do you understand what I’m saying?” It was time to get Annabel, Cody thought. It wasn’t

right that Melanie should be having this conversation with anyone but her own blood relative. Melanie must have guessed what she was going to say. “I can’t talk to Annabel about this.” Her voice shook. “We’re too close. I need you to do this for me. Can I count on you?” What was she supposed to say to a dying woman who asked for help? “Absolutely. Whatever it takes,” Cody promised. Melanie closed her eyes and relaxed back into her pillows. “I’m so glad Annabel has you. The two of you are perfect.” * “Slow down.” Annabel pulled the nets closed around Briar’s bassinette. “What do you mean you’re worried? She seemed fine in the bath. A little short of breath, maybe.” “It’s not her breathing.” Cody looked stressed, fingers erratically combing her dark hair back from her forehead. The unconscious gesture always told Annabel something was bothering her. “You two seemed to be deep in conversation when I went past the room

earlier,” she remarked. Cody shot a look at her. “You heard?” Annabel had only caught a word or two, but she had seen Melanie’s eyes, full of desperate appeal. “I think I know what she’s asking.” “You need to talk to her,” Cody burst out. “Tell her the hospital is the best place. We can’t look after her when it gets really bad. I was reading this booklet she has. People can’t breathe. They have to have an oxygen ventilator, and eating is almost impossible so they have to be tube-fed. We can’t do that.” Annabel stilled her with a touch. “I know, sweetheart. I will talk to her. There’s a doctor in Avarua I want her to see. We can arrange some equipment to make her more comfortable if she takes a turn for the worse. Meantime, I thought I might go fetch Violet. If I fly out this afternoon, I could be back by tomorrow.” Cody cringed as she always did when Annabel mentioned Solarim Atoll. It was hardly surprising, considering she had crashed a plane there not so long ago. Cody seemed to have convinced herself that the island was responsible for anything and everything that went wrong on the rare days Annabel traveled there. “Do you think she can cure her?” Cody looked dubious about the whole idea. “It would be wrong to get

her hopes up if…you know.” Annabel tucked her arm into Cody’s and walked her out the French doors to the verandah. “There are people who live with ALS for many years. No one knows why the disease is worse for some than it is for others. I want Mel to believe it’s possible to hope for more time, and I think Violet could help.” The old lady was a trained nurse, but she also possessed a gift for healing that went well beyond conventional medicine. The way Annabel saw it, they had nothing to lose. She glanced up at the sky. There was a strong breeze and a few dark clouds had collected to the north. She would need to leave soon if she was going to have time to get to Solarim before sunset. First she had to fly to Raro, collect Dr. Glenn Howick and her team from their hotel, and take them to meet the ruahine who would be conducting the rituals on Moon Island at the end of the week. Dr. Howick would then fly back to Moon Island with her, leaving her team on Rarotonga to interview participants ahead of time. Annabel felt uneasy about the entire process, but the women she knew were quite capable of telling some UCLA academics to go to hell if they were out of line. It was going to be fine. Her main worry was making sure no one fell off the cliffs on the day. Right now, however,

she had more pressing concerns. “Is it the power of positive thinking?” Cody asked. “You know, with Violet.” “I’m not sure,” Annabel replied. “But I refuse to accept that Mel is just going to fade away and die within a few weeks, so I’m willing to try anything.” Cody planted an impulsive kiss on Annabel’s cheek. “You’re right. You’re always right about stuff like this. I can come with you if you want.” As soon as she said it, she remembered, “No, I can’t. Someone has to be here with Melanie and Briar.” “Do you want me to show you how to change her diapers again?” “No. I think I got it.” Cody hesitated. “What’s going to happen to her when…” “That’s another conversation I need to have with Mel,” Annabel said, with a quick glance at her watch. “It’ll keep.” She collected up her flying gear, and they strolled through the mango trees to Passion Bay. Cody kept a small outboard in the boatshed below Villa Luna. Kahlo would soon be too old to carry them both, so these days they used the boat for transport to and from the airstrip that lay on the western promontory of Marama Bay.

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” Cody asked. “Three o’clock, assuming I can drag Dr. Howick out of the meeting in reasonable time. I’ll leave for Solarim after I’ve refueled.” “I wouldn’t hold my breath. You’ll never get those academics out of a meeting with a genuine priestess.” No matter how hard Cody tried, she couldn’t conceal her disapproval of the UCLA team’s project. Her complete transparency was one of the things Annabel loved about her. With Cody, you always knew exactly where you were. It made no difference who a guest was; rich, poor, black, white, jane doe or movie star, they always received the same treatment. Cody had been horrified when Annabel introduced a special package for celebrities so that they could deal with security arrangements. With a smile, Annabel watched her lover meticulously ready the boat. Cody had grown up in a country where not the even the police carried guns, and celebrities could wander around in public without attracting more than a second glance. But the rest of the planet was not like innocent little New Zealand. Even on Moon Island, the outside world could intrude when you least expected it.

* Cody watched the Lonesome Lady soar overhead and wished Annabel would delay flying to Solarim. The weather looked changeable and the trip was a pain the ass. There was no landing strip on the atoll, so Annabel had to leave the B-17 on another island and pick up a twin engine Seabee to make the final leg. Cody had only made the trip once. There was nothing quite like landing on the ocean and anchoring your plane just offshore. Dragging the outboard onto the beach, she tied it down and thought about Violet Hazel. The woman was seventy-something and basically nutty. She used to work as a nurse on Rarotonga and had known Annabel’s birth mother and her lover Rebecca all those years ago when they had lived on Moon Island. Eventually she had moved to Solarim, a tiny atoll in the middle of nowhere where she lived like a hermit with a couple of cats and a parrot that spoke five languages, including Latin. And she had saved Annabel’s life. As far as Cody was concerned that meant Violet could see dead people and hey, not a problem. Maybe the eccentric old woman could do something for Melanie. It

was worth a try. Hearing her name called, she glanced up as she approached the Villa. “Thank God!” A woman plunged down the verandah steps looking like she’d been shipwrecked. There was blood all over her and a lump the size of a golf ball above one eye. Evidently Chris Thompson’s hike hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d planned. Cody grabbed their guest before she could faint. “Crikey. What happened to you? ” she asked. “I fell.” Chris was panting and bleeding all over Cody’s clean white shirt. Color fled her face, and she added weakly, “I need to sit down.” “Cody? I thought I heard something.” Melanie stood, propped in the doorway, eyes wide. “Stay put, Mel.” Cody half-carried Chris up the steps, muttering, “Jesus, you weigh a ton.” Chris made a wheezing sound Cody took for laughter. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you. ” “I’ll get a facecloth.” Melanie started back indoors. “No. Stay here with her.” Cody deposited Chris on the chaise lounge and pulled a chair over for Melanie, instructing, “Talk among yourselves, you two. I’ll be

back.” It was like some bizarre jinx, she thought, as she marched along the hallway to the kitchen. Annabel decides she’ll go to Solarim and ten minutes later everything goes all to hell. It happened every time that wretched island was mentioned. Cody filled a bowl with warm water and grabbed the first aid kit and a couple of towels. Chris probably needed a doctor and Annabel wouldn’t be back for hours. Maybe she should radio Rarotonga. They could send out a medical chopper if it seemed Chris was badly injured. To her dismay, she returned to find Melanie on the chaise lounge, struggling to support Chris. The woman looked half dead. “Is she conscious?” Cody asked in a panic. “I’m fine.” Chris lifted her head. “Just a knock on the head, and I think I broke a couple of ribs.” Melanie held a glass of water to the patient’s lips. “She found a dead body,” she informed Cody breathlessly. “What? In the Kopeka Cave?” No one else had said anything about going caving, and apart from Chris, there were only four other women on the island. Cody dragged her fingers across her head. This was a nightmare. “You’re sure she’s dead?”

“Extremely dead,” Chris said. Cody sank down in her chair. The Solarim jinx was working today! “I better get out there.” “There’s no rush. He’s not going anywhere.” Chris reached for her pack, yelped slightly and clutched herself around the middle. “If you want to pass that over, I have something to show you.” Cody fetched the pack, her head spinning. “Did you say he?” “Well, it’s not one of your guests.” “Now you tell me.” “Oops.” Melanie giggled. “I guess I should have said skeleton, not body.” Chris opened the pack and upended it on her lap. “Check these out.” She handed Cody a pair of boots that looked like something out of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. There was also a strange old pistol, a dagger, and some heavy gold coins. Finally she found what she seemed to be looking for: a roll of paper so stiff she had trouble flattening it out. Melanie held a curling edge so they could all examine it. There was a breathless hush, like the ones you see in action movies. No one said a word, but they all exchanged significant looks.

“I think it’s Moon Island.” Cody stated the obvious. Melanie touched the X like maybe no one else had noticed it. “I wonder what this means.” “If it’s buried treasure, I get a finder’s fee,” Chris said. “If it’s buried treasure, you should have kept this to yourself!” Cody bent lower to study the paper more closely. Melanie’s fingers were shaking with the effort of holding the edge. Cody took over from her without fuss. “I won’t say I didn’t consider it. But I’m one of those lawyers who thinks the law is actually important, damn it.” Chris started to chuckle, then moaned and clutched her sides. “Don’t anyone make me laugh. Okay?” “You’re a lawyer?” Melanie’s eyes were very bright all of a sudden. “That’s wonderful.” “Not a reaction I’m accustomed to,” Chris remarked. “Occupational profiling. Fuck them,” Melanie said. Startled to hear this kind of talk from Annabel’s ladylike cousin, Cody shot her a look. Her cheeks were pink, and the dullness had fled her eyes. Chris was obviously charmed by her, Cody observed. She wondered if she should let their guest know Melanie was not gay, just gay-friendly. At least that’s what Annabel said.

Cody rolled the map up and read the inscription along the edge. Puzzled, she said, “It’s in Cook Island Maori.” “I wonder how our dead friend from the eighteenth century came to acquire the language,” Chris mused. “Even if he could speak it, he couldn’t have written it down like this. It was the missionaries who first started writing the language down so the locals could read the Bible in their own tongue. And that wasn’t until about eighteen-thirty.” Cody squinted harder. After the inscription, in tiny letters that had almost faded away, were the initials R.J.G. “Do you know what it means?” Melanie asked. “My Maori is not that great,” Cody admitted. New Zealand was officially bilingual, but Maori hadn’t been taught in most schools until after Cody had started college. Ironically, she’d picked up more of the language living in the Cook Islands than she had at home. “I think it means something like…keep it a secret.” Chris wiggled her eyebrows. “The plot thickens.” “You know what’s strange,” Melanie examined the wax seal, her black eyebrows drawn together in an intent frown. “It looks like there were two wax seals, not just one.” She pointed out a small violet blob within a

wider perimeter of faded red. “I think someone broke the first seal, then added new wax to seal it again.” “Quite the CSI, Melanie.” Chris clapped her lightly on the shoulder. “If you’re ever looking for work as an investigator, just give me a call.” For two people who had just met, there was a cute rapport between them, Cody thought. Melanie was glowing and Chris, who struck Cody as your average hardened cynic, handled the younger woman with surprising sensitivity. Maybe Mel was not as straight as Annabel thought. She stole another look at them, then had a sinking feeling. Chris would have to be told. “What if someone else wrote the Maori? The ink is a different color, too.” Melanie’s expression was apprehensive, as if she expected them to scoff at this theory. “Maybe someone read the map, then sealed it again and wrote the warning.” Cody exchanged a look with Chris. “I think she’s onto something.” “You’re a genius,” Chris told her. Melanie’s smile eclipsed her pale elfin features and she grabbed both of them, declaring, “This is so exciting, I could die!” Cody froze in mortification at the choice of words. She could tell from Chris’s face that she was equally

aghast. Obviously she had already guessed that Melanie was very ill. Melanie shook the both of them by the arms and hiccupped with laughter. “Just look at the two of you. Get over it, for goodness sake! I’m not dead yet.” “No, you’re not,” Cody reiterated, relieved to hear Melanie talking in positive terms. She was on a roll. “We have to go there. I want to find that treasure. I’ll take all my pills, and if we go slowly, I’ll be able to do it.” “We’ll do whatever it takes,” Chris said, eliciting a happy squeeze from Melanie. “If we have to carry you, we will. And trust me, if there’s anything there, we’ll find it.” “Sounds like a plan. Meantime,” Cody opened the first aid kit, “let’s see about those cuts.Then you better take a shower, mate, because frankly, you don’t smell too fresh.”

Chapter Thirteen A half-hearted rain pattered against the windows, dissolving the twilight view. Being prepared too far ahead of time was unwise on these occasions, Olivia reflected. It meant waiting. And waiting meant wondering. Once upon a time, anticipation had charged these countdowns with giddy hope. Life was an adventure eagerly sought. The weightlessness of consequence prompted risk-taking. Now the tick of her clock measured an ever-shrinking option to escape complications before they arose. Olivia poured herself a shot of vodka. If she was going to go through with this, she had to steady her nerves. What was the worst thing that could happen?

You could throw several years away on a romantic delusion and end it, robbed of all sense of yourself as an attractive, interesting woman. Not this time, Olivia vowed. This time the worst thing that could happen was one of those uneasy sexual encounters where nothing quite gels and you both agree not to go there again. No hard feelings. She tried to imagine making love with Merris. The idea felt like algebra, abstract but strangely compelling. Who knew how the equation would map

out, what it would prove, where it would lead? The possibilities were exciting, yet uncertain outcomes bothered her these days. The part of her that had once thrived on chance had fled. In its wake, she was riding out her life like a nervous passenger. Olivia concentrated on finishing her vodka instead of listening for the inevitable knock on her door. It was too late and too cowardly to phone Merris and cancel. If she was going to change her mind, the least she could do was tell her to her face. Maybe they could just go back to their original plan and have meaningful conversation on the beach. Dubiously, she examined herself in the bedroom mirror. The low-cut green dress she was wearing made a lie of her ambivalence. Deciding to change into something less enticing, she unzipped it and returned it to the closet. She had brought very few dressy clothes with her, anticipating little necessity for them. Hastily, she donned a pair of flimsy, dark burgundy drawstring pants and a demure butter-yellow tunic top split up the sides. Knotting her hair loosely at the nape her neck, she blotted off most of her lipstick. Now Merris could knock, she thought. And Merris did. Summoning her breeziest social smile, Olivia opened the door and invited her in. The

scent of bougainvillea and damp jungle drifted through the open door. Soft golden light pooled from every corner, setting the perfect scene for a seduction that would probably not be happening. She should have blown the candles out, Olivia thought, with a distracted glance around the room. Merris’s eyes were warm. She said a simple hello and took Olivia’s hand. “You look beautiful.” What to say? Olivia opted for the truth. “I’m not sure if I can do this.” The words spilled out in a rush. “You’re sending me home without inviting me in?” Light and teasing. “Too cruel by far.” “Well, since you put it like that.” Olivia stepped back from the door. “Come in. Make yourself at home. I have food. Wine. Music. Intelligent conversation. No guarantees of anything more exciting.” “That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while,” Merris said. “Actually, the only offer.” “I find that hard to believe.” Olivia held up a couple of wine bottles. “Red or white?” Merris chose red and took the bottle from her. “Annabel keeps a decent cellar,” she noted, reading the label with evident approval. “Penfolds Grange. What a treat.” “I thought you might enjoy it.” Olivia congratulated

herself on picking a winner. She’d phoned Villa Luna late that afternoon to request a dinner selection for two, and Cody had dropped the food by along with some suitable wines. A beer drinker herself, she said she had no idea what any of them were like. But she knew the wines Annabel usually recommended. Despite Cody’s feigned disinterest, it was obvious she was busy adding two and two. Smiling to herself, Olivia located some respectable Bordeaux glasses. Merris poured a small measure into each, swirling the wine for a short time before handing a glass to Olivia. Looking like someone who actually knew what she was smelling, Merris sampled the bouquet. “Sensational. And it’s barely breathed.” Meeting Olivia’s eyes, she raised her glass and said, “To the unexpected.” They sipped in silence for a minute or two. The wine was delicious. Olivia drank very little red, but this one was far superior to her usual pedestrian choices. “So, how was your day?” she asked, gesturing for Merris to sit down. “Interesting.” Merris chose one end of the sofa. “I took a walk in the jungle. It’s not Central Park.” Olivia sat on the other end of the sofa, wanting to be

friendly, but not too friendly. “Cody leads an organized hike once a week,” she said. “I thought I might go on the next one.” “Makes more sense than wandering around in circles like I did. The jungle gets pretty dense once you head inland, and it all looks the same.” They fell silent again. This time it was an awkward silence burdened with the unspoken. This is going well, Olivia thought with irony. “Strange, isn’t it.” She fell back on small talk. “It’s probably snowing in Cherry Creek right now.” “And it’s morning.” “Is this the farthest you’ve traveled?” “In this direction, yes. I’ve spent a lot of time in Europe. We…I vacation there most years.” “I’m sorry about your girls.” Olivia immediately felt bad that she had raised the topic. “Forgive me. My friend Polly is a gossip. She ran into your ex and got talking and…you know how it goes.” Merris shrugged. “Don’t worry. The entire state knows every detail of my personal life. I get to see my daughters twice a month. At this rate, all I’ll ever be to them is a visitor.” “I think that depends. Parenting is more than mere

proximity.” “Do you have children?” Olivia smiled. She could feel her knees relaxing. The wine was starting to work. “No. But I was brought up by unconventional parents. They weren’t always around, but when they were, they gave me their complete attention.” “You’re an only child?” “Yes.” “Me, too. My folks wanted more, but it never happened.” “Mine didn’t plan on having me, but they came to terms with it. You know, the world needs more Marxists. ” Merris grinned. “Your folks are—” “Commies.” “No kidding? How do they feel about the former Soviet Union?” “The poor things are horribly disillusioned. Bad enough Stalin. Now there’s North Korea, that flower of the people’s revolution. They’re idealists.” “In a world run by ideologists. I feel for them.” Merris refilled Olivia’s glass. “You know, of course, that I thought about you all day.” Olivia studied her wine. “I thought about you, too. I

still can’t believe we’re both here. It seems—” “Meant?” Merris suggested. “Well, you’re full of surprises,” Olivia remarked. “I didn’t have you down for a fatalist.” “Never judge a book by its cover,” Merris said solemnly. “Quite right,” Olivia played along. “I could be a serial killer for all you know.” “I’ll take my chances.” “I promise I have no plans to eat your liver.” “Well, that’s a start.” Merris relaxed into the sofa, legs crossed, one arm casually draped along the back. Again Olivia was struck by her self-assurance. Merris was not about impressing anyone. She was not playing to an audience. There was no hidden agenda. “Do I pass?” Merris enquired with a trace of mockery. Olivia felt her color rise. Attempting to lower the heat that simmered suddenly between them, she said, “Actually, I was wondering what line of work you’re in.” Merris regarded Olivia with sensual good humor, as if she saw right through this ploy but was willing to indulge her. “I had an IT company. We were taken over a few months ago.” “Is that good or bad?” “I don’t know yet. It feels strange not to be working

eighteen-hour days. Strange in a good way. How about you?” “I’m in the music business. Specifically, I write songs. ” “I see,” Merris intoned, as if this explained a good deal. “Oh, do you now?” Olivia laughed. “What exactly is it you see?” Merris topped up both their glasses. “I see a sane woman working with crazy people. This is why you turned to serial killing. It was that or—” “Politics,” Olivia confessed. “I was desperate.” “Misdirected rage,” Merris sagely pronounced. “Write another hit, Olivia.” “Who wouldn’t have performance anxiety?” “Looks like you got my number.” “Actually, now you mention it, I’d like your number.” Olivia laughed. “You’re good.” “Come here.” Merris patted the sofa next to her. Against her better judgment, Olivia shifted across the sofa. The wine was definitely working. Merris set their glasses down on the coffee table. She took Olivia’s hands and slowly drew them to her mouth. “So, you’ve been having second thoughts? Why?”

“Because I said yes for all the wrong reasons.” “Such as?” “It’s a long story. What you said about not thinking like a victim. I guess I’m having trouble with that.” “So, you’re not saying my kissing sucks and my charm will never win you over?” “No, of course not. I mean—” Olivia started to laugh. “You can’t make fun of this. It’s serious.” She tried to tug her hands away, but Merris kept hold of them. “So the kissing was okay?” Her warm expression left Olivia in no doubt the memory worked for her. “That’s a relief.” Olivia made a nervous sound halfway between a giggle and hiccup. “I’d better stop drinking this. It’s gone straight to my head.” And because it had, she added, “For the record, I think you’re a good kisser.” Merris raised an eyebrow. “But, you’re going to make me work for it tonight? Seems reasonable.” Her teeth found the inside of Olivia’s wrist, and she bit down softly. Olivia suppressed an urge to withdraw. Instead, as if illicitly through a crack in the door, she watched Merris enjoy her. Close up, she had tiny freckles sprayed across her nose. At her temples, a few strands of silver lightened the ash blonde. Her jaw line was smooth and

strong above her solid throat. Succumbing to sensual temptation, Olivia bent forward, brushing her mouth across that strong neck, tasting Merris’s skin with the tip of her tongue. Merris drew her closer, releasing her hands. Small shocks of pleasure played across Olivia’s throat and collarbone, where Merris’s mouth made contact. She slid her hand over the short, sleek hair to cradle the back of Merris’s head. Desire stampeded through her veins. Only the thin cotton of her top diffused the heat of Merris’s body, hard against hers. Olivia’s breasts felt full and heavy, nipples tugging the surrounding flesh tight. She wanted the flimsy garment out of the way. She wanted skin. Common sense could wait until tomorrow. When they finally kissed, it was without caution, their mouths demanding much more than a curious taste of one another. Olivia felt herself give in to the sweet trespass of tongue and breath. It was a kiss they were meant to have, intense and unhampered by reason, sweeping aside boundaries and histories. She could hardly bear it when Merris drew back to stroke the wet swollen flesh of her inner lip with a finger, teasing her mouth wider. Opening her eyes, she read what was starkly written on Merris’s face, took the finger deep

inside, and slowly sucked. Her thighs felt damp. She wanted to part them. Merris slipped from her mouth, trailing her wet finger down to the hollow of Olivia’s throat. By some unspoken accord, they stood but didn’t speak, as if words might tear the delicate web that ensnared them. A single candle lit the bedroom. Merris lifted Olivia’s hair from her neck and unzipped her tunic. Olivia slid it from her shoulders and unfastened her bra. Standing behind her, Merris cupped her breasts and bit firmly on the tendon at the base of her neck. Her hands tugged the ties at Olivia’s waist undone and the pants slid down. Olivia stepped out of her clothes and turned to face the woman she had planned to send home. With shaking fingers, she unbuttoned Merris’s shirt. She wore no bra. Her breasts were firm and not especially full, the nipples small and dark brown like her freckles. She progressed to Merris’s belt, unfastening it then unzipping her slacks. They slipped to the floor. Merris’s belly was firm; the flesh flinched to Olivia’s touch. Before she could explore any further, her wrists were caught. Drawing Olivia firmly down onto the bed, Merris studied her at length. Olivia was suddenly self-conscious. Even the candle

seemed too bright. She closed her eyes and felt Merris lean over her, pull back the covers, lie down beside her. Firm hands removed Olivia’s panties and denied her the sheets she reached for. “I want to see you.” Merris looked her square in the eye. Her hands moved slowly over Olivia’s shoulders, past her breasts, down her torso to her thighs. These she parted as if it were already her right. Her breathing altered, and for a split second there was a question in her eyes. Olivia moved her legs a little wider. Her mouth felt so dry she could hardly form words. “Touch me,” she invited. Merris stroked a fingertip from Olivia’s throat to her pubic bone. “Show me how you like it.” A small, sharp thrill caught at Olivia’s chest. Taking shallow breaths, she slid her hand between her legs. It had been so long since she’d touched herself, she was almost surprised at how she felt. Her wetness, the soft straight hairs that caught at her fingers, the fleshy arch of her clit. She wasn’t certain quite when Merris took over from her, only that she was so aroused she could no longer think beyond her own pleasure. Merris slid one arm beneath her, turning her so their faces were close. Her mouth was warm and sensual

on Olivia’s, her kisses increasingly fierce. Answering her body’s own emphatic demands, Olivia reached down and guided Merris’s hand where she was welling and craving. She felt Merris’s weight descend on her. Their thighs entwined and, at last, the yearning space inside her was filled. Merris was sweating, her back slippery beneath Olivia’s fingers. Hoarsely, against Olivia’s cheek, she said, “I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you.” Olivia responded by lifting her hips, increasing the exquisite pressure. Merris pushed harder, moving deeper inside. For a long while, their bodies rose and fell in a primal rhythm over which neither exerted will. Eventually, Olivia felt herself brimming, contracting, releasing, and she could not distinguish her own cries of pleasure from Merris’s. Lost in a flood and ebb of exquisite tension, she knew there were tears on her face only because Merris licked and kissed them away. Their bodies rocked together, but more slowly. Only when they were finally still and their breathing had slowed did Merris ease herself from between Olivia’s legs. Tenderly she took Olivia into her arms and they lay, sweetly entrapped, facing one another. For hours they slept that way until they woke to the final stuttering flicker of the candle. In the darkness, they made love

again as the clouds burst over the island and a tropical rain beat down.

Chapter Fourteen “This was a great idea,” Chris remarked as she and Annabel rigged up hammocks on Violet Hazel’s enclosed front porch. They had spent a fascinating evening on Solarim with the old woman, who obviously adored Annabel. Violet had finally agreed to return with them to Moon Island to help with Melanie, provided they could bring her cats and parrot. “I’m happy you were up for it.” Annabel smiled, her eyes dark amethyst in the low light of dusk. “I’m a terrible patient,” Chris confessed. “I couldn’t wait to get away from those two.” “Mel’s taken quite a liking to you.” Annabel said it in a neutral tone, but Chris could tell she was fishing. “Your cousin’s a very special person. We got talking a couple of days ago when I dropped by.” She jammed a couple of pillows into the hammock’s head end, adding with difficulty, “We have some common ground. I lost my partner recently.” Annabel made a small sound like a stifled sigh. “What was her name?” “Elaine. She would have loved this…the island, the adventure…a treasure map, no less.” “I’m so sorry, Chris. I can’t imagine how hard it must

be.” Annabel’s face was full of emotion, yet she did not press hugs on Chris, or start talking about someone she knew who had died. Instead, she pulled a flask from her bag and said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use a stiff drink.” Chris could not completely hide her surprise. Annabel, with her ethereal beauty, was the last person she could imagine drinking single-malt Scotch. But then, the woman who owned Moon Island also flew a bomber and was some kind of local legend for surviving a plane crash. Clearly there was more to her than met the eye. Chris took a swig of the smoky liquor. At first it was a shock to her palate, dry and redolent with peat. A second sip changed its character completely and Chris savored the smooth, musky sweetness. A slow tide of warmth spread across her chest and through her limbs. Annabel was right. A stiff drink was exactly what she needed. Handing the flask back, she said, “Well, that’s me knocked out for the night.” “Beats Tylenol. How are those ribs, by the way?” “I’ll live.” Chris ran her hand across the straightjacket of strapping Violet had constructed after they arrived. “Besides, my posture could use some work.” Without a trace of diffidence, Annabel removed her

boots and stripped down to her t-shirt and panties. She was a babe, Chris reflected. The observation was strictly academic. She was almost sorry about that. It would be a nice change to feel something other than complete disinterest in an attractive woman. “I still think we should get you X-rayed in Raro tomorrow,” Annabel said as she got into the hammock and dragged a light cotton throw over herself. Chris performed the same maneuver, but more clumsily, emitting moans of pain. Seconds later, swinging in her hammock like a lumpy pendulum, she gasped, “I don’t need to see a doctor.” “Uh huh.” Annabel dissolved into infectious laughter. Chris joined in, clutching her sides. She felt like a twelve-year-old at summer camp. She must have looked ridiculous wrestling the hammock into submission, she thought. And God it hurt. When she’d recovered enough to speak, she said, “Seriously. Violet’s opinion is good enough for me.” Their host had pronounced her ribs unbroken and had applied a poultice for the extensive bruising. Annabel peered over the edge of her hammock. “If you were my attorney, I’m sure you’d advise immediate hospitalization for any guest who injured herself on my property.”

“If I were your attorney, I’d have all your guests sign waivers before they ever set foot on that island of yours. Second thoughts, before they board that B-17. You folks have left yourselves wide open for a lawsuit.” Annabel rolled onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow. “This is the Cook Islands. No one in their right mind wants to litigate here.” Chris could imagine. She was aware of the Cook Islands as a tax haven made to order for wealthy clients who needed to protect their assets. The government was stable, the statute of limitations was virtually a joke, privacy laws were extensive, and the court system took a dim view of foreigners stirring up trouble. Any tourist mounting a physical injury lawsuit would almost certainly face lengthy delays and an unrealistic burden of proof, assuming they could find a law firm crazy enough to take their case. Annabel was no slouch. She had probably thought the whole issue through long ago. “I take your point,” Chris said. “I’m curious about something. I thought foreigners could not own land here.” “That’s true these days. But Moon Island is a unique situation. After missionaries took over the Cook Islands, they made it a crime for anyone to visit the

island.” Chris was astonished. “Missionaries were the government here?” It was a right-wing wet dream. “Theoretically the tribal chiefs were in charge, but they had no power. The missionaries took over the land and ran a police force that was like the KGB. Their job was spying on people and reporting on their morals. There were hundreds of them, and only a few thousand islanders.” “Hence all the churches on Rarotonga.” “They never built one on Moon Island,” Annabel said. “The only people living there were ruahine, and the missionary police were afraid of being cursed, so they refused to set foot on the place. Eventually all the women who lived on the island either died, or were taken by slave boats from Peru, and the place was abandoned. My Aunt Annie’s partner bought it before the modern laws about land purchase were passed.” “And you inherited?” “Five years ago.” Chris tried to imagine a life without television, cars, the mall, pizza delivery. “You don’t miss home?” “I get a consumer-culture fix every so often, when I visit my mom in Boston. I have no regrets.” “That must be a great feeling.” Chris felt bitter all of a

sudden. She reached for the flask and took another sip. “I can’t think of anything worse than being on your death bed, knowing you could have led another kind of life and wishing you had. But we don’t always have the option.” “I disagree,” Annabel said. “I think we all make life choices at certain times. We can carve out opportunities or seize them if they fall into our laps. But most people would rather plod along in a situation they know than risk doing something different. It’s human nature. No one likes change.” For a woman like Annabel, who had grown up in privilege, life did offer a smorgasbord of choices, Chris thought. Trying not to sound patronizing, she said, “People have to eat. They have children and responsibilities. Even most middle-income families live from paycheck to paycheck.” “Whose decision is it to have four children and a house they can’t really afford, two cars instead of one, ten credit cards, a television in the kitchen? If material comfort is so rewarding, why are millions of middleclass Americans on anti-depressants?” Chris could see what Annabel was getting at. She knew plenty of people whose material possessions seemed to be consolation prizes for a life devoid of

real satisfaction. Maybe she was doomed to become one of them, working her ass off in a job she loathed to support a lifestyle that didn’t make her happy anyway. She could see why Prozac was such a hit in the land of the free. Drug companies had trained the public to expect an emotional spectrum that began at fine and ended with deliriously happy. Pain, unhappiness, and grief had no place in this sunny vision of the human condition. Recently, Chris’s doctor had prescribed an antidepressant for her, as if it were somehow aberrant to mourn the loss of her partner as profoundly as she did. Chris had not picked up the prescription. “I mean, what would you do?” Annabel was asking her a question. “If you could just throw it all to the wind right now?” “In a way I did that by coming here,” Chris said. “I’m a senior associate in line for a partnership, and I just opted out of a big case. There won’t be any corks popping when I get home.” “Do they know about you?” “It’s a don’t ask, don’t tell situation. I was lucky to get the time off for Elaine’s funeral. The day she died, I called in sick. My boss phoned back and gave me all kinds of shit.”

“But you’re still racking up billable hours for these assholes.” Annabel said it lightly, without judgment. “What can I say? I could change firms, but it wouldn’t be any different.” “I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to take a homophobic culture for granted.” “Well, you live on the next best thing to Sappho’s Lesbos.” Chris pointed out. “Minus the nubile hetaerae.” Mock wistful. Chris reached up and turned the screw to extinguish their kerosene lamp. “Sappho must have been a patient woman.” “And a busy one.” Annabel sounded absent, all of a sudden, as if her mind had wandered elsewhere. A few moments later, she said sleepily, “Chris, I need a lawyer.” “Right now?” “This is what I love about your profession. So eager.” “Strike while the client is hot.” Annabel yawned. “Breakfast tomorrow?” Chris grinned. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.” As she was drifting into sleep, she started thinking about the treasure map again. After these goddess-worship ceremonies were over at the end of the week, she and Cody could excavate the spot without attracting

attention. It would probably turn out to be another grave, she thought glumly. “Annabel?” she called in a low voice. “Mmm…” “We have to tell the others not to talk to anyone about the map.” Chris could picture treasure hunters parachuting onto the island under cover of darkness. It happened. “Annabel?” she whispered again. “Go to sleep, Chris,” Annabel mumbled. “The treasure will still be there tomorrow.” * Dawn washed the morning sky bright scarlet. Rosy light filtered into Olivia’s bedroom, tinting the walls pale pink and casting a mantel of pastel hues across the bed. Olivia still slept, one arm flung sideways, the other resting on Merris. Sometime in the night, she had kicked back the covers, and they were crumpled around her legs. In the innocence of sleep, her mouth was softly parted, and her hair, free of its customary restraints, spilled in a silken tangle across her pillow. Merris lifted a strand. It was Irish black, true raven’swing, as if a little sky were blended in. She was one of those women who had missed

being conventionally pretty, but was instead striking. In another age she would have been called handsome. Sprawled on the bed, she was still flushed from their lovemaking, her skin impossibly luminous, eyelids fluttering, held captive by her dreams. Olivia was ravishing, the most gorgeous woman Merris had ever set eyes on. She knew beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but decided this was unbiased. If only she were a painter, she could capture this image for all time. A photograph could not do Olivia justice. In the absence of flesh, only oils on canvas could feel somehow alive to the touch. Recalling that painting in Olivia’s library, Merris felt a hot stab of jealousy. Was it the work of one of her lovers? If so, she could understand what had driven the artist. Olivia was the kind of woman you wanted to possess, but never could. There would always be an elusive part of her you could glimpse but never know, a self she shared with no one. Whoever had painted the nude above her fireplace knew this about her and had conveyed it like a warning to the would-be lovers who would one day gaze darkly at that portrait. Merris had never thought of herself as the jealous type. She expected her partners to be faithful only if monogamy was what they had agreed upon. Her anger

over Allegra’s betrayal had been about dishonesty, not jealous rage. Yet here she was, having what might be nothing more than a holiday romance, and the very idea of Olivia being with another woman made her crazy. All kinds of irrational, not to mention politically unsound, urges presented themselves as reasonable ideas. Never let Olivia out of sight. Lock her up

where no one could steal her. Embarrassed, but also entertained by these caveman inclinations, Merris stared at the body she had come to know so well in just a few hours. Olivia’s taste was still in her mouth, the smell of her skin just a breath away, her curves and contours a map Merris’s hands would remember always. A rosy bruise above one nipple marred the perfection of her breast. Dull purple fingerprints dotted her thighs and shoulders. Merris was shocked; she thought she had been nothing but gentle. Yet she was oddly pleased, as if these marks somehow staked a claim. Lightly, she stroked the bruise on Olivia’s breast and watched her nipple harden. Olivia stirred, a soft sigh escaping her. Merris knelt over her, inhaling deeply. She eased the tangled covers from Olivia’s legs and moved her knees gently apart. Very delicately, she opened her, kissing the dark wet pink flesh. It was all

she had meant to do, but Merris could not resist the ripeness before her. With her tongue, she collected some salt-sweet fluids, burrowed a little further, and took Olivia in her mouth. On either side, Olivia’s thighs moved against her. Merris stilled them with her hands. Olivia said something, but Merris did not raise her head. She could feel Olivia swelling in her mouth, her juices flowing, her body quivering. Placing one hand on the rounded rise of her belly and sliding the other beneath her ass, Merris held her firmly, demanding her compliance. If their night had to end, she wanted their day to begin with Olivia knowing she had a lover. There would be no pretending it didn’t happen, no compartmentalizing night from morning, as if sunlight nullified all that occurred in the darkness that preceded it. She wanted to be more than an interlude in Olivia’s life. She wanted this to mean something. As Olivia’s womb fluttered against her hand and release broke across her body, she thought, I want to be your person. * Olivia sat on the steps of her verandah, combing her

wet hair dry. Her body was tender. She liked that. For too long she had felt homeless in her own flesh, so numb she had all but stopped enjoying the sensuality of her body. It was as if she had been switched off at the mains and now, suddenly, there was voltage again. Tingling, she flipped her hair back and stretched her arms above her head. Merris was a very different sexual partner from Hunter. They were both dominant, but Merris was the more generous lover: sensual, attentive, nurturing. It occurred to her that with Hunter, she had never felt cherished. Their sex life had been exciting by any standards—an intense exploration of boundaries, the kind of sex most people wished for. Theirs was a private, erotic conspiracy, a dimension they had occupied even when they were surrounded by other people. For Olivia, it became the one place they could be truly alone with one another, the only place she did not have to share Hunter with the rest of the world. Its violation had changed everything. Instinctively she knew Merris would never cheat on a woman she loved. For that, Olivia liked her. She liked her a great deal. “A penny for them,” Merris said so close Olivia jumped.

“I didn’t hear you.” Merris slid her arms around Olivia’s waist from behind and kissed her nape. “I’d drag you back to bed right now if we weren’t about to be invaded.” “It can’t be that late.” Most mornings, Cody dropped the snack delivery off at around 10 am. “Time flies when you’re getting laid.” “They must see this all the time. People pairing off for a holiday fling.” Feeling Merris stiffen slightly, Olivia slipped a hand beneath the arms encircling her and leaned back a little, inviting another kiss. Merris turned Olivia to face her. It seemed she was about to say something, but she didn’t, instead kissing her on the forehead then the cheeks. Smiling, Olivia touched Merris’s cheek, her hand lingering. “I was just thinking…I’m so glad you’re here.” Merris looked touched and pleased. They kissed. It was a contented kiss, the kind people exchange when they feel safe with one another. Its intimacy affected Olivia strangely. First she felt happy, then a terrible unease gripped her. It was too soon to feel safe. Feeling safe could mean she was already losing her grip on common sense. She didn’t want to find herself on that slippery slope again. “Let’s elope,” Merris murmured.

Because that sounded like a good idea in her weakened mental state, Olivia said, “Absolutely not.” “I’m crushed. Is it my oral sex technique?” “Um.” Olivia made like she was thinking about it. Merris laughed. “You know something I really like about being in my thirties?” “Other than fast cars and loose women?” “Seeing the funny side of things. I never used to. I had a stomach ulcer by my mid-twenties.” “Seriously?” “The doc said if I didn’t lighten up, I’d be a heart attack candidate by the time I was forty.” “Well, you’re pretty funny these days. Congratulations.” “I like your sense of humor, too. It’s very English. Deadpan.” “It gets me in trouble sometimes,” Olivia confessed. “Americans tend to take my form of irony literally.” “Why did you leave England?” “I never intended to. My agent convinced me to stay in the US. In my business you have to be around to suck the right dicks.” “What an opening,” Merris lamented. “Notice how I’m not taking it.” Olivia tucked her hand over Merris’s waistband.

“Maybe we should revisit this conversation tonight.” Catching a flicker of surprise, she added, “That is, unless you gave up toys for Lent.” “Actually, I skipped Lent this year.” Merris took Olivia’s hand captive and twisted it gently behind her back, compelling her closer. “I showered and you’re making me sweat. Want to come back to my place?” Olivia was tempted. This felt so easy and natural. So had every disaster she had ever walked into. Determined to give herself time to process what was happening, she said, “I need to do some girl stuff today. You know, the nails are a mess…there’s waxing…” “A fumbling assistant is not part of your vision?” “Tempting. But, no.” Olivia softened the edge in her voice with a smile. “What say I promise to be nice to you at dinner instead?” “How’s seven o’clock? Enough space?” “Sounds perfect. Now kiss me again.”

Chapter Fifteen Did love just die? Olivia poked her feet into the warm, glittering sand and watched history pour through the cracks between her toes. Every grain was once part of something larger—a creature that made its home in the reef, the living coral that sheltered it, the shells of tiny mollusks, lava from an ancient volcano. Time and ocean rendered mineral to particle, organism to matter. Was love transformed, too? Could it be swept into oblivion as if it never existed, or did it pile up on the beaches of the subconscious, the debris of happiness lost? Would the day come when she could deceive herself that she had not loved Hunter? She could see their love was made of mirrors that had magnified her feelings. Hers was a passion that had fed itself on delusion and denial. Truth had smashed her house of glass to dust. Was love any less real if you were alone in it? Should she be unhurt because her feelings had been rooted in mirage? Lost in thought, Olivia climbed over the jetty and contemplated the dinghy tied nearby. She had some hours to kill and a race to prepare for. The little red boat was in excellent condition; sturdy, fresh paint,

decent oars. She surveyed her surroundings. The lagoon was as calm as a millpond. A few darkish clouds hovered, promising more rain. She didn’t know these skies, but a weather change did not seem imminent. Besides, she would not be out for long. Grabbing her camera and towel, she dropped her shoulder bag near the jetty so Merris would know she’d be back soon, if she came looking. The dinghy was not heavy, and Olivia turned it over onto the wooden ramp without much effort. Tossing the oars on board, she launched. Moon Island looked even more beautiful from the sea. The beach was idyllic, a long belt of white sand embossed with dark shiny palms. Huge hibiscus flowers rioted beyond the sand line in an artist’s palette of red, pink and orange. Hibiscus Bay was well named. Olivia belted on a life jacket she found under the bench, wrapped her camera in the towel, and took up the oars, rowing north. It had been a few years, but she soon fell into a relaxed stroke. Her muscles might be sore tomorrow, but they were welcoming the work now. As she rowed, her mind drifted once more to Hunter. She would never love that way again, she thought. Perhaps that was a good thing. In such love, common sense was handed in at the door. Doubting friends

were branded envious. Trust was squandered. It took a certain kind of nerve. Had that, too, died in her? Had she lost the capacity to love without limit? It seemed so, and that was also a good thing, she decided. If passion could find nowhere to reside, she was safe. Never again would she find herself pegged out for carrion to gnaw her insides. There could be no betrayal without trust, no disappointment without hope. She expected nothing of love now. And yet, she said yes to Merris. Olivia increased her stroke rate. That was not about love. She had said yes to sex as first aid, yes to living life as a scarred person did, within limits. It seemed possible that she could do this with someone like Merris. She liked the honesty of their communication. There were no games. They both knew where they stood. And Merris had a sense of humor. She was a grown-up. By contrast, Hunter seemed increasingly immature and self-centered. Maybe she and Merris could have more than a holiday dalliance. No one wanted to spend their life alone; she was no exception. Olivia tried to imagine what it would be like to live with a woman she loved in a tepid, uncomplicated way. It would be comfortable, she thought. None of the untidiness of passion. They

would be companions and friends. Like any sensible long-term couple, they would have sex because it sustained good health and provided insurance against the risks of infidelity. It could become an interesting hobby or a dull routine. The former would be a plus, the latter no less than most women settled for. So far they were off to a promising start in that department. But compatibility was what really counted in the long run —similar values, ideas, and domestic habits. It sounded dreary but sane. She rested on her oars for a moment, allowing the momentum of the boat to carry them along. Saying yes to Merris could well be the first victory of pragmatism over romance for her. It meant she was doing something different. Her head was ruling her heart for a change. This was a situation she could control. Abigail would be proud of her. And yet… Olivia was aware of a lingering doubt. Something about Merris stirred her feelings. It was like having emotional pins and needles. Was this a good thing? She had no idea. Unsettled, she gazed over the side of the boat. It was hard to guess the depth of the lagoon. Directly below, a fortress of coral bejeweled the ocean floor. Shoals of tiny fish navigated their way through this forest of brilliant pink, yellow and blue antlers. Every

now and then a larger fish materialized, dispersing its tiny counterparts in shimmering cascades. Olivia recognized a barracuda and a long silvery cod. The water was so clear visibility extended hundreds of feet. It was probably too shallow for sharks, she decided with a quick rush of relief. Maybe she would go snorkeling in a few days’ time. Her package included complimentary lessons. Olivia picked up the oars and pulled briskly for ten minutes or so, rounding the rocky promontory where the airstrip was located and passing several small cottages. She slowed as she reached Villa Luna, a long wooden dwelling with deep verandahs and a thatched roof of five gables. Set among huge mango trees, it looked like a true South Seas plantation home. She toyed with the idea of dropping by, but she was not in the mood for meaningless conversation. Circling slowly, she jumped with fright. About six feet ahead of the bow a dorsal fin skimmed through the water towards her, then vanished. A split second later a glistening body sliced the surface right next to the boat, and a smiling face turned to stare at her: not a shark, but a dolphin. And this was hello, Olivia thought, captivated. The dolphin regarded her with candid interest. She was other, a graceless alien suspended

above its watery world in her flimsy wooden vessel. The dolphin floated alongside, the sky spilling across its dark back as if reflected in oil. They found pregnant women interesting; Olivia recalled a random fact. She could feel the creature assessing her and wondered what it knew that she never could. To see as a dolphin did, human beings needed multi-million dollar technology. Yet we had the arrogance to murder their kind for the sake of a tuna fish sandwich. Was it really so hard for the world’s fishing industry to switch to dolphin-safe nets? I’m so sorry, Olivia wanted to tell it, for what my kind

does to your kind. The dolphin rolled onto its back, displaying a belly that was almost pink. It whistled softly at her and Olivia had the oddest sense that it understood. She wished she could get out of the boat and float alongside it. By some strange telepathy, she knew the creature was inviting her, yet just as she was contemplating dropping anchor, it suddenly twisted and vanished beneath her boat. Water erupted twenty feet ahead as her new friend flung itself into flight. For an inch in time, the dolphin hung suspended, as if its pectoral fins were wings, before freefalling back into the sea. Startled and thrilled, Olivia pulled hard, trying to gain

some ground on the dorsal fin as it cut through the water away from her. Maybe her visitor was accustomed to humans. She remembered reading that on some of the Cook Islands you could swim with local dolphin pods. As she drew nearer, the dolphin circled back around her boat, then sped ahead and leapt from the water like a child showing off. It did this several times, getting closer and closer, until with the last leap, Olivia was soaked in seawater. As if it knew, it popped its head up beside the boat to inspect her. Apparently, she looked hilarious. Mouth parting in a huge grin, her pal made a long clicking screech that sounded like dolphin laughter. Olivia located her camera and continued rowing after the slick gray form, along the length of Hibiscus Bay toward the jetty. She was rapidly approaching the outer rim of the reef where the water was choppier. Exercising caution, she steered herself back within the tranquil confines of the lagoon. Ahead of her, along the reef’s edge, lay a tiny islet separated from Moon Island by a narrow neck of water. Her escort raced through this channel, then lifted its head emitting a series of loud clicks. Olivia snapped a few pictures and was about to wave good-bye when several other dolphins

converged on the scene, cavorting and screeching as if they’d just run into a long-lost friend. Captivated, she rowed over. They had moved ten or twenty feet out to sea and were joyously gamboling, their bodies supple and gleaming. Among them she recognized her friend from a distinctive featherlike stripe that cut across its dorsal fin. The water looked perfectly calm, so Olivia rowed through the channel and along the coastline a few hundred yards for a closer view of their antics. The southern side of the island was completely different from the beaches. Land rose up from water that was deep and sapphire blue. Olivia could still see the bottom, but it seemed a long way from her hull. A huge frigate bird with a bright red breast alighted nearby, snatching a fish from several startled, screeching gulls. The dolphins had moved farther along the shoreline and were playing below a rocky outcrop. Olivia hesitated, unsure whether it was wise to continue. The water was distinctly choppier on this side of the channel, and there was a swell of a couple of feet. But the skies were clear. She was wearing a life jacket and was close to shore. She felt strong. How often did a chance like this come along? Lots of people would give anything to see a pod of dolphins in the wild. What

was the worst thing that could happen? They might disappear out to sea before she could get a decent photo and she would have to row back empty-handed? Olivia stepped up her stroke rate and pulled her oars in about forty yards from the cliff wall. There she dropped anchor and took a long drink. Some ten or more dolphins had gathered around the boat and, standing out of the water almost half their body-lengths, they seemed as excited by her as she was by them. Olivia photographed them airborne in sun-kissed somersaults, in groups swimming beneath the surface, and close-up as they gazed at her with their dark, profound eyes. She was aware that her anchor was dragging slightly, but there seemed little point dropping it all over again. She would be leaving soon anyway. She hung over the side of the boat to get a picture of a mother and her baby and was again tempted to swim. She gave the anchor a sharp tug, hoping to bed it more securely. It held firm enough. Impulsively, she removed her life jacket, shirt, sneakers and shorts. To avoid scaring the dolphins off with a big splash, she lowered herself gently over the side of the dinghy into the crystal blue water. It was not as warm as the lagoon, but just as clear, and felt smooth and fresh against her skin.

Olivia kicked out from the boat in a slow breaststroke before diving down a few feet below the surface. There she held her breath, and with her arms at her sides, kicked her way toward the most inquisitive members of the pod. The constant click and chatter of the dolphins was amplified beneath the water. She wondered what they were saying. Probably look at this atrocious swimming technique . Perhaps, like foreigners who appreciate when you make an effort to speak their language, the dolphins knew she was out of her element. They drew closer, and one cruised alongside her as if in approval. Olivia surfaced for air and immediately dived down again, this time kicking a little deeper. She could see the mother and baby about ten feet away but refrained from approaching. Instead, she managed a small underwater somersault of her own. This was instantly matched by the dolphin that had first befriended her. The chatter grew more excited. Spellbound, Olivia performed the trick a second time and several dolphins followed suit, adding graceful embellishments of their own. If only she could hold her breath longer, she thought, scrambling back to the surface and gulping air. Slightly disoriented by her spell beneath the water, she kicked

for flotation, and glanced around. The shoreline was not exactly where she had expected it to be. The current had carried her back some distance in the direction she had come. Her boat seemed closer to the cliffs, but it was all a matter of perspective. She was actually further out to sea, by about ten or twenty yards. The distance was nothing. She still had plenty of energy. Swimming back to the boat would be no problem. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself. Then she would say farewell to the beautiful creatures who had welcomed her to their world. Time slid by all too easily when you could hardly bear for an experience to end. Kicking toward the sunlight a short while later, Olivia felt sad to be leaving. It seemed the dolphins knew she had to say goodbye. The pod was already swimming away from her when she surfaced for the last time. Olivia waved at them and turned back toward the cliffs. Again she felt disoriented. The dinghy had moved, only this time it was no illusion. Olivia cursed beneath her breath. The boat was adrift and heading around the cliffs toward the forbidden south of the island. She could catch it; Olivia felt certain. Her legs were starting to feel tired, but she was quite capable of swimming the hundred or so yards that now separated

them. She would hate to have to report to Cody that she went out training for their race and lost the boat. Laughing to herself, she swam strongly toward the sharp vertical cliffs. She could feel the current changing as she drew nearer. The water itself had a different consistency, thousands of tiny bubbles ascending as if from some distillery far below. It was like swimming in blue champagne. She rested her legs momentarily, then changed to a slow breaststroke. The boat was just twenty feet from her now and she knew she would make it. On the leeward side of the cliffs lay a small, secluded beach the shape of a half moon. Completely encircled by towering limestone, it was accessible only by sea, she guessed. A rocky outcrop on the far side looked like the perfect place for mermaids to sing. Smiling, Olivia grabbed the dinghy’s anchor chain. It was floating free, well above the ocean floor. Thankful for the chance to rest, she kept hold of the chain, allowing herself to drift with the dinghy while she caught her breath. The bubbles were larger now, she noticed, bursting across the ocean’s surface in a foam that formed distinct swirls ahead. Uneasy at the sight of this, Olivia began to move around the boat. It was rocking a little, and slowly turning in a semicircle. Her

fingers locked onto the rim and she kicked around to get herself square with the side. She could probably get one leg over, she thought, alarmed by a dragging sensation. It was as if someone had just tied concrete to her feet. Olivia tried to hoist one leg up, but the boat was circling more rapidly. It was all she could do simply to hang on. Adrenalin surged and she threw herself up hard, managing to get her elbows over the rim and her body partially out of the water. The oars were banging an erratic tattoo on the hull. The dinghy jerked and picked up speed, heading straight for the cliffs. Olivia felt herself being ripped away from the side as if she were little more than seaweed. Locking her arms tight, she clung to the tiny craft but her weight acted as ballast, dragging it down in the water. Desperately, she scrambled for a better grip, kicking and elbowing. She could see her life jacket in the bottom of the boat and tried fruitlessly to reach it. The ocean rose and fell as if some gigantic creature had stirred below. Above her, ever closer, the cliffs loomed, and Olivia knew with sinking certainty her boat was going to be dashed into them. With each rocking motion, they were flung forward and sucked back with increasing violence. Her strength was failing. If she

swam now, she could just make it to the beach, she thought, and took a deep, calming breath. It was the hardest thing in the world to let go, but as the next wave receded, Olivia did just that. She was immediately sucked back but threw herself sideways and kicked with all she had, trying to propel herself beyond the cliff walls toward the sanctuary of the beach. She made it no more than a few yards into a choppy stretch of water, boiling and dark with sediment. There was simply no way she could swim, Olivia realized. She was pulled into a current that heaved her away from the beach with such force she felt winded. Terrified, she tried to change direction, but sank below the surface as she attempted to kick away. Water flooded her nose and mouth. She gagged and choked, trying to keep her head above the surface. The sea was rougher and colder now, waves breaking over her head. In shock, Olivia made one final desperate attempt to steer herself toward the beach. She couldn’t even get horizontal to swim. Gasping and swallowing water, she began to sob. The beach was receding with every stunted breath she drew, and she knew with harsh clarity that she would never make it. She was drowning, her flailing body demanding more

oxygen than her lungs could supply. Exhausted, she stopped struggling and relaxed into the limitless might of the ocean. There were worse ways to go, she thought. This was a beautiful place. It had been a wonderful day, and a wonderful night before with Merris, whom she would now never get to know. The thought saddened her and she made a final, desperate attempt to restore buoyancy. But her arms and legs were spent. She could see the sun glinting behind a veil of water as she sank beneath another wave. This time she did not surface in the trough. Stretching her arms above her head, she grasped air with her fingertips, then slid down into the blue silence. Releasing a little air from her bursting lungs, she watched the bubbles rise with an odd sense of déjà vu. The Fates had sent her here, and now Olivia knew why. It was all over, she thought, and slowly released the breath she could hold no longer.

Chapter Sixteen “I see the problem.” Glenn Howick peered at Riley over her sunglasses. Her eyes were the same cool marine blue as the ocean. “I’ve tried the paths with the yellow markers.” Riley explained her coding system. “All dead ends. And I walked east to look back, just in case there was an obvious route. It’s tough through there. The jungle is like Vietnam or something.” Glenn made some notes and asked for the binoculars, removing her glasses and dropping her backpack. “Which one goes farthest down?” she asked, and took the path Riley indicated, telling her to stay put. Wracked with nerves, Riley watched her descend. Glenn was very sure-footed. Glancing up at one point, she called, “Relax. This is child’s play. I climbed Antisana last year.” She surveyed the beach and the cliffs at length, then lowered the binoculars and retraced her steps. “I didn’t know you climbed,” Riley said, awed. Glenn was the kind of person who could win the Iditarod, and no one would have a clue until they saw her in the newspapers posing with her sled dogs. It

was hardly surprising that she mountaineered in her spare time. She was born to stand on a summit, Riley thought, both metaphorically and in practice. Undisguised by her usual professional attire, her athleticism was apparent. She had the lean-hipped frame of a long-distance runner coupled with a muscularity of shoulders and thighs that spoke of grueling hours in the gym. Then there was what you couldn’t see. Glenn Howick had the strength of will to risk her life. She was the real deal. Aware she probably had her mouth open, Riley stopped staring and handed Glenn her water flask. “Thank you.” Glenn gave one of her rare smiles and took a long drink, head tilted slightly, the sea breeze catching her dark honey ponytail. Riley could almost feel her mouth on that tanned throat. Glenn wore a thick gold chain, she noticed. Suspended from it a diamond-studded butterfly beamed like a tiny laser in the sun. It struck Riley as an odd choice for such a powerful woman. Butterflies were what several nitwit lovers of hers had tattooed above their butts because they thought it was more original than a rose. It was hard to imagine anyone who knew Glenn giving her such a girly piece of jewelry. Riley decided it was from her mother, and she wore it

for sentimental reasons. “So let’s concentrate on that today.” Glenn said, reorganizing her pack. Reminding herself to listen instead of daydream, Riley made like she had some idea what Glenn had been saying. “Shall we leave the stuff here?” Glenn shook her head. “There’s no point having to circle back for it. You’re not tired, are you?” “No way,” Riley said emphatically. “I could do this all day.” “That’s what I thought.” Riley’s heart pounded. The tone was almost flirtatious. She gazed at Glenn’s fingers, at work retightening the laces on her hiking boots. Hers were not the delicate, wafty hands people termed beautiful. They were sculpted and expressive, hands Da Vinci might have sketched: musician’s hands, a marriage of art and discipline. Despite the oozing afternoon heat, Riley goose-bumped at the thought of those hands on her body. “The women I spoke with are unable to recall how they arrive at the cave, and of course the associated tapu prohibits them from describing their experiences inside it. They all agree that it’s small and there is a pool of water. This must be fed somehow.” Glenn

consulted a geological survey map she had brought with her from Rarotonga. “There is a stream here and a waterfall.” “That sounds promising,” Riley said, trying to concentrate on the maze of fine lines instead of the glimpse of breast as Glenn leaned forward. “I can mark out a grid this evening if we don’t find it.” “Good idea. This terrain is much more difficult than I expected. I think I’ll arrange for one of the team to come over tomorrow.” Riley managed not to protest out loud. Instead she said, “Why not recruit the owners? They know the island better than anyone, and they did agree to provide every assistance.” “I’ll speak with them over dinner tonight,” Glenn said, dashing Riley’s hopes of an evening alone in the cottage, just the two of them. Apparently Glenn planned to socialize while they were here. It was diplomatic, Riley supposed. Cody and Annabel could have refused to allow the research team onto the island at all. Obviously Glenn needed to keep things sweet. “It would be ideal if we could boat in and explore the cliffs from the base,” she said. “Cody says we can only get in if the tide is right,”

Riley said. “The currents are incredibly dangerous.” “Hence the wreckage on the beach.” “What wreckage?” Riley was embarrassed as soon as she spoke the words. It seemed she had missed seeing something blindingly obvious. “It looks like some type of small boat. There’s a smashed up hull and some planks piled up on the rocks over there.” Glenn waved a hand toward the western end of the cliffs. “Oh, that wreckage.” Riley covered herself. “That’s part of a boat? I didn’t realize.” “Shall we?” Glenn checked her compass and started into the jungle. Shoving a young banana palm aside, she remarked, “Why is there never a machete when you need one?” * Merris knew it was probably too early to knock on Olivia’s door. But the champagne was cold, and she thought she could probably sell Olivia on the idea of an outdoor aperitif before dinner. It was a safe bet that she would be wearing something more civilized than shorts, so Merris had carried a couple of deck chairs down to the beach. Unusually for her, she had changed

her own outfit several times before settling on cream pants in a chunky linen weave, and a black rayon shirt. She hoped her look said casual but tailored, as opposed to Miami mobster on vacation. It was the hair, she thought, just before her knuckles connected with the door. She often wore it combed back, but this time she’d used more hair stuff than usual. It was not too late to go back home and shower all over again. Merris considered the possibility seriously for several seconds before she came to her senses and reminded herself she was not eighteen. She knocked, her entire body prickling with anticipation. She still couldn’t believe she and Olivia were lovers. It had been so much easier than she’d anticipated. She half expected to find her waiting, embarrassed and awkward, having had a change of heart. She had already planned how she would handle that. Gallantly. No pressure. But neither would she simply accept it and walk away. You didn’t win a woman’s confidence by behaving like a sap. If Olivia needed time, that was okay. In fact, Merris wanted to court her properly. She knocked again more firmly and wondered if Olivia was in the shower. Perhaps she was one of those women who loathed early guests catching her

unprepared. Maybe Merris should leave and come back later. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked. Leaning into the room a little, she listened for the sound of water running, and called, “Olivia?” The cottage was silent and unlit, with no indication that Olivia was present, let alone expecting company. Puzzled, Merris entered and called again, then walked through the cottage opening each door. Olivia’s bedroom set her pulse racing. Laid out on the bed was a simple silk dress in emerald green. The front was cut low. Olivia was planning to look gorgeous for her. A woman having second thoughts would not be doing that. Raw lust made her clothes feel too hot, and Merris returned to the kitchen and stowed the champagne in the fridge, pausing in the doorway for a moment to cool off. Olivia was probably on the beach. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the sun. Suddenly concerned, Merris strode out into the early evening and followed the path down to Hibiscus Bay. She called Olivia’s name a few times and strolled out to the water’s edge, scouring the beach left and right. The sky was brooding, the ocean slate blue-gray beneath a heavy veil of clouds. Beyond the lagoon, the white caps were bigger than she’d yet seen them. Compressed between cloud and earth, the

air felt heavy and hot. Starting to perspire, Merris climbed the jetty and checked the surroundings again. Right in front of her, on the opposite side of the white wooden structure, lay a towel and a colorful cotton bag. She jumped down and picked these up. Inside the bag were a Margaret Atwood novel, a bottle of sunscreen, and a thoroughly cooked banana. Clearly Olivia had left this stuff on the beach hours earlier. She must have forgotten all about it. Something jarred, and Merris stared down at the narrow boat ramp a few feet away. Where was the little dinghy that was usually here? * Propping Briar against her shoulder, Cody picked up the telephone and tried not to yell What? Bad enough Annabel had barely got home yesterday before she set off again for Solarim. Now Cody had discovered she was supposed to entertain those UCLA women for dinner tonight. This she would have to do alone because Annabel had talked Chris into taking the joyride to Solarim with her, and all the other guests had their own plans, except for Trudy. That bimbo had phoned earlier and had the nerve to say

she would join Cody after the academics departed, doubtless to browbeat her all over again with that ridiculous funeral resort idea. “Hello?” said the woman on the phone. “Yes, I’m here,” Cody said. “Sorry.” Briar had just thrown up most of her bottle because Cody forgot it was supposed to be warm, and Mel was sound asleep, exhausted by the excitement of the past two days. “This is Merris Randall. Look, I’m concerned about my neighbor.” Cody propped the phone to her ear and started fixing a new bottle with her free hand. “Uh huh?” “I think she took the dinghy out, and she hasn’t come back.” “When did she go?” “I don’t know. It must be hours ago. We’re supposed to be having dinner tonight, and she hasn’t come back yet.”

Probably a last minute change of heart. Accustomed to blowing smoke for guests having second thoughts about a holiday romance, Cody said, “Well, she could have landed on one of the other beaches. The weather’s closing in. Maybe she’s walking back.”

The voice at the other end grew very cool. “I doubt that. But if you think it’s a possibility, we’d better not waste any time. It will be dark in two or three hours.” “Ms. Pearce is a skilled rower,” Cody said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure there’s no cause for alarm. ” If she had taken the dinghy hours ago, it seemed unlikely she would still be out on the water. She was probably wandering home around the bays, collecting shells, as many of their guests did. Merris wasn’t buying. “I’ll expect you at the jetty in fifteen minutes. We can take it from there.” “Make it half an hour,” Cody said. “I have some other guests turning up shortly, so I’ll check whether they’ve seen her. Okay?” “Okay.” Click. Cody tested the bottle on her wrist. She had no idea how hot it was supposed to feel, so she opened her mouth and squirted some of the warm milk onto her tongue. It tasted vile, but it was lukewarm—probably just right. “I can’t believe you like this stuff,” she told Briar, who grabbed the bottle and started sucking happily as soon as Cody sat down. This was much easier than dealing with the mushy

food, Cody thought. Melanie had spent about half an hour trying to spoon some pureed banana into Briar before she went to bed. The baby had not seemed remotely interested, drooling it all over her fingers, then wiping them on anything she could reach. On the bright side, after a few weeks of this, Annabel would be thoroughly disenchanted with babies. They weren’t so cute when you had to look after them 24/7. She looked down at Briar, and Melanie’s dark serious eyes stared right back at her. Quite suddenly Briar spat the bottle and smiled at Cody like she was the best thing since sliced bread. Grinning despite herself, Cody put the nipple back between her gums. But the baby had lost interest. She reached a chubby hand up to Cody’s face and prodded her nose, making odd little sounds. With her silken black ringlets and her milk-and-roses skin, she was an unusually pretty baby, Cody decided. In a high pitched voice, she said, “You look just like Snow White.” Briar made cooing sounds and pulled at Cody’s bottom lip. “I have to change you now. It’s your bed time,” Cody informed her. “I hope I can get your pants to stay on this time.”

“I could give you a hand with that,” suggested a throaty voice, and Dr. Glenn Howick stepped through the French doors from the verandah. “We’re early. Sorry if it’s a bad time.” “No, it’s fine,” Cody lied. “Please. Sit down.” “You’re not taking me up on that diaper offer? I’m good.” “Well, if you must.” Cody tried not to show unseemly relief. “If you don’t mind holding her, I’ll go get everything.” Glenn Howick seemed genuinely thrilled, lifting Briar from Cody with the assurance of a woman who knew infants well. “She looks just like you,” she said, kissing Briar’s cheek and making goo goo noises. “She’s not…never mind.” Cody glanced at the woman who had followed Glenn in. At the sight of her boss maternalizing all over a baby, Riley Mason looked like she had just trod in dog shit. Cody knew exactly where she was coming from. Pointing toward the kitchen, she said, “Hey, Riley. If you want a beer, help yourself.” When Cody got back, she was relieved to see Riley had made herself useful by pouring a drink for her boss as well. She was gazing at Glenn with a forlorn expression Cody recognized. The poor kid had it bad

and it looked like the famous professor was probably a straight woman who had no idea. “Look, something’s come up, and dinner’s going to be a bit of a problem tonight,” Cody said, passing the baby bag to Glenn. “I mean, there’s plenty of food, it’s just I have to go find one of our guests. I was wondering if you’ve seen her. Black hair, nice looking. Her name’s Olivia. According to her…uh…friend, she took a dinghy out sailing earlier and—” Glenn stopped the diaper change and looked up abruptly. “A dinghy? What color?” “Red and green.” The two academics stared at one another. Cody felt the onset of nausea. “You hadn’t seen that wreckage before today, had you?” Glenn directed a question at Riley. Riley went bright red. “No.” Glenn’s hands performed the diaper change, but her eyes were fixed on Cody. “There’s some wreckage below the cliffs of Hine te Ana. A small boat.” Cody’s legs started to shake. She tried to remember what she had said to Olivia about where to row. There were warnings on each cottage door and inside the island guide. Every new arrival was told to confine their swimming to their own bay and that the south of the

island was off-limits for all activities, sailing included. Had Olivia wanted some kind of challenge because she was training for their race? “Maybe it’s some other boat,” Riley said. “Stuff washes up on beaches all the time. Or it could be a container that broke up.” Glenn lifted Briar against her shoulder and maintained a swaying motion as she spoke. “Call the friend again, and double-check that she hasn’t shown,” she instructed Cody. “If she’s still missing, we don’t have much time before dark.” “I should radio Rarotonga,” Cody said. In fact, she and Annabel were the search and rescue team for this zone, but they had choppers and tracking experts on Raro. “We can’t wait for reinforcements. Riley can mind your baby,” Glenn said, ignoring her assistant’s stifled gasp. “I’ll come with you.” * Merris jumped down into the outboard as Cody pulled alongside the jetty. “Any sign of her?” she demanded. “This is Glenn Howick,” Cody said. Her voice

sounded like a croak. “She…” Glenn shook Merris’s hand. “I believe I may have seen Olivia’s boat earlier today. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. The boat I saw was in pieces.” “What?” Merris sank down on a bench seat. She felt as though someone had just punched her in the gut. “Where is it?” “There are some cliffs on the southern face of the island.” “The area all the warnings are about?” Merris shot a look at Cody. “We can’t assume it’s her,” Glenn said in a level voice. “We’re going to go get a larger boat and take a look.” “I told her not to go around there,” Cody said as they sped along the shoreline. She looked as pale as a ghost. Merris felt her mouth flood with saliva and her stomach lurch. Gagging, she hung her head over the side of the boat. What in hell kind of place was this forbidden area? And why would Olivia have gone there? They switched to an inboard cruiser that was anchored off Passion Bay. Around thirty feet long, it was fitted with state-of-the-art equipment, including

searchlights. “There’s a Zodiac RIB on board,” Cody said, handing out life jackets. “We’re registered for search and rescue in this vicinity.” Merris did not know what to feel. She was relieved Cody had a decent boat and likely some experience in search and rescue, but buzzing relentlessly in her mind was an image of Olivia in a tiny boat smashed against a cliff. She cradled her head in her hands, refusing to believe it could be possible. They circumnavigated the island well outside the reef. There was a five-foot swell, and the wind Merris had noticed while she waited on the jetty was blowing spray high in the air. It had started to rain by the time they approached the cliffs, and Cody increased power, but slowed speed as they chugged along the vertical walls. “There it is.” Glenn pointed toward a rocky mass at the edge of an eyelid-shaped beach. Cody beamed a spotlight at the area, and they could plainly see a red wooden hull, smashed apart. “That’s our dinghy,” she said tonelessly. “Oh, my God.” Hot tears spilled down Merris’s cheeks. “Is it swimmable?” Glenn asked.

“There’s a chance.” Cody trained the light along the beach. “It depends on time of day. There’s a rip current off the beach. If she jumped before the dinghy hit, she was probably caught.” “So it depends whether she panicked or not,” Glenn said quietly. “I understand there’s some kind of path up from the beach.” “Supposedly,” Cody said. “But I’ve never been able to find it.” A small flare of hope burst in Merris’s chest. “So she could have made it to the beach and found this path. She could be up there in the jungle?” “It’s possible.” Cody handed a loudspeaker to Glenn. They spent the next half hour calling and searching the surrounding sea and the cliff face until the rain was falling in sheets and waves eight feet high were pounding the cruiser. “Let’s get a search party out at daybreak,” Glenn said. “If she’s there, we’ll find her.” Merris took the loudspeaker and called one last time as they left the cliffs behind. Her voice was lost to the wind and the sea, but she prayed that wherever she was, Olivia would know Merris was coming for her.

Chapter Seventeen Moonlight poured down a narrow limestone throat into a spring of water as silver as a looking glass. Mirrored, a face gazed up—a woman with dark hair and bare breasts. About her neck was a braid of shells, separated by huge, glowing dark pearls. Her mouth was red with promise. In the center of her chest, beneath a wall of bone, her heart beat hard enough to break the skin. Like a rose between her breasts, bloody but perfect, a wound had formed. Olivia put her finger there. Her blood shone black, like oil. Was she dead? She lifted a huge spiny shell to her ear and listened. There was a pulse. It could be the ocean or her heartbeat. The shell wasn’t saying. She had brought it with her from the beach. Up the stony path, through the long tunnel, beyond the golden eyes, and up the high steps to the bedchamber of the princess where she had slept with the taste of ocean in her mouth. The beach. That had been a surprise. She remembered seeing it far away, grasping air with her fingertips, bubbles teeming from her mouth, a terrible burning in her lungs. She was falling into darkness when something caught her body, and she was

dragged up and up into the bright painful light and the hard bounce of a wave. She did not swim to the shore, but was carried there and flung onto the beach as if the ocean had found her unappetizing and spat her out. Panting, she remained inert on the wet sand until a pain piercing her chest made her move. Beneath her lay a huge pale peach shell. One of its heavy spines had bored into her flesh. Olivia crawled away from the lapping tide, over sand rough with broken shells, then rolled onto her back in the shadow of a giant wall of rock. That was when she heard the song: half lament, half aria, lilting and full of sorrow, in a tongue she did not recognize. The singer stood at the waterline casting her lyrics to the wind and sea. Dark hair hung past her waist where a band of shells held a grassy skirt in place. Full and ripe, her breasts were bare. Around her neck she wore a braid of knotted shells as pale as her teeth. Somehow Olivia knew that this was a princess. When her song was done, she came to Olivia and held a palm full of water to her mouth. She spoke in a voice that was rich and melodic, but Olivia did not know what she was saying. Her wrists and forearms were tattooed with a geometric pattern of triangles and feathers, dark red-orange against the light brown of her

skin. The same design decorated her calves. Something in her face jarred a memory that floated just beyond reach. She seemed familiar. Olivia tried to speak, but her throat was too raw; all she could do was cough. After a time, the princess took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. She led Olivia up a steep path high above the beach and into a narrow crack in the cliff face. It was cool and pitch dark inside, and it seemed they walked forever. Olivia’s fingers followed a trail of shapes carved into the rock walls. Like the princess’s tattoo, they were triangles and feathers curved like crescent moons. The path grew wider and, from somewhere high above, a shaft of sunlight lit the way ahead. The rock was carved into steps so deep and high Olivia had to rest on each and catch her breath. Looking down the way she came, she was nonplussed. Large, dull gold eyes stared up at her, caught by the sun. There were dozens of them, as if the tunnel were home to some strange shy goblins huddled en masse where the steps fell away. Beyond the last step and over a slippery boulder, lay a small cave with crystalline walls that glistened like chandeliers. Strings of shells and beads hung from the

rock and crystal formations and water cascaded gently over a lip at one end into a tranquil pool. Olivia caught water from the fresh stream and drank. The princess lifted a necklace from a protrusion of rock and placed it over Olivia’s head, then led her to a dry hollow on the far side of the pool. It was lined with mats and heavy tivaevae quilts. There, Olivia slept. * Merris sat on Olivia’s bed, fully clothed and smelling of sweat and seawater. Her heartbeat was fast and uneven, like her breathing. She could feel Olivia so tangibly, she knew she must be alive somewhere. Anything else was impossible. She got up and lit the candle that had flickered watery gold across Olivia’s flesh the night before. Merris could still feel her, sleek and hot and shaking. She could still hear those small cries of pleasure echoing beyond the silent walls. Impulsively, she tore back the bedclothes, hoping to smell her. But the sheets had been changed. Merris undressed, leaving her clothes in a damp pile on the floor, and stood beneath the shower picking up Olivia’s toiletries one by one. Bath gel, shampoo, and a soap that smelled faintly of spiced roses. It was

comforting to be here, surrounded by the simple evidence of Olivia’s existence. She washed systematically and wrapped herself in a towel. As she returned to the bedroom, a gust of wind blew the windows wide open and extinguished the candle. Her skin prickled and the hairs on her neck rose. A person with an overactive imagination would have read something into this, but Merris refused to entertain the idea that Olivia’s ghost had just announced its presence. Instead, she fastened the windows and got into bed. She had left the outdoor lights on and a lamp burning in the living room in case Olivia was trying to find her way home in the night. It seemed more likely she would wait until dawn, especially if she were injured. Merris felt terrible that they could not search the jungle until the next morning. The makatea south of Hibiscus Bay was too dangerous. Cody had instructed everyone to get some sleep. She would pick Merris up at first light. Turning onto her side, Merris conjured up an image of Olivia lying next to her, sound asleep, safe in her arms. Emotion overwhelmed her, raw and untidy. Like a beaten thing, she huddled into herself for comfort. This was unlike any feeling she knew. For the first time

in her life, she understood that love was more than sentiment. It was more than fancy wrapping paper around an empty box. Love was a transfusion that found its way into bone and marrow. Nothing could ever be the same again. Merris was unnerved by the intensity of this feeling. How could she love Olivia so much, so soon? Was it the same for her, too? Merris knew with painful certainty it was not, and maybe it never would be. Could she live with that? Would she even get the chance? She was gripped by an absurd fear that Olivia had been taken from her because she had lied about the “co-incidence” of her presence on the island. She had wanted to come clean, and had only been waiting for the right moment to present itself. But all they’d had were a few days. Let her come back and I will do anything, she bargained with God. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll do right

by Allegra and the girls and not begrudge her happiness with someone else. And if this is not right for Olivia, I’ll walk away. Anything. Just let her live. * Olivia opened her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her

dreams had been invaded by a scent so powerful she had to surface for air. For a moment it seemed to her that she was still dreaming. She was in a small grotto flooded with unearthly light that fractured and beamed off thousands of crystal growths. A thin stream of water spilled into a pool that looked like mercury. Trailing down from the cave opening was a fleshy tangle of creepers and flowering plants. It must be one of these she could smell, Olivia thought. It was unlike any flower she knew, intoxicating as a drug—sensory proof that she was alive and awake, that this was not some unconscious state or death itself. In her mind’s eye she could see the woman who led her here, but she knew she must have been a delusion. No one could have been on that beach with her. She fingered the necklace at her throat. It was real. So was the wound in the center of her chest. Abrasions stung her palms and knees. Her underwear was torn. She was almost surprised to find the grotto solid to the touch, and the water fresh and good to drink. That she had found this place was miraculous. The woman who had held her hand must have been a figment of her imagination, she decided—a device conjured by a mind under stress. For her it had made the difference between life and death.

Others had found sanctuary here, she thought. The place had the feel of a shrine. Intrigued, she peered down into the quicksilver pool. It was almost hypnotic. At first her face was mirrored back at her, then something hazy rose from beneath the surface to supplant it, and Olivia felt as if she were falling. Her stomach dived and her eyes refused to focus. Dizzy, she clung to the rocks around her and leaned toward the water, trying to make out what was submerged. Then she was dreaming again. It was one of those dreams that hover at the brink of waking. Olivia knew she was dreaming but could not quite drag herself conscious. She felt like the occupant of a train passing through blurred scenery. She wanted the trip to end, but she was powerless to leave her seat. As if through layers of thick glass, she saw Hunter in a hotel bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat with the lid down, a set of works spread out on the countertop nearby. The door was ajar, and on the bed lay a naked woman. She looked semiconscious. Olivia tried to shout to Hunter, but her throat made no sound. She watched Hunter shoot up and lean back against the cistern, sagging with relief. There were used hypodermics in the bathtub and clothes strewn all over the floor. Empty Evian bottles littered the room.

The discerning addict did not want tap water polluting her body. Hunter staggered into the bedroom and fell across the bed next to her bimbo du jour and Olivia could see no more. The scenery accelerated past her window, and suddenly she was at home in Cherry Creek, alone in front of her favorite fire in the library. A clock ticked so loud it made books fall from the shelves. But Olivia didn’t care. She just sat there staring into the fire, tears rolling down her face. Her hair was shorter. She looked older. But everything in the room was the same, and she was playing one of Hunter’s albums. Olivia wanted to reach out and shake the Olivia of her dream and yell at her that this was no life. She was wasting her time pining over a lost love that had never had true substance. The fairy tale had ended badly; it was time to close the book. Olivia stretched her hand out as far as she could, but she was spinning and the room was receding. Her fingers connected with something hard and metallic, and she opened her eyes. The moon had passed beyond the rocky breach, and the grotto was almost in complete darkness. In her hand lay what felt like a heavy round coin. Olivia set it aside and shook the quilt out. It was too dark, and she was too tired to try and climb up to the mouth of the cave now. Merris and

probably the others would be looking for her in the morning. Taking comfort in that, she curled up on the mats and surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Eighteen Annabel stalked into the villa and dumped her gear on the kitchen counter. She was irritated. They had waited at the airstrip for twenty minutes. In the end she had left Violet there with Chris. “Cody?” she called. “Oh, thank God you’re back.” Mel appeared in the hallway, face tearstained and eyes welling. Words spilled disjointedly between her sobs. “It’s terrible. They’re all out looking…and she’s probably drowned, and then there was this urgent radio call…the police in Avarua…I’m so frightened.” “Calm down.” Annabel put her arms around her cousin and led her to a sofa in the sitting room. She groped in her pockets for some tissues and wiped Mel’s face and nose. Trying not to sound as alarmed as she felt, she said, “Slowly now, one thing at a time. First, who’s drowned?” Mel took a shaky breath and recounted a tale about boat wreckage on the Sacred Shore and a guest called Olivia who was missing after taking her dinghy for a row the day before. “Cody organized a search party first thing this morning.” Annabel was stunned. It had always been her worst nightmare that something would happen to a guest.

The women who stayed on the island had no idea how closely their hosts kept tabs on them. Between Cody’s morning visits, the housekeepers’ cleaning schedule, dinner at Villa Luna, and a system of reporting where guests planning hikes and boat trips had to notify Cody of their plans, there was little of which they were unaware. All guests were warned not to explore the south of the island by land or sea, and she and Cody also routinely patrolled the beaches. How could this have happened? “So far they haven’t found anything,” Mel said. “Cody came back here a couple of hours ago, and I haven’t seen her since.” “They’re searching the south of the island?” “They think if she didn’t drown, maybe she climbed the cliffs.” What were the odds of anyone wrecking their boat on the cliffs of Hine te Ana and surviving? Slim to none. Annabel called Olivia Pearce to mind. Was she a fighter? On appearances, Annabel would guess not. But people could surprise you. From her own experience, she knew the instinct to survive was remarkable. “I feel so useless.” Mel blew her nose. Her shoulders were still shaking, but her breathing was becoming

even again. Annabel took her hand and squeezed it. “I understand. But I want you to remember all the things you do, not the things you can’t do. You just made a human life, and you traveled halfway across the planet with your baby when you can hardly walk. You’re dealing with a huge personal crisis, but you still found the time to help a total stranger who was hurting. You’ve made a real difference for Chris. She told me. So I don’t ever want to hear you say you are useless again. Deal?” “You’re the best.” Mel leaned over and kissed Annabel’s cheek. With forced humor she said, “Anyway, so here we are in the thick of a real crisis, and the police captain from Avarua radios with an urgent message and, guess what…” Annabel rolled her eyes. In this neck of the woods, the police thought they were dealing with a serious social problem when someone failed to trim their hedge. “I can’t even imagine.” “My brother is in Avarua looking for me.” “You’re kidding.” Annabel could see why Mel was almost hysterical. A card-carrying member of Born Again Bigots, Roscoe Worth had already tried to prevent Mel from

leaving the USA. He and his scary Tammy Faye-clone wife were hell-bent on getting custody of Briar. Mel had fled to Annabel’s mom after receiving a notice that he had commenced legal proceedings, claiming she was unfit to care for the baby. Not one to tolerate bullies, Laura Worth had Mel file charges of harassment against him, then set about getting her and Briar out of the country. “The Captain called to give you a heads-up. That idiot is accusing me of kidnapping my own child.” “Well, your brother is not in Kansas any more.” Annabel carefully controlled her tone. She was livid. It was just like Roscoe to pull a stunt like this. The man was arrogant, hypocritical, and a bully. But thankfully, he was also dumb as dirt. “Don’t you worry. I’ll handle this. You and Briar are completely safe here.” Feeling the tension leave Mel’s body, she added, “I need to go now, but when I get back, we’re going to have a talk about your brother. It’s time we dealt with that moron once and for all.” * “Shit. I broke my nail.” Trudy thrust a hand in front of Cody.

Cody managed not to yell at her. Politely, she said, “I can take you back any time. Just say the word.” Trudy shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do. At least this way I get a good look around.” “The answer is still no. So why put yourself through this?” Trudy took an emery board from her Hello Kitty backpack and filed the problem acrylic. “I don’t get it. There’s plenty of room for both concepts. We would gate the resort. Everyone could be confined to the one beach. You’d have the rest of the island to do your women-only thing.” Cody lifted her binoculars and scanned the slopes systematically. “What you don’t seem to get is that Moon Island is not women-only just because we like it that way. It’s an ancient tradition.” “Yeah, yeah.” Trudy heaved a sigh. “How come when white people say something is traditional no one gives a crap, but when it’s some tribe no one’s ever heard of, well, that’s a whole different story? It used to be traditional to crush little girl’s feet all over China. Know what I’m saying?” Cody cast a desperate look toward Glenn, who had so far stayed out of the discussion about the Moon Island Funeral Getaway concept.

“Some customs arise from spiritual belief, and others, such as foot-binding, do not,” Glenn cut in helpfully. “In our culture, for example, millions of people believe Jesus was born at Christmastime, so all kinds of customs exist in recognition of this. Do you believe in Jesus, Trudy?” “Not really. I mean I am a Christian as opposed to like…a Muslim or whatever. But I think all that Jesus stuff is pretty much a nice fairy tale. You know, if it makes people feel good, hey, that’s cool. You have to believe in something, right?” Glenn set down a couple of grid markers. “Do you give presents and have Christmas dinner and decorate a tree?” “Sure. I love Christmas.” “In other words, you follow the customs even though you really don’t believe in their basis.” Trudy seemed interested in this perspective. “You’re right. I do. Lots of people do.” “Well, it’s traditional,” Glenn remarked in her levelheaded way. “Imagine if a family of Buddhists from Thailand bought a house in your street and tried to bribe your homeowners’ association to ban Christmas lights. How would you feel?” Trudy was silent, her finely plucked eyebrows drawn

together in a frown of concentration. “I know some Buddhists,” she said finally. “They’re cool. I mean, they would never do shit like that.” “Why not?” “Respect,” Trudy said with conviction. “They respect other people’s rights to believe what they want. Actually, we could all learn something from the Buddhist religion.” “I couldn’t agree more. So if you bought a house in their country, you wouldn’t expect them to close the local temple, stop all that chanting, and take down their prayer flags?” “Of course not!” Trudy tugged the Minnie Mouse bows in her hair indignantly. “Can you give me a reason why the Cook Islanders warrant less respect for their customs than the Thais?” Glenn sounded genuinely puzzled. Trudy’s face was a picture. “No.” “But you’ve just been telling Cody they should change a custom that’s important to them so your dad can lease a block of land here. You think this is reasonable because many of them don’t really believe in those goddesses and their curses any more. Kind of like you and Jesus.” Trudy took off her sunglasses and wiped them

carefully. “They didn’t give you that Ph. D. for eating your lunch, did they? You’re really smart.” “I’m no smarter than you. I’m older and I get paid to think about these issues. That’s all.” “I wanted to go to college,” Trudy confessed. “But everyone said it would be a waste of time. You know. I’d only embarrass myself.” To Cody’s surprise, Glenn said, “If you want to apply for college, come and see me in the new semester.” Trudy looked startled. “Really?” “I think you’d do great. You’re open-minded, and you’re not afraid to challenge yourself. I wish I could say the same for half my students.” That was nice, Cody thought. Glenn could easily make a lowbrow like Trudy feel inadequate, but instead she was encouraging her to expand her horizons beyond the mall. Trudy was actually blushing. “You know what? I might take you up on that.” “I hope you do,” Glenn said, passing her a new ball of twine and a bunch of markers. “Now, what say you take that zone down there, and we’ll climb this rise?” They watched Trudy until she was in position before starting up a steep incline. “Did you mean it?” Cody asked Glenn a little later.

“About Trudy.” “Trudy is who she is because that’s all anyone expects of her. There’s no mother in the picture, and I doubt she’s ever had any approval from her father that didn’t relate to her looks.” “Those breasts,” Cody muttered. “If there’s one thing my life has taught me,” Glenn said, “that’s to look beyond appearances. Things …people…are not always as they seem.” “Tell me about it.” Cody grinned. “Once you’ve run a place like this nothing surprises you.” “Do you think Olivia is alive?” Glenn asked. Cody met her deep blue eyes. “Something my life taught me is that anything is possible.” * Riley flopped down under a banana palm and took a long drink. It was too soon to give up, but she knew they were wasting their time searching this zone around the cliff tops again. If Olivia had made it up here, which was highly unlikely, she was probably halfway across the island by now. The search party had spent the entire morning combing this area, then Cody had to go back to Villa Luna to check on Annabel’s

sick cousin. Glenn had suggested they split up to cover more ground and took Trudy with her, a good idea, since everyone was about ready to strangle her. The only problem with Glenn’s plan was that Riley had just spent the last three hours with Merris Randall instead of the one person she came here to be with. “Hey, Merris,” she called. “Take a break.” Wiping her face, Merris sat down a few feet away and gulped some water. “I think we should start working our way up toward the cottage,” Riley suggested. “That’s where she’ll be headed if she’s going in the right direction. If she’s gotten lost east of here, the others will find her.” “Sounds reasonable,” Merris said. Something in her tone told Riley she was close to breaking. Riley tried to imagine how she would be feeling if it was Glenn who was missing. Insane, she thought. But Merris was not the dramatic type, and maybe she didn’t feel for Olivia what Riley felt for Glenn. It sounded like they’d only hooked up on vacation. She felt a pang of envy. Even a short fling with Glenn would be better than nothing. “How are you doing?” she asked Merris. “I’m not sure. I keep thinking she’s fallen down somewhere and she’s hurt and we won’t find her ’til it’s

too late.” “People can survive for days like that, even weeks if there’s food and water.” Riley did her best to sound confident. “She’s got a good chance.” “I can’t believe this has happened.” Merris gazed out to sea. “I waited my whole life for her. From the moment I saw her, I knew.” Riley blinked. “Love at first sight?” Merris didn’t seem the type. She seemed lost in thought. When she looked up, her eyes were flooded with tears. “The Chinese say an invisible thread connects those destined to meet. It stretches but never breaks. I never understood how that could be until I saw her. It was like a jolt, as if that thread had suddenly pulled tight.” “Do you think that means she’s your soul mate?” “I’ve never believed in that. People say they’ve met their soul mate and six months later she’s the bitch from hell.” “Not in any big hurry to swap blood vials, huh?” Merris gave a self-deprecating laugh. “You’ll have to ask me that in a year’s time.” “Well, look at it this way,” Riley said. “If you two are truly meant to be, then she has to be alive.”

* The pool was cooler than the ocean. Standing beneath the waterfall, Olivia rinsed her hair of salt and sand, and cleaned the dried blood from her chest. She felt profoundly content. Surviving a near-death situation would tend to do that, she supposed. She shook the water from her limbs and used a quilt to dry herself off. Her bra and panties were as clean as she could get them. She knew she should put them on, but it was hard to give a damn whether she made it out of this naked or semi-naked. She contemplated the slippery latticework that connected her grotto to the world above. It wasn’t that far to climb. About twenty-five feet. If she didn’t make it, she could always retreat down the high steps and along the narrow path until she found her way back to the beach. She wondered what time of day it was. A few hours earlier, she had been certain she could hear her name being called and had tried to respond. But her throat was so hoarse that after just a few cries for help, her voice was reduced to an inaudible croak. Olivia dragged her wet undergarments on, and studied the heavy coin she had found in the pool. How had an old gold guinea found its way to the Cook

Islands? Missionaries? She had explored the shallower parts of the pool in case there were more, but this seemed to be the only one. Someone had thrown it in for luck, she surmised, and there it would stay. Making a wish of her own, she cast the coin back into the still waters and fingered the necklace she was wearing. Should she leave it behind? In her dream, the dark-haired woman had given it to her. It would always remind her of what she had learned here, Olivia thought. There was so much she would take away with her. She had a sharp new sense of her own power, a conviction that she was the author of her own destiny. The Fates had permitted her a glimpse of a present she could not bear to face and a future she was in danger of creating. Like Dickens’ Scrooge confronting the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, she did not like what she saw. Olivia trailed her hand through the tranquil water. With absolute certainty, she knew there was magic in this place she could never reveal to anyone. She felt as if she had become the keeper of a mystery and that others also knew what she knew but did not speak of it. Feeling a deep sense of gratitude, she removed the plain gold pinky ring that had been her great grandmother’s wedding band. She kissed it and

placed it behind a small stalagmite, making a pledge to the guardian of the cave. “I promise to keep your secrets,” she whispered. “Now please help me get out of here.”

Chapter Nineteen Merris hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders and took a final lingering look out to sea. Riley had gone on ahead of her, marking out the circuitous path they would take back to Frangipani Cottage. Avoiding the tracks they had followed earlier, they would instead skirt a route around the makatea, then veer through the center of the island. Merris picked up her pace to close the distance between them. It was obvious Riley was not happy being stuck with her for the afternoon instead of pairing off with the object of her desire. Merris had a sneaking suspicion Glenn Howick had arranged things that way. She had to be aware her student was besotted. The woman was probably trying to maintain appropriate boundaries. Sharing a cottage couldn’t be easy. She paused to call Olivia’s name as she had a thousand times that day. The jungle groaned and creaked in response. A small flock of birds burst from a treetop, raucously decrying her presence. To the east, something stirred just above the undergrowth. Merris trained her binoculars on the spot. It looked like someone or something was making a single palm frond wave above the dense canopy of banana and

papaya. It was probably one of the other searchers, she thought, picturing terrible Trudy with a broken ankle. This was roughly the area where Glenn had led her team earlier. A bolt of hope quickened her weary limbs nonetheless, and she started pushing her way through the heavy leaves. Most likely it was Riley, she reasoned, trying not to set herself up for disappointment. If the younger woman had sidetracked in that direction, maybe she had found something. The thought gave Merris new energy as she struggled over the remains of large trees that had been brought down by the hurricane everyone still talked about. Crossing the steep, jagged makatea was frustratingly slow, and as she drew closer it was harder to see the palm waving above the jungle canopy. Calling Olivia’s name again, she jostled through a thicket of creepers almost up to her armpits. Something thrashed against the vegetation a short distance away. Wrenching her way through the tangled plants, Merris broke into a shambling run. There was still no answer to her cries, yet someone was obviously desperate to get her attention. Trampling ferns and orchids, shoving huge leaves out of her face, she yelled, “I’m coming. Stay where you are.”

Through a tapestry of light and dark foliage, a pale form moved like a chimera. Merris glimpsed a dark head and familiar shape, then Olivia was in her arms. Sobbing uncontrollably, Merris grabbed a fistful of black hair and buried her face in it, barely able to believe Olivia was real and warm and alive. “I love you,” she gasped, and felt Olivia’s hand, cool and reassuring against her cheek. “I know.” Olivia indicated her throat, mouthing, “My voice is gone.” Her body was a tapestry of cuts and bruises, her bare feet and hands bloody from the makatea. Merris dropped her pack and lowered Olivia to the jungle floor, tearing off her own shirt to wrap it around the woman she loved. “I need to get help,” she said. Olivia grabbed her arm in mute pleading. Her eyes were panicked. “It’s okay, baby.” Merris covered her face in kisses. “I’m not going anywhere.” She shook out the contents of her pack and found the hand flares Cody had issued that morning. Trying not to shoot herself by mistake, she turned the arming knob and struck a flare down hard against a rocky ledge. The result was a satisfying orange flame that leapt into the sky and gradually descended in a

plume of colored smoke. Just to be sure, Merris set off a second one before hurrying back to Olivia’s side. “That should do it,” she said, taking the injured woman’s hand. She was terribly cold, Merris observed with alarm. Her skin was clammy, and she seemed to be drifting toward sleep. Certain this was not a good sign, Merris cradled her close and stroked her cheek, urging, “Stay awake, baby. They’ll find us soon. Just hang on.” Olivia turned her head into Merris’s shoulder, shivering violently. Wracking her brains, Merris tried to remember what she had ever heard about people with shock or hypothermia. She felt for Olivia’s pulse and counted. It was very fast, and her breathing was shallow. Foraging urgently in her pack, she retrieved the first aid kit only to stare helplessly at the contents. Hypodermic, pain killers, vials of who-knew-what, band-aids, antiseptic, candy, bandages. She had no idea what to do with any of it. A crunching sound cut through her panic-stricken thoughts and she looked up to see Trudy pounce from the undergrowth. Staring open-mouthed at Merris and Olivia, the young woman jumped up and down, waving her arms like a cheerleader, her shrill voice piercing the jungle canopy. “Over here! I found them! Glenn!

Help!” Dazed, Merris could not even manage a hello before a machete lopped the top off a banana palm and Glenn Howick stepped into view looking like a female Indiana Jones. Hands on hips, big white smile, she surveyed the scene with the air of a woman who had seen real danger and judged this child’s play by comparison. “Need a hand?” she said. * “Trauma and shock,” Violet pronounced many hours later in the living room at Villa Luna. “Twenty-four hours running on adrenalin, and all of a sudden she’s safe. Everything caught up with her, the adrenalin took a nosedive, and shock set in.” “I nearly had heart failure,” Merris admitted. “She was so excited when I found her, then she just crashed. ” “She’ll be much better in the morning,” Violet assured her. “I’ve put a few stitches in her feet. And she won’t be washing any dishes for a while with those hands. But she’s fine. They’ll only tell you the same thing at the hospital.” “We’ll take her in for a check-up anyway,” Cody said.

“Annabel will have to pick up the women for the rituals.” Trudy lit up. “Do we get to watch?” “Only if we’re invited,” Annabel said, bringing a large platter of shrimp from the kitchen. Chris came after her with pasta and salad, saying, “Does anyone know where the parmesan is?” “No idea, but this Chianti is great,” Riley said, filling glasses and handing them out. “I’ll take one of those,” a voice wheezed from the doorway. “She insisted,” Melanie said, pushing Olivia into the room ahead of her. “Sweetie.” Merris helped her onto a sofa. “You should be asleep.” “And miss my own party? I don’t think so.” Glenn stood and raised her glass. “To Olivia, for making it.” Merris closed her hand over Olivia’s as they drank. She knew she was grinning like a fool, but she couldn’t help herself. “Last night was the worst night of my life,” she said, not caring if she sounded corny. “And tonight is the best.” People were helping themselves to food, but Merris had no appetite for anything except the woman next to her. This was what they meant by lovesick , she

thought. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed next to Olivia and stare at her all night. Mentally shaking herself, she asked, “Can I get you something to eat?” Olivia shook her head. Her dark granite eyes held fast to Merris. There was something new and candid in their depths, something meant for Merris alone. Her heart jumped. She was aware of noise and laughter around her, but it was all mere clatter. A silence rich with meaning stretched between her and Olivia. In wordless conversation, they smiled at one another. Almost solemnly, Olivia kissed Merris’s cheek. “I want you with me. I want us to be together.” Merris was sure everyone could probably see her heart pounding. Olivia loved her. She hadn’t said the words, but her eyes shone bright with promise. Elated, she said, “You know, I’ll never let you go.” Olivia smiled without reserve. “I’m counting on it.” “Get a room, you two,” Riley groaned, reminding Merris they had an audience. Merris slipped her arm around Olivia. “Public announcement. We’re an item.” “We kind of had that figured.” Annabel’s silken drawl was tinted with genuine delight. “You two met a while ago, didn’t you?” Chris asked. “Actually, we met on Valentine’s day,” Merris replied.

“I was having dinner with a Barbie doll collector, and Olivia was at another table ignoring me. Later, I swept her off her feet by saving her from falling down a flight of stairs.” Lifting Olivia’s bandaged hand, she planted a kiss on her fingers, adding, “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Trudy was enthralled. “Oh, my God. That’s so karmic.” In case anyone was confused, she explained, “That’s Buddhist. It’s like when a kind of cosmic coincidence happens. I believe in that.” Violet nodded. “So do I, dear.” “There must be something going on in the stars,” Melanie exclaimed. “Chris fell down a cave a couple of days ago, and she found a skeleton!” “Where was this?” Glenn seemed highly interested. “The Kopeka cave southwest of here. I fell down a hole and ended up in a smaller cave. Only someone had beaten me to it. The poor guy never got out.” “A man?” Trudy cast a pointed look at Cody. “I guess the curse took care of him,” Cody said with satisfaction. “You and Annabel believe this curse is real?” Glenn asked. “Put it this way,” Annabel responded, “I respect the possibility. This is an ancient place. Who knows its

karma?” She threw a quick smile of acknowledgment at Trudy. “Men do come here sometimes,” Cody said. “There’s our other pilot Bevan, and the chef brings a couple of guys to help her when we’re busy. But they’re invited.” “Unlike the schmuck in the cave.” Chris chuckled. “What are you going to do about him?” Glenn asked. “Leave him where he is,” Annabel replied. “The goddesses of the island took him.” It seemed so primitive. “But what about his family?” Merris objected. “Surely it’s important to try and identify him.” “The bones are centuries old,” Annabel said. “I spoke to the ruahine about him, and she says the island is his final resting place. I can live with that.” Melanie looked like she wanted to say something, but Chris placed a hand on her arm, distracting her with a comment Merris could not hear. Glenn glanced at Chris. “I’d love to see the cave if you would show me.” “I’ll show you where it is, but I’m not going down there again.” “It can’t be Hine te Ana’s cave,” Annabel said. “It’s too far inland.”

“I’m starting to think this cave really is entirely mythical.” Glenn sounded resigned. “Not all legends are founded in fact.” “Oh, no. I can assure you it does exist,” Violet interjected. Olivia seemed fidgety. Guessing she must be in pain, Merris murmured, “I’ll fetch you some Motrin.” “No, I’m fine.” She toyed absently with the shell and pearl necklace she had been wearing ever since Merris found her. “How do you know the cave exists?” Glenn asked Violet. “Because a woman who lived here told me.” Shooting a quick glance at Annabel, she said, “Rebecca found it just before she left the island.” “I knew it!” Glenn got up and paced to the table, pouring herself more wine. “What’s so special about this cave?” Merris asked. “According to legend, it houses a magical pool of water. If you drink from it your wish is granted.” Glenn recounted the story of how Hine te Ana swam to the island and sat in the cave mourning the loss of her daughter who had drowned in the ocean. “Her tears were so profuse they formed a pool and when she looked into it, the moon goddess Marama took pity on

her and granted her greatest wish. Between one night and the next, she could see her daughter once more.” “What a beautiful story,” Melanie said. “So they ended up together again.” “Not exactly. The vision only lasted that single day. Hine te Ana was so upset she made the moon goddess promise she would see her daughter again one day. She never gave up looking. They say she would sit below the cliffs calling for her daughter and singing a lament, and sometimes she would take the form of a dolphin and scour the ocean for her.” Merris heard Olivia catch her breath and checked in with her again. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes seemed almost too bright. “There are the usual claims about sailors hearing singing or seeing a beautiful maiden standing on the Scared Shore,” Annabel commented. “And during the rituals that take place there, they say the goddess sometimes chooses a woman and leads her to the cave to have a wish granted.” Glenn turned to Violet. “Is that how Rebecca came to see it? Was she a participant?” “I don’t think so.” Violet’s crinkled face was transformed by memory. It was as if she had to make an effort to return to the present. Vaguely, she said,

“There was a map. Annie mentioned it to me.” Melanie exchanged a brief, wide-eyed look with Chris, then lowered her head. “A map?” Glenn cast an accusing look at Cody and Annabel, as if they had been holding out on her. “Rebecca was my aunt’s lover,” Annabel said. “She was killed in an accident. If there was a map, my aunt didn’t keep it.” “And a good thing, too,” Cody said. “Imagine if people thought they could come here and get a wish granted. It would make Lourdes look like a picnic.” Olivia tugged at Merris’s arm and whispered something in her ear in an urgent voice. Astonished, Merris said, “You were in the cave?” The room fell silent. Olivia took a sip of wine and a mouthful of the honey Violet kept pressing on her. In a small voice, she croaked, “I spent the night there. That’s where this necklace came from.” “And I thought you’d blown a years’ salary at Harry Winston!” Annabel laughed. Riley looked stunned. “Where is it? I can’t believe you found it. I mean, we searched every square inch of those fucking cliffs.” “Is it true about the magic pool?” Melanie asked

hopefully. “There is a pool.” Olivia hesitated. “But…I’m sorry. I don’t think…” Chris took Melanie’s hand. “You didn’t notice any miracles happening when you drank some?” she asked Olivia. “There was no pot of gold or anything?” Olivia studied her hands. Guardedly, she said, “It’s very lovely, but it’s just water.” Merris had the distinct impression there was something she wasn’t saying. She looked more closely at the necklace. It was finely woven from leather and some kind of thread. Delicate shells were dotted between huge silver-gray pearls she recognized from past experience. They were the South Sea kind Allegra had blown serious money on. If such a valuable trinket had come from this legendary cave, what else was there? Glenn looked like she had just won the lottery. “Annabel, I can guarantee not to publish the location. All I need is a few photographs of the interior for verification.” She turned to Olivia. “If you could take us there…” “I’m not sure if I can locate it. I can’t remember much about finding my way out.” Olivia seemed uneasy. “Anyway, it’s not for me to decide. I can’t tell you any

more without breaking the tapu.” Obviously the subject was upsetting for her. It was part of the trauma she had just been through, Merris surmised. If Glenn and Riley wanted to revisit the area, she would take them herself. She would not allow Olivia to be stressed. Annabel looked torn. “I don’t think I can make that decision either. We’ll need to speak to the ruahine.” * “I don’t see the problem,” Riley said, pushing the cottage door open. “It’s not like you’d be printing a map.” Glenn followed her into their modest sitting room. They’d spent the walk from Villa Luna to Annie’s Cottage discussing the photographs and statements they would need to support her thesis. Glenn wanted to feel optimistic that the ruahine would grant the access they needed, but she knew it was unlikely. “The cave is sacred to women,” she said. “If we publish photographs, men will see them. I imagine the ruahine would consider that a breach of the tapu.” “That’s ridiculous,” Riley retorted. “I mean, it makes sense not to let men into the place, but a photograph is

just ink on paper. Who cares if a guy looks at it?” “It’s not that simple. Even in our own culture we don’t have the right to publish a picture of another person or a private event of theirs without a release.” Glenn sat down in an armchair and shook out her ponytail. “I think we’re on thin ice dismissing the constraints imposed by a different culture, then conveniently failing to observe those of our own. Either we respect the tapu, or we are guided by privacy law and copyright. We can’t disclaim both.” “That’s all very principled, but if we don’t do this, sooner or later someone else will.” Earnest in her outrage on Glenn’s professional behalf, she added, “Then they’ll get the credit for proving your theory.” “Which would be hard to swallow,” Glenn conceded. The ethics of this project had troubled her since the outset. She had committed enormous energy to documenting spiritual traditions that existed outside of the dominant patriarchal paradigms. When women knew the truth of their own spiritual past, they could reclaim a part of their heritage the major religions sought to deny. Surely the importance to the many outweighed the concerns of the few. Yet Moon Island was home to a living spirituality, perhaps one of the last vestiges of woman-centered

belief on the planet. If laying bare its secrets contributed to its final disappearance, was she any better than the arrogant missionaries who had attempted to wipe the old traditions out? Riley was watching her with the usual combination of hero-worship and lust. But there was also disbelief. No doubt she was entertaining the appalling possibility that Glenn was about to tumble from her pedestal. If she only knew the half of it. Glenn twisted the golden butterfly at her throat and contemplated her options. She liked Riley, and she had hoped that working with her more closely might help her move beyond her obvious crush. Failing that, Glenn would have to shut her out and keep her at a distance as she did most people. There was a third option, but Glenn had no plans to reveal a truth that could destroy her credibility as a feminist scholar. Like someone in a witness protection program, she was constantly haunted by a past she feared would catch up to her one day. Ten years had passed since she had completed gender reassignment, and she had built a new life where no one knew the man she had once struggled to be. She had kept only her name as a symbol of her parents’ confusion over a child whose gender doctors could not

determine at birth. “Can I ask you something?” Riley said, her voice edgy. Bracing herself for a declaration of undying love, Glenn said, “Sure.” “I was wondering why you chose me for this.” Because you’re an outsider too . It was not the only reason, but it factored. “Why do you think you’re here?” Riley started to speak, then stopped. “Well, it’s not because I’m academically gifted, is it?” “That’s subjective. When something interests you, your work is very lucid and—” “You have to know I’m in love with you,” Riley cut her off, eyes blazing. “And please don’t label it a crush.” Glenn mentally voiced the neatly worded rebuffs she had prepared for this moment. The rational discussion about the ethics of teacher-student dating, the power imbalance, their age difference and the fact that Riley had already dated another faculty member with unfortunate consequences. But that was intellectual. Weighing her words, she said, “I’m honored that you care for me, Riley, and I truly wish I felt the same way. But I don’t.” “You’re not gay. Is that it?” Riley looked crestfallen.

Wanting to let her down as gently as possible, Glenn avoided answering. Taking her silence as affirmation, Riley said, “Now I feel really stupid.” “Don’t. We should have had this conversation a long time ago.” “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.” “I’m not embarrassed. I’m flattered.” Riley regained a little of her usual self-assurance. “Does that mean you’d date me if you were gay?” “Who knows,” Glenn said. “I hear a lot of women find you irresistible.” Riley gazed at her with a mixture of hope and dejection. “Way too many,” she commented darkly. She would get over it, Glenn thought. She was only twenty-three. Feelings took on mammoth proportions at that age, but they also changed as one grew. Glenn had moments of attraction to Riley. In another time and place, she might have acted on them. Right now, however, Riley Mason needed a mentor more than she needed a lover, whether she knew it or not. Glenn extended her hand. “So…friends?” Riley took it. “Just don’t tell anyone about this. Okay? ”

* Gazing across the fruit-covered mango trees toward Passion Bay, Annabel said, “The initials on the map …R.J.G. Those were Rebecca’s initials.” “Your aunt’s lover?” Chris felt a small pang of disappointment. It was all falling into place. This Rebecca must have found the map and explored the marked spot. What she had discovered was not treasure but this legendary sacred cave. “She must have resealed the map and written the warning in Maori,” Annabel said. “I suppose we could just put it back with the skeleton. Let sleeping dogs lie.” The idea offended the lawyer in Chris. “Why risk someone else finding it and deciding to keep it?” “You’re right,” Annabel said. “I’ll put it in a bank deposit box.” “You’re not curious about the cave?” “I think if ever I’m meant to see it, I will. Anything else seems like a violation.” Pensively, Annabel continued, “I live in the most beautiful place on earth. I’d like to keep its guardians on my side.” Chris watched the sky flood with wild dark peach. The jungle seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation of the first shock of sunlight. For the first

time in months, she felt excited about life. “Your idea about hanging out my shingle in Avarua—I’m going to think about it.” Annabel smiled. “Well, you already have friends here.” It was a good feeling, Chris thought, as they went indoors a little later. Maybe she would go back and pick up her life where she had left off, or maybe she would embark on a whole new future. The choice was hers. * With a contented sigh, Olivia smiled up at Merris. “I’m glad we came back here instead of staying up at the Villa.” Her body felt raw all over, and she was sluggish from the painkillers she took before bed, yet she felt intensely alive. Snuggling closer, she recalled the first time they’d made love. It was just two nights ago, here in this plain bed in her cottage, yet it seemed to belong to another life. Merris’s arm tightened around Olivia. “If you want to go home I can change our flights.” “I have a better idea. Why don’t you change your

reservation? We could both stay here in my cottage.” “If I must,” Merris said. Olivia gave her a playful prod. “Well, we could stay at your place. But you know, since mine is bigger…” Laughing, Merris pushed Olivia flat on her back, trapping her in a firm embrace. “We’ll see about that.” With sensual deliberation she kissed her, claiming her mouth with such intensity Olivia’s stomach plunged. As their kiss deepened, Olivia opened her eyes. Dilated with moonlight and passion, Merris’s pupils shone liquid black. The two women gazed at one another, mouths fused, hearts keeping time. They had said they would not make love tonight, yet Olivia could not imagine falling asleep without feeling Merris inside her once more. The very thought made her moan softly with anticipation. Merris instantly drew back. “God, I’m sorry.” She tenderly kissed Olivia’s cheek. “You didn’t hurt me.” Olivia kept an insistent hold on her. “Please. I want you.” “Baby…” Merris cupped her face. “We have all the time in the world.” Olivia rested her bandaged hands above her head and kicked the bedclothes off. “Indulge me,” she said playfully. “I’m not sore everywhere.”

Merris rested her forehead against Olivia’s. “I love you.” Olivia knew she should simply echo the words but her mouth refused to form them. Wrapping her legs around Merris, she pulled her down hard. “Show me,” she said.

Chapter Twenty The Ruahine was a big woman in every sense of the word, but what struck Olivia most forcefully were the tattoos on her arms. Bands of reddish-orange triangles encircled each wrist, and a sharply cut featherlike pattern extended up her forearms. Almost six feet tall, the priestess wore a plain orange cotton pareu skirt and a short-sleeved white top printed with orange flowers. Her black hair was streaked with gray, and a garland of waxy frangipani encircled her head. Olivia was not sure what she had had expected; a more exotic tribal costume, she supposed, feeling like a silly tourist. The ruahine also seemed interested in her, glancing past the women clustered around to make eye contact. Olivia felt her stomach flutter when she said something to the group and came toward her carrying an ei of cream and pink flowers. She wondered how she was supposed to address this important woman. Annabel called her Aunty Akaiti, but they knew one another. “Kia orana Olivia.” She placed the flower garland around Olivia’s neck. “Kia orana.” Olivia returned the Cook Island greeting

everyone in this part of the world used. The ruahine shook her hand. “I’m Akaiti Rataro. I heard about your swim.” How was she going to explain her appalling breach of tapu? Bad enough she boated around the forbidden cliffs, let alone set foot on the Sacred Shore. “I’m terribly sorry…” Olivia began. With a big rich laugh, the ruahine enfolded her in a powerful hug. “Child, what are you sorry for? We’ve been expecting you.” She held Olivia at arm’s length and looked her up and down. Her light brown eyes seemed drawn to Olivia’s necklace. Moving the fragrant e i aside, she lifted it reverently. “I know this tàhei.” Awkwardly, Olivia smiled. How was it going to sound when she admitted she had helped herself to it from the cave? In defense of this faux pas, she recounted her hallucination. “I had a dream that a princess took me to a cave. She gave me the necklace. When I woke up I was really there.” Olivia started to remove the necklace to return it, but the ruahine stopped her. “No, this belongs to you.” Olivia’s eyes fell to her tattoos. “She had these, too. The woman in my dream.” She met Akaiti’s eyes. “Who

was she?” Akaiti raised her eyebrows as if it were blindingly obvious. “Hine te Ana.” The goddess of the legend? Olivia was amazed, yet not entirely surprised. Somehow she had known it from the start. The ruahine smiled and called the other women over, speaking to them in rapid Maori. Pausing, she placed a hand on Olivia’s shoulder and adopted a more formal tone. “E mihi ki te tamàhine o Hine te

Ana.” Apparently this was some kind of introduction. In response, the island women formed a line and each in her turn shook hands with Olivia and kissed her cheek. A few yards away, Merris was smiling, but Annabel had an odd look on her face. Olivia felt embarrassed. She supposed they were making a fuss of her because she was living evidence that Hine te Ana’s legendary swim was indeed possible. Glenn had certainly found this inspiring. An old, stooped woman leaning on an elaborately carved stick took her hand, and Olivia bent low to receive her greeting. “Our mothers waited for you,” she said in halting English. Olivia smiled at this sweet welcome. The elderly

woman had probably translated literally some popular phrase in her own language. Hoping her response was appropriate, she said, “Thank you. I’m honored to be here.” When the formalities were through, the ruahine walked Olivia over to Annabel, whom she took aside, saying, “The return of the daughter is a great day for us.” Glenn seemed acutely interested in their conversation. To Olivia, she said, “They say the gods finally promised Hine te Ana that one day her drowned daughter would return to these islands. Until then, the goddess was destined to roam the oceans forever in the form of a dolphin, searching for her.” “Oh my God. They think it’s me?” Olivia exchanged a dumbfounded look with Merris. “My team just finished interviewing all the women here. They believe the daughter’s return signals a period of good fortune for their people.” “Oh, no,” Olivia said. “I feel like such a fraud.” “The ruahine doesn’t think so.” “You’re saying they think Olivia is a reincarnation of their goddess’s daughter?” Merris sounded dubious, but also proud.

“Belief in reincarnation is common to most of the world’s non-Christian religions,” Glenn said. “The Cook Islanders were converted less than two hundred years ago, so the concept still endures for many of them.” Knowing Merris’s question was not completely academic, Olivia said lightly, “For all that I believe in reincarnation, this does seem a little far-fetched. I’m a white woman born in London.” Riley had joined them and seemed shocked by this statement. “You think reincarnation occurs along intraracial lines?” “Do I strike you as a fascist?” Olivia coolly responded. Before Riley could answer, Cody joined their group, plainly brimming with news. “You’ll never guess what they’re talking about,” she said, cocking her head toward Annabel and Akaiti, who were still deep in conversation. “The ruahine has invited us to join them on the Sacred Shore tonight for part of the rituals. All of us, I mean. Me and Annabel, all the guests on the island, and even you guys from Anthropologists Anonymous.” “That’s incredible,” Glenn gasped. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” “Don’t thank me, thank her,” Cody glanced at Olivia.

“As far as Aunty’s concerned, you’re flavor of the month. It’s pretty incredible. They’ve never invited outsiders before, not even me and Annabel.” “They think she’s some kind of goddess,” Trudy chipped in, arriving to offer a fruit platter around. “They do not,” Olivia said, disconcerted by the attention. “They mistakenly believe I’m the reincarnation of Hine te Ana’s daughter. And I’m going to go over there right now and tell the ruahine it’s not the case.” “Spoilsport!” Trudy protested. “I want to see the ceremony, and so does everyone else. Anyway, how do you know you’re not this tamàhine person they’re talking about?” “You have to admit it was astounding that you survived,” Merris said gently. “What’s the harm in letting them believe it was more than plain dumb luck?” Olivia took a slice of watermelon from Trudy’s platter and bit into the crisp pink flesh. Plain dumb luck , she repeated the phrase mentally. The truth was something quite different. But who would believe what had actually happened to her? By putting an end to this speculation, she could at least avoid awkward questions. “I suppose I’m not comfortable because this feels

like cultural voyeurism to me,” she said finally. “I understand where you’re coming from,” Glenn said. “But they’ve invited us, and it would be an insult if we declined. Whether you believe you’re the tamàhine or not, their ruahine has identified you. Do you really want to humiliate her by telling everyone she doesn’t know what she’s talking about?” “In case you hadn’t guessed, Glenn really wants to see these rituals,” Cody remarked, lightening the tension. Glenn had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry if that came across as emotional blackmail.” “It doesn’t mean you’re wrong,” Olivia said. “This is their land and their beliefs.” Aware of relief breaking over the faces around her, she added, “I guess if we’re going to this ceremony tonight, I should get some rest.” * Annabel watched Merris help Olivia onto the jetty, then signaled the all-clear to Cody at the helm. Watching the two women walk away holding hands, Akaiti raised her eyebrows and playfully prodded Annabel, saying, “Kua kòwhiria e ia he whakapiringa

wahine takàpui.”

Smiling, Annabel said, “We’re everywhere, Aunty.” Merris and Olivia turned to wave, and the entire boat waved back, some of the women giggling as they added two and two. In the Cook Islands, homosexuality was illegal for men, but lesbians received no mention in the law. Annabel had met a few gay Cook Island women, but most could not bear the pressure, within their community, to marry and have children. Eventually they left Rarotonga to live in New Zealand. Since living in the islands, she had encountered none of the overt homophobia she had known back home. But she was never quite sure whether the officials and organizations she dealt with knew that she and most of Moon Island’s guests were lesbian, or whether they simply chose to ignore it. Aunty Akaiti often joked that she wished her own four daughters had chosen women instead of their lazy husbands. But Annabel knew the ruahine pitied her childlessness. She had once clipped an article on artificial insemination from a magazine and slipped it into Annabel’s hand. A couple of the women were pointing and chattering, and Annabel crossed the cruiser to see what the excitement was about. To her astonishment, a lavishly appointed yacht was approaching. Grabbing some

binoculars, she caught the name Avarua Maiden, one of charter vessels that frequented the Cook Islands. “They must be doing at least six knots,” Cody said when Annabel joined her. “They’re headed straight for us.” “Maybe they’re in trouble,” Annabel said. It was rare to see a charter boat this close to Moon Island. Cody radioed the coast guard for their call sign. “Let’s talk to them,” she said, slowing to headway speed and bringing the cruiser port side. She spoke briefly into the radio, rolled her eyes, and handed it over to Annabel. “It’s George Toki. He wants permission to land a passenger.” Annabel muttered a mild expletive. Every now and then a journalist tried to cover the Moon Island rituals. The last one had hired a chopper and almost crashed it into the cliffs. But that was nothing compared with the saga unfolding in her ear. George’s passenger was none other than her cousin, Roscoe Worth, who claimed to be here at the express behest of his personal savior the Lord Jesus Christ. In other words, his wife had ordered it. “I don’t believe this,” Annabel said, her fury building by the second. “Melanie’s brother thinks he’s going to pay us a call.”

Cody’s jaw dropped. “The guy with the assault rifle under his mattress and the family values website? Want me to board them and give him a knuckle sandwich?” “Don’t tempt me.” In her most formal tone, Annabel responded, “Landing is denied. Yes, I know he’s my cousin.” Muffled voices argued at the other end, then George poured a tale of woe into her ear about how the big American wasn’t going to pay the rest of his charter fee if he couldn’t land. Worse still, Roscoe claimed to know the minister at George’s church and he would be shamed next Sunday. “Tell my cousin I will see him in Avarua tomorrow. Okay?” “He says he’s coming back with the police.” “George, do you know who I have here with me? Akaiti Rataro.” She caught a faint whimper. “Do you really want me to tell her about this?” “I already told him he’s going to get cursed,” George whined. “It won’t just be him who gets cursed. What’s your wife going to say when everything starts shrinking?” “Please. No, I’ll…” An American voice took over. “Don’t you go filling his

fool head with native superstition. This is a Christian country.” “Go back to Avarua, Roscoe. You have no business here.” “I’m here on the Lord’s business,” her cousin snapped predictably. “You may choose the path to damnation, but I will not stand back and see my own flesh and blood contaminated by a fetid plague of godlessness and perversion!” Annabel had heard it all before. “If you attempt to land, I’ll charge you with trespassing, and you can spend a couple of nights in jail.” “I will not leave these islands until I have plucked that innocent babe from the halls of abomination.” “Have you no shame? Your sister is a sick woman, and here you are, trying to steal her child.” “My wife and I offered to open our home and our hearts to my sister,” Roscoe declared with impassioned pomposity. “There is still time for her to repent and be saved. Would you deny her the chance to spend her final days safe in the bosom of our Lord?” Annabel sighed. There was no reasoning with a brainwashed bigot like her cousin and her anger would only excite him. “I hear you, Roscoe, but this is not the time or place. You need to go back to Rarotonga, and I

promise I will come and talk with you soon. Now, put George back on.” She was mildly surprised when he complied, but figured he probably needed to go on deck and smoke. “Your cousin. He’s a crazy man,” George rasped into the radio. “Yes, he is.” Once more Annabel reminded the unhappy Cook Islander that his days of virility were numbered if his passenger was brought ashore. For good measure, she added, “And if I see your vessel in my lagoon, I’ll sink it.” “Aw, shit,” George moaned, adding a few additional comments in his mother tongue. “No worries. Okay? We’re going back. No worries.” “Happy to hear it,” Annabel said. “Have a great day. Over and out.” She replaced the radio and drew a calming breath. With a quick glance at Cody, she said, “I trust that asswipe about as far as I could throw him. Let’s drop the women off and get back ASAP.”

Chapter Twenty-One “There’s a fat guy in a sailor hat stealing bananas down there.” Trudy pointed vaguely toward the trees below Villa Luna. “A man?” Chris asked. “Are you sure?” Trudy gave her a look. “Duh.” The color fled Melanie’s face. “Oh, God. It’s my brother.” She scrambled off the chaise lounge, urging Chris, “Don’t let him see me.” Chris swung her into her arms, instructing Trudy, “Delay him, would you, sweetie?” “You got it,” Trudy said with the confidence of a woman who snacked on men with comb-overs. “What are we going to do?” Melanie burst into tears. “Do you think he knows?” “He couldn’t possibly,” Chris said, carrying her indoors to her room. “I haven’t filed anything yet.” “What if he stops us? He knows people. He has influence.” “Not in this part of the world.” Chris stroked Melanie’s hair off her face. “Take a deep breath. He can’t do a thing. Trust me. Cody is a New Zealander, and Annabel automatically has residency as her domestic partner. They are about to legalize gay union

there. Remember?” “Yes. And the adoption papers are filed there, not back home.” Melanie wiped her tears. “I’m being silly.” “She’s your child. It’s not silly at all. Listen to me. That lunatic will not set foot in this house while I’m here. You and Briar are completely safe.” Wide-eyed with panic, Melanie nodded. “Okay.” “Everything’s going to be fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some ass to kick.” Melanie’s hand caught hers. “Chris? If I was gay, I’d ask you to marry me.” Chris grinned. “Got a thing for lawyers, huh?” The comment elicited a small giggle. “Maybe.” Relieved to see the tension clearing from Melanie’s face, Chris closed her bedroom door and sidled a few paces along the hallway, listening carefully. Trudy was working it, from what she could hear. Chris briefly pondered her options, and decided killing the guy with her bare hands was probably a bad idea. Instead, she hurried to the sitting room where she’d left her backpack. * Anchored, the Avarua Maiden bobbed against the

silver horizon north of Passion Bay, an outboard tied alongside. Cody put down her binoculars and said, “We’ve got company.” “That moron!” Annabel stored their life-jackets. “I knew he’d try his luck.” “Is there anything he can do? I mean, we’re not going to jail over this, are we?” “Chris says it’s unlikely Roscoe could obtain a deportation order, and even if he did, the New Zealand government wouldn’t honor it because their human rights legislation outlaws discrimination against gays.” Cody cut the motors and prepared to drop anchor. “Yeah. Back home, we’re allowed to adopt same as anyone else.” “Whether we can risk taking Briar to visit Mom is another matter. She’ll still be an American citizen.” “They could take her from us?” Annabel sighed. “Conceivably.” “That’s outrageous!” Cody was surprised by her own reaction. Originally, she had felt bushwhacked when Chris and Annabel came back from Solarim full of their bright idea. Melanie was thrilled, and Annabel spent half the night talking in bed about converting Cody’s seldom-used office to a playroom and eventually schooling Briar at

home. Chris had lectured her on what a great thing it was she could do for her partner and how lucky they were that they would soon be able to tie the knot legally. Their union would provide Briar with the protections straight people took for granted. Chris planned to visit New Zealand before heading back to the States and would engage a law firm there to complete the adoption. If Melanie couldn’t make the trip for the court appearance, she could give a deposition in Avarua. The Cook Islands were a New Zealand territory, after all. In the end, Cody had agreed to sign the papers with as much good grace as she could manage. Briar was a nice little baby, and she could see Annabel would be doing most of the mothering. It didn’t seem like such a big price to pay for keeping everyone happy. She lowered the outboard into the water, and they climbed down the ladder and dropped into the hull. Annabel was as irate as Cody had ever seen her. “How dare he set foot here!” she fumed. “If he upsets Mel, I’ll kill him.” “Maybe he could, er…disappear. We could tell his wife the local cannibals ate him.” Annabel managed a half-smile. “It’s funny. I know he can’t do anything to us, legally speaking, but the thing

is, the guy is a nut. They don’t play by the rules. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something totally crazy.” “He already is,” Cody said. “Now is not the time for any bloke to set foot on the island.” “You forget, Roscoe is wearing the armor of the righteous. You know, the kind that deflects heathen curses.” Annabel’s drawl was laced with irony. Cody snorted. She wasn’t sure if she really believed in the curse herself. On the other hand, in Australia everyone knew that if an Aboriginal pointed the bone at you, you were stuffed. In Haiti they stuck pins in dolls. Why should a Cook Islands curse be any different? “How could you have a cousin like him?” she exclaimed. “What went wrong in the gene pool?” “Well, my father’s older brother married a woman whose fertility, shall we say…was not in question.” “Do you think it’s occurred to Roscoe his dad might be some other guy?” Cody asked, as they waded to shore and started up the slope toward Villa Luna. “Not in a thousand light years,” Annabel said. “The saint who gave birth to him couldn’t possibly be a fallen woman. He tells everyone he was premature.” “What I don’t get is why he and Tammy Faye don’t breed their own damn kids.” “God has not seen fit to bless them at this time.”

“He’s shooting blanks?” “I didn’t ask.” They both fell silent at the sound of loud giggling squeals coming from the verandah. “What in hell—” Cody began. Annabel caught her arm and they hid behind a mango tree. “Wait. I want to see this,” she whispered. Cody craned for a better look. Trudy and Annabel’s cousin were all over one another. It was disgusting. She glanced sideways. Annabel had one hand clamped firmly over her mouth, trying to contain herself. “I’m putting a stop to this,” Cody said, but Annabel grabbed her and pointed to the opposite end of the verandah. Hanging from a ladder, Chris Thompson had her camera trained on Roscoe’s hypocritical butt. Cody gave a low whistle. “Man, is he in trouble.” They waited a few more minutes until Trudy cried with well-staged disgust, “Get off me, you pig! Help!” Apparently Roscoe mistook this for appreciation. He started wrestling his way out of his pants. “Roscoe!” Annabel marched up the verandah and stood a few feet from the action, hands on her hips. “I’m placing you under arrest for attempted rape.” As Cody dragged him off Trudy, she continued, “You have

the right to remain silent, and I advise you to do so since no court of law in this part of the world is going to believe a word you say.” Chris had joined them. Smugly, she waved her camera. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” “Shall I cuff him?” Cody asked. “Absolutely,” Annabel said. Telling Chris to keep the prisoner restrained, Cody ran indoors to fetch the handcuffs. In the absence of any formal policing from Rarotonga, Annabel, as the official Justice of the Peace for Moon Island, had the delegated responsibility for maintaining law and order. She could even preside over minor court cases herself. Cody had expected that box of police equipment issued with the job might come in handy one day. “You can’t do this to me!” Roscoe yelped as she tightened the cuffs around his chubby wrists. His combover had flopped to the wrong side and his nose was red with fury. “I’ll sue you. By the time I’m done, I’ll own this degenerate hellhole.” Very calmly, Annabel said, “Roscoe, you need to know that I am empowered to convene a court right here, and I could sentence you to up to two years jail for assault on a female.”

“She wanted it.” Roscoe glared at Trudy who was rearranging her pigtails and buttoning her shirt. “She’s a whore and a temptress.” “Hey, asshole.” Trudy landed a sharp kick in his shins as she walked past him on her way into the villa. Pausing, she kicked him a second time, adding, “And that’s for Melanie!” “Let me get this, er…straight. A lesbian staying on a lesbian island wanted to get into your pants real bad; this is what you’ll be telling the court?” Chris enquired. Flicking through the digital images on Chris’s camera, Annabel commented, “Just wait ’til Jolene shows these to her divorce attorney.” “The way I see it, Mr. Worth, you have two choices,” Chris said. “You can slither quietly into the night, and so long as we don’t hear from you, you won’t hear from us. Or you can cause a problem, in which case your wife will see these pictures, and if you are anywhere in these islands your ass will be in jail.” “This is entrapment,” Roscoe spluttered. Annabel smiled. “God works in mysterious ways.”

Chapter Twenty-Two Blood, black in the moonlight, seeped down the hands of a young woman sitting naked on the beach, her back supported by two companions. Centered in the flickering glow of three fires, positioned to form points in a triangle, the oldest woman in the group was tattooing a braid of feathers around each of her wrists. Merris was intrigued. The old woman seemed almost blind, yet her work was precise and unstumbling. When she was done, she led the girl to the sea and washed the blood away. Her companions then applied some kind of salve to the tattoos, and everyone came up to admire them. This was far from the somber, worshipful gathering Merris had anticipated. The atmosphere had been warm and celebratory from the moment they’d set foot on the Sacred Shore, tumbling out of the Zodiac like children as the waves bounced them to shore. Several women had been tattooed so far, and it now seemed that part of the proceedings was over. The ruahine, in a cloak of leaves and flowers, called the women together. Standing between the fires they listened as she made a speech. Merris wished she could understand the honeyed language. Every now

and then, the entire group responded to their leader with a word or a brief chant. After a time, she stepped away from them and walked to the rocky outcrop at the western end of the bay. The women promptly broke into rhythmic clapping. Next to her, Olivia joined in, keeping perfect time with the odd staccato beats. She looked completely mesmerized, her dark eyes bottomless in the night, her hair spilling over her bare breasts. The women had carried her across the sands as soon as the Zodiac landed, casting her shirt and pareu aside and dressing her in a long skirt of soft grass adorned with a wide belt of frangipani. Olivia said she had wanted an ei around her neck to cover her breasts, but the ruahine had refused, instead placing a garland on her head. It was something to do with the necklace and what it symbolized, Olivia informed Merris. The clapping continued, and the three women who had just been tattooed circulated, carrying coconut cups they offered to everyone in turn. These contained a pale fluid with a bitter tang and an edge of anise. Merris sipped politely, but the young woman tilted the cup, insisting she swallow more. A few feet away Cody caught her eye, and the two exchanged the commiserating glances of stricken beer drinkers at an

herbal tea-tasting event. The evil brew was circulated a few more times, leaving Merris’s mouth unpleasantly dry and her head fuzzy. Angling her head to Olivia’s, she murmured, “Are you stoned?” “I think so.” Olivia smiled at her, still clapping in time. She seemed to be enjoying herself, Merris thought, pleased. In fact it looked like everyone was. Violet, Trudy and Chris were sitting on the sand next to Melanie who was in a portable deck chair covered with a light quilt. Standing nearby, Cody had her arm around Annabel’s waist, and baby Briar was sound asleep in a pack on her back. Glenn and Riley had been joined by the rest of their research team that morning and they all seemed transfixed. The clapping grew faster until it was abruptly silenced by a single profound note. The ruahine stood, her arms swaying above her head as if she were drawing the ocean to her. The note flowed into a song that was hauntingly beautiful. Akaiti had the voice of an opera singer. Olivia was entranced. “I know that song,” she said, and started walking toward the singer. The women stepped aside for her, murmuring some

greeting in their own language. Merris felt awkward following her and soon dropped back to stand with Cody and Annabel. Olivia stepped up onto the rocks and took the hand Akaiti extended to her. Directly in front of them the sea exploded, and a dark, sleek shape arced high in the air. “Wow,” Cody said. “We don’t get many dolphins around here.” Moving to the water’s edge, the women began their clapping once more, this time singing a new song, led by their priestess. The atmosphere was electric. Joining Merris and Cody, Glenn said, “They believe this dolphin is Hine te Ana herself and that she has come to see her daughter.” Merris could just make out the shape of a dorsal fin piercing the breakers a few yards out. Lifting its head above the water, the dolphin clicked at the singers, and Merris was startled to realize it was in synch with their clapping. Stepping out into the sea, the women started stomping the sand, making the water splash and boil. The ruahine led Olivia out in front of them, and they began walking east. Automatically Merris and the others followed, Chris carrying Melanie. Almost in the dead center of the half-moon shaped bay, they halted, and Merris watched uneasily as Akaiti

and Olivia handed their skirts to the women and walked naked out into the sea to waist depth. In the waves breaking around them, the dolphin hovered close, then it was between them, and Olivia began caressing it and speaking to it. T h e ruahine pointed at Melanie, commanding, “Bring the woman with the weak shadow.” Chris looked shocked, but carried Melanie out into the breakers, and together with Akaiti, held her in the water so she, too, could touch the dolphin. “Close your eyes,” Akaiti told her. “And Hine te Ana will speak to you.” Her hand lightly on the dolphins flank, Melanie did as she was bade, and after a few seconds broke into a huge smile and lay her head against the creature, plainly overwhelmed. When Chris moved to lift her away, Akaiti placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “Hine te Ana knows your grief. She says your woman misses you, too. Your sorrow is her sorrow. If you speak to her now, in your heart, she will hear you.” She signaled two strong young women, who lifted Melanie from Chris’s arms and carried her up the beach, removing her wet clothes and wrapping her in her quilt. Annabel went over and sat with her, holding

her hand. Merris could not hear what they were saying. They both started to cry, holding one another close. Not wanting to intrude on this private moment, she looked away. Chris stood in the water for some time, her head lowered, the dolphin clicking softly at her. Finally, looking dazed, she hugged Akaiti and walked past the women. With a brief nod at Merris and Cody, she headed along the beach, obviously needing time to herself. The ruahine’s next choice was quite a surprise. Summoning Trudy, she said, “Hine te Ana has a task for you.” “For me?” Trudy could not get into the water fast enough. Akaiti removed the beaded bands from Trudy’s pigtails and said something to one of her women, who hurried along the beach and returned with an ei. Placing this on Trudy’s head, the ruahine steered her alongside the dolphin, instructing, “Listen carefully.” It was Olivia who spoke, leaning over the creature and murmuring into Trudy’s ear. “She’s probably telling her to remove the implants,” Cody said irreverently.

“Is it just me or is this getting weird?” Merris asked. “Put it this way. I’m glad it’s not my girlfriend out there in the nude, talking to a fish.” She gave Merris a nudge. “I’m being facetious. Still, this is bizarre, but since we’re all on drugs—” “Tell me about it. I don’t know what they put in that drink, but my consciousness is altered, that’s for sure.” Trudy had returned to the beach. Brimming with zeal, she rushed straight up to Cody and declared, “I’m going to tell Daddy this place stinks, and it’ll never work for a deluxe transition retreat.” She paused to emit a small squeal of excitement. “This is way better than Survivor!” With that, she bounced off to join the startled academics standing a few yards away. “What was that about?” Merris asked. “I’m sure it’s a long story. But wait, there’s more.” Cody pulled Merris closer to the water. “This we have to hear.” It was Glenn’s turn to stand before the ruahine, who stared at her intently. Merris wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but Glenn seemed uneasy, casting apprehensive glances past the Islanders toward Riley and the rest of her team. “You have no reason to fear,” the ruahine said. “A woman’s spirit may take more than one form—our

goddess lives this life as a dolphin. Yours is a path unlit by the flames of others. Cast off the weight of their fears, daughter. Do not doubt your truth.” These mysterious pronouncements seemed to make complete sense to Glenn, who walked from the water as if she’d just shrugged off an enormous burden. “Weirder and weirder,” Cody whispered. The ruahine took Olivia by the hand and said a few words in Maori. They embraced warmly and the women surged around them, piling one garland after the next around their necks. Triumphantly, they swept Olivia up and proceeded along the beach to the western end of the cliffs. “Now the tamàhine will sing her own song for us,” Akaiti announced. This was greeted with an expectant silence. Olivia looked bemused. “But I only know songs in English.” “We don’t mind,” someone called out. With an embarrassed laugh, Olivia said something in Maori and everyone giggled and clapped. To the east, a faint smear of pink washed across the horizon signaling the imminent dawn. Even the clouds seemed

lighter, shifting from charcoal to ghostly gray. Merris could not believe they had been on the beach for almost eight hours. She knew it would be impossible to describe the experience to anyone who had not shared it. Olivia was staring out to sea. Smiling as if at some private joke, she sang a line Merris recognized from one of Hunter Carsen’s hit songs. Olivia must have written the lyrics. Their eyes met, and Olivia sang directly to her, “Baby, this sweet day belongs to you and me. Make it what we will. When midnight comes, let’s have no regrets, for what has slipped away. This sweet day…” Merris felt Cody give her a nudge, and blushed as women turned, all smiles, to look her up and down. Olivia’s voice was not the off-key disaster she had claimed it was when Merris asked her one day if she ever sang her own songs. Still slightly husky from the throat infection she’d had, it was warmer and smoother than her speaking voice, and perfectly pitched. Cody and Annabel joined in and even Merris found herself singing the chorus. As she hit the final note, Olivia cut a path directly through the milling women to wrap her arms around Merris. “I’m ready to go home,” she said.

* It was dawn when Olivia and Merris fell exhausted into bed. “Will you tell me something?” Merris asked, caressing her back. “How did you get to the shore?” Olivia knew Merris had been avoiding pressing her for the details. Closing her eyes, she saw the bubbles rising above her head and heard the click of a dolphin pierce the eerie calm beneath the waves. A lithe gray shape swam up and under her, buoying her gently. Recognizing the dark feathered stripe on that dorsal fin, Olivia clasped hold of it with both hands. Like a magnet, the Scared Shore drew them closer and closer until suddenly she was released, lifted by a wave and cast down hard against the rough white sands. “That dolphin we saw tonight…it came to me when I was rowing in Hibiscus Bay,” Olivia said, explaining that she had followed it around the coast where they were joined by the entire pod. “I couldn’t resist swimming with them. To cut a long story short, the boat was wrecked, and I was swept out to sea. I was drowning, and the dolphin rescued me and swam me

to shore. I know that seems incredible, but it’s true.” “I believe you.” Merris drew her so close their bodies seemed fused, as if fashioned from clay. “After everything that’s happened here, I’m starting to believe in magic.” “I was very lucky,” Olivia said. She thought about her vision of Hine te Ana singing at the water’s edge. There was an odd similarity between the rhythm of that haunting melody and the way the dolphin clicked. She called that face to mind, a face strangely familiar to her. She thought about the goddess who took the form of a dolphin to seek out her lost daughter across the expanses of time and ocean. Love did not die, she realized. It lived within. It harnessed hope and refused to surrender to the bitterness of defeat or death. Love endured. It took new form. Smiling, Olivia fingered the necklace about her throat. It was time she came home to herself. Rolling onto her side, she faced Merris, eyes open for her to read. “I love you,” she said. Merris looked profoundly moved. “And I love you.” In silence they studied one another, co-conspirators in the story they would write together, that of their love. Beyond their simple room, an evanescent moon

shared the sky with a freshly gilt sun. In a few hours the lovers would step out into the brightness of the day, and so would begin the first page in the book of their life together.

Epilogue An early evening breeze rifled through fragile pink hibiscus petals and carried the scent of ocean and wood to a small grove below Villa Luna. Annabel planted the last clump of violet and stood up, wiping her face. She hoped they would grow here in the protective shade of the mangos. Mel had always loved them. A small hand tugged her shorts. “Bel?” With both hands Briar held out a glass of juice. Framed with glossy black ringlets, her toddler face was grave with concentration. “Sweetheart. Thank you!” Annabel took the drink and crouched to give the little girl a hug. Dark doe eyes examined her face and Annabel felt a crushing sadness. Sometimes it seemed Melanie looked out through her daughter’s gaze. It had been six months since her passing. Briar would be two soon. She had recently started calling Annabel Mama at bedtime. Annabel had corrected her at first, then she stopped, knowing it was what Mel had wanted. “Guess what,” Cody joined them, camera in hand. “Hine is in the bay.” Annabel smiled. “What are we waiting for!”

Cody swung Briar up onto her shoulders, and they cut through the trees down to the warm white sands. Just a few yards from the shore, a supple silver form shot through the glistening sea and hurled itself high in the air, scattering diamonds of water across the lagoon. Cody set Briar down, and they watched her toddle along the water’s edge, squealing and waving her arms in excitement. After a moment, Annabel slipped her hand into Cody’s, and they ran after her, as parents do. “I love you,” Annabel shouted to Cody through the splashes. Cody grinned. “Lucky me.” Tucking Briar under one arm and slinging the other over Annabel’s shoulders, she steered them out a little deeper. The dolphin was aware of them, clicking and calling, flaunting its lissom power in surges and leaps. Hine had first arrived in Passion Bay one day when Annabel and Melanie were swimming. Mel could no longer speak by then. Neither could she write. Her fingers had lost all power to grasp. Cradling her in the soothing warmth, Annabel had been startled when the water broke just yards away and a dolphin looked her in the eye.

The animal had seemed to sense Melanie was sick. Approaching them, it lay on its side gazing at her and making tiny clicks. Annabel had wanted to leave the water, worried it would knock Mel accidentally. But Melanie’s eyes urged her to stay. To Annabel’s astonishment, the dolphin slid beneath Melanie, helping buoy her. Between them, they swam her the length of the bay and back before the dolphin steered them resolutely toward the shore. She lingered for a moment as if to say farewell, then vanished. In the months that followed, the dolphin visited regularly, sometimes screeching a summons so loud Annabel heard it from the villa. Cody had named their visitor Hine, suggesting it could be the dolphin they had encountered on the Sacred Shore months earlier. They had no way of knowing, but it was nice to believe it could be so. At the times when Annabel felt saddest, both before and after Melanie’s final days, it seemed Hine would show up by some irrational coincidence. Was there such a thing? Was the universe so randomly ordered? Annabel listened for the muted click and cry she had come to recognize as Hine’s goodbye. There was no such thing as coincidence, she decided. It was a word invented to disguise a truth

neither religion nor science wanted to recognize—that there was some larger scheme at work in all of our lives and in the life of our planet. Annabel drew closer to Briar and Cody. Neither of these people had entered her life by accident. They were meant to be. She waved farewell to Hine and watched, transfixed, as she arced joyously in the air. Lifting Briar onto Cody’s shoulders, she said, “Let’s go home.” Behind them, a feathered dorsal fin slid beneath the water, and the sinking sun painted Passion Bay as red as a lover’s heart.

About the Author Jennifer Fulton is a best-selling lesbian romance writer who is a recipient of the 2006 Alice B. Readers' Appreciation Award. Born in beautiful New Zealand, the author now resides in the Midwest with her partner and a menagerie of animals. When she is not writing or reading, she loves to explore the mountains and prairies near her home, a landscape eternally and wonderfully foreign to her.

A Guarded Heart Lauren Douglas never imagined she would wake up one day and find herself the star of the hottest soap on daytime television. But as wholesome, smart and lovely Dr. Kate, she is plastered over the media as a role model and inspiration for young women. Just as she is about to sign a bloated new contract, Lauren is publicly outed. Scrambling for damage control, her father, a Congressman, wants her banished abroad and her network writes her temporarily out of the show in a plane crash. As if the slavering press doesn't have enough to report, a creepy fan enraged by the revelation, shoots her. All of which means zip to FBI Special Agent Pat Roussel, whose hunt for the Kiddy Pageant Killer has consumed every waking moment for three years. Suffering from burnout, and hoping fresh new eyes might come up with a break in the case, Pat reluctantly elects to take a few months leave without pay. The last thing she expects to find herself doing in her time off is an illicit private security gig babysitting a celebrity. Fourth in the Moon Island

Series

A Guarded Heart © 2008 By Jennifer Fulton. All Rights Reserved. ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-067-8E This Eclipse Ebook is published by Bold Strokes Books, Inc., New York, USA Original Bold Strokes Books Ebooks Edition: August 2008 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits Production Design: Stacia Seaman Cover Design By: Bold Strokes Books Graphics

Chapter One Lauren ripped off her mask and gloves and tossed them on the OR floor. “Am I removing a kidney or a leg?” Her eyes swept her gowned colleagues. “Anyone? The chart says we have renal failure, but the leg is prepped. The chart says Mr. Taylor is an African American gentleman aged seventy. This patient is twentysomething and whiter than me.” A nurse scuttled to Lauren’s side. “I’m sorry, Dr. Chatterley. It’s…it’s the shooting…” She broke off, tears spilling. Lauren seized the nurse by the shoulders. “We can’t allow a maniac to destroy everything this hospital stands for. Dr. Addams is fighting for his life. Don’t we owe him…uh…oh fuck.” “Cut!” Earl Sternberger clasped his head in his hands and uttered something no one could hear. “Take a break. And while our star is learning her lines, get that dolly set up for the bleeder scene. Ten minutes, people.” Lauren groaned as Earl pointed a finger at her. He didn’t have to utter another word. A production assistant handed her a glass of Pellegrino. Thanking the young woman, Lauren sank into a folding chair and

contemplated the script. Don’t we owe him more than

this? Don’t we owe him a St. Hope’s that holds true to his vision? With God’s help we can do this! Incredibly, she had delivered crappier lines. You don’t work in daytime television for the verisimilitude. “This came for you, Ms. Douglas.” The assistant returned with a lavish Harry & David fruit basket. Normally gifts from Lauren’s adoring public went straight to her dressing room. A personal delivery onset could mean only one thing. Her contract negotiations had stalled. Harvey Garfield, the exec VP in charge of Programming, sent fruit baskets to female cast and Scotch to the guys. Lauren knew exactly what he wanted—her ass for eighty percent less than her agent was asking. Dutifully, she read the card. “Miss Hillman needs your RSVP today,” the young assistant said, looking like a shark was snapping at her heels. Harvey’s secretary had that effect on people. Dorothea Hillman was probably eighty, but maintained a reptilian agelessness thanks to Botox and the scalpel. Appropriately, she wore alligator pumps and a matching purse as her signature accessories. Today, being Thursday, they would be in slut red to match her acrylic nails and she would be wearing her pink Bond-

girl jumpsuit. Teamed with a ruthlessly teased platinum wig, this look had worked for Dorothea in the sixties. Evidently she saw no reason to change it now. Over cigars and cognac, Harvey liked to recount his promotion to vice president as if he had succeeded to the throne of a minor principality, the legendary Miss Hillman there to crown him and defend him against all comers. His wife was one of the few network spouses who could send her husband to work knowing her marriage was not at the mercy of a league of thongwearing personal assistants. Miss Hillman could sniff out a home wrecker at a thousand paces. Everyone knew if a woman wanted access to Harvey, it helped to be over fifty or a frump, preferably both. Lauren contemplated the invitation. She was summoned to “an intimate gathering” tomorrow evening at Harvey’s Connecticut mansion. In other words it would be Harvey and his henchmen, allies whose job it was to make Lauren feel pathetically grateful to the network for her big break. Such was the fate of previously unknown actors who tried to get a pay rise when their show became a hit. Dr. Kate was about to complete its third season and had clawed its way to the dizzying summit of the

daytime television ratings. Lauren’s agent, Carter Mack, said Harvey had to show her the money. For the first time in her acting career, she had leverage, which meant people who could not remember her name a year ago were suddenly describing themselves in Soap Opera Digest as her best friends. “Tell Miss Hillman I’m thrilled but it won’t make any difference,” Lauren said. “It’s a lousy offer and I’m not signing.” The assistant blanched. “You want me to use those exact words?” “I do.” The girl looked like she was about to throw up. Lauren tried to remember her name. She had only started on the set a week ago and her shy eagerness was a pleasant change from the fawning ingratiation Lauren was getting used to. Wanting to soften the blow, she lowered her voice and added, “Tell Miss Hillman you heard Todd Hudson’s wife has thrown him out. No one knows yet.” A startled gasp. “She has?” “Shhh.” Lauren made a keep it down gesture. “I’m sorry, what was your name?” “Molly.” “You’re new here, aren’t you, Molly?”

“Yes, Ms. Douglas.” “Well, let me give you a piece of advice. In this business when someone does you a favor, don’t forget it.” “I won’t.” Molly’s face shone with gratitude. “Thank you, Ms. Douglas. You can count on me.” “Excellent. Now go give Miss Hillman the good news.” Lauren could picture Dorothea smacking her collagen-plumped lips over this tasty morsel. There was only one thing Harvey’s guard dog reviled more than the signs of aging, and that was Todd Hudson, known to his adoring public as Dr. Lucian Addams, Chief of Surgery and hunky heartthrob of St Hope’s General Hospital. Todd was a scene-stealing camera hog who threw actor’s etiquette out the window as soon as the red light signaled “Action.” He had spent the entire second season lobbying for equal billing with Lauren and now that there was on-screen “heat” between them, he was demanding the same rate as hers for the new season. As if that were not enough, Lauren had almost passed out from hyperventilation during their long-anticipated screen kiss last week. Fortunately, while she was fending off his tongue, a disgruntled proctologist ran

amok and shot him five times. A bullet had lacerated his proximal aorta and Dr. Kate Chatterley was now standing vigil at his bedside. The season was set to end with Dr. Addams on the operating table, clinging to dear life by a thread. A flat line was too much to hope for. On the other hand —Lauren allowed herself a small grin—if anyone could deliver Todd Hudson’s demise, it was Dorothea Hillman. * A chill November wind beat like impatient fingers against the crime scene tape that encircled a stand of pines on the banks of the Delaware River. Winter-bare and limbed up to filter light into the dense forest, the trees stood dark and pencil-straight like mourners around the freshly dug grave at their feet. Overhead, a leaden sky brooded, rain imminent. Special Agent Pat Roussel stared up through the shadowy latticework of branches, inhaling air musty with the scent of decaying leaves. Her skin felt damp and chilled. “Looks like he was disturbed.” Lieutenant Chuck Cicchetti approached. He sounded almost buoyant.

“Got her into the grave and that’s it.” “Not like our boy to cut and run before the party’s over.” Pat shook out a pair of latex gloves. She wanted to be anywhere but standing over another shallow grave, gazing down at the latest victim of the sicko the media had dubbed the Kiddy Pageant Killer. Destiny O’Connor’s body had been found just thirty hours after her disappearance, a fact that leavened the horror of discovery with the hope of a break in the case. And it seemed something had flustered the killer. If so, he might have been careless. This time there could be new evidence. No wonder Cicchetti sounded like he’d just won the jackpot. Bracing herself, Pat lowered her eyes to the body. Winner of the Georgia LaPetite Miss Princess title, Destiny was tiny and fair-haired. She had been restrained with the same pink lace-covered handcuffs used on all but one of the victims. Her shoes were missing and her costly peach pageant dress was draped neatly over her naked body. Across the dress lay a white satin sash embossed in hand-stenciled gold lettering: Little Miss Perfect Petal. There was no such pageant, they had learned early in the investigation. With one exception, the killer had bestowed this title on each of his victims, a detail not

released to the media. “It’s him. No doubt about it,” Pat said. The killer’s work was so distinctive a rookie could have linked the cases. Members of the crime scene unit milled around Pat and Cicchetti like ants sizing up a pair of beetles with designs on their nest. The forensic examiner, Dr. Stephanie Carmichael, acknowledged Pat with her usual mouth twitch. She was one of those women who act like you catch lesbianism off toilet seats. Her hands were invariably knotted together when Pat was around and she took pains to avoid eye contact. Chuck Cicchetti joked that Pat came across like a natural born prison guard. If Carmichael’s attitude was any litmus, he was probably right. FBI agents were mostly cut from the same conservative cloth as Carmichael herself, straight arrows affronted by sloppy work habits and anyone who rocked the boat. Clearly Pat was made of the wrong stuff and skipping a few extra weeks between haircuts, as she had lately, would cut no ice with the homophobic pathologist. Today Carmichael took in Pat’s black chinos, turtleneck, ostrich boots and leather coat with disapproving forbearance. “He made her up post mortem,” she observed stiffly. “Same lipstick as the

others, no doubt.” Carmichael had a bug up her ass about that lipstick. Traces had been found on four of the previous victims. The lab had identified the brand and color. It was one of those exclusive direct-from-Paris types sold in a handful of top-end beauty spas, the kind of clue that could crack open a case. But not this time. Pat had traced the lipstick to make-up artists Jake & Gilbert, pageant trainers who lived on a fancy spread in rural Pennsylvania. The couple had coached the first victim, Shelby-Rose Dubois. Between sobs, Gilbert had confirmed that the lipstick was in the Tinkerbell backpack that had disappeared with Shelby-Rose the day she won the West Virginia Little Miss Supreme title. He and his partner were quickly ruled out as suspects. These days, they served as a mine of information on kiddy pageant politics and personalities. “How long before we can move the body?” Pat asked, determined this poor baby shouldn’t lie in the cold earth a minute longer than was necessary. Besides, the sooner Carmichael could process her, the sooner Pat would have the autopsy results on her desk. “She’ll be in the morgue tonight.” Carmichael finally

looked Pat in the eye. “I wasn’t expecting another one so soon.” “We’re doing our best.” Pat knew she sounded defensive. Everyone had sweated blood to get a break in the case before the killer struck again. This was his sixth victim. “It wasn’t a criticism, Agent Roussel. It was an observation. The gaps are getting shorter. He’s more confident.” “Yeah. We know.” Cicchetti’s bland tone disguised a well of frustration. Three years and six victims later they had a profile, a partial print and no DNA. Working with the IINI, they had penetrated child pornography rings, hunting a predator with a jones for six-year-old beauty queens. Their database was crammed with the names of men who routinely purchased one-day photo passes to Little Miss Whatever pageants. These events were a pedophile’s nirvana. Where else would mothers cheerfully wheel out their small daughters to pout and strut like truck-stop hookers? Didn’t any of these women ever wonder about all the self-described ‘amateur photographers’ in the audience? Widening the net, Pat routinely trolled an evergrowing collection of pedophile-bait Web sites set up

by parents charging monthly fees for members to see pictures of their daughters in skimpy clothing. Watch

eleven-year-old model Katy groom her horse wearing her favorite thong bikini. There wasn’t a damned thing law enforcement could do to close down those sites unless there was nudity or sexual activity. And they were just the tip of the iceberg. She and Cicchetti had collected so much data on Internet kiddy porn, they could read the files for five years and still not be finished. Meantime their killer was planning his next move. And neither Pat nor Cicchetti had a life. Cicchetti’s high-maintenance wife had up and left him soon after he made lieutenant, and Pat had not had a steady girlfriend since she became a Crimes Against Children Coordinator at the FBI’s field office in Philly. As for a long-term relationship—that was a joke. If there was a sane lesbian who would put up with being a Bureau widow, Pat hadn’t met her. She knew she was a cliché—the agent who lived and breathed her job. Work made it pretty much impossible to get involved with anyone. Sometimes she wondered if she had intentionally set things up that way. Pat shook herself mentally. It wasn’t like her to navel gaze at a crime scene. The first drops of rain were

falling. She needed to finish her notes and get out of Carmichael’s way. Staring at the gold lettering on that white satin sash, she suppressed a welling sense of defeat. Early in the investigation hot rage had fuelled her efforts. Then the exercise had become intellectual, a contest between her and the killer. Now, for the first time, she was plagued by self-doubt. This case had bankrupted her personal resources to no avail. Yet the clues had to be there. Was she too burnt out to piece them together? She had promised herself she would never allow ego to compromise an investigation. Was it time to get off the case? Would fresh new eyes see something she was blind to and maybe save a child’s life? She caught a level stare from Chuck Cicchetti and knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.

Chapter Two Lauren fished an olive from her cleavage and dropped it discreetly into a potted palm. Hors d’oevres were a menace in a dress like hers. Shoving her hand down her front to retrieve cocktail party jetsam was not exactly in step with her image as the wholesome star of Dr. Kate, darling of the daytime audience, recipient of more fan mail than any other cast member. Well, screw her image, she thought, taking another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. And screw Harvey Garfield for trying to manipulate her into taking a lousy twenty percent per episode raise. The network big-shot had recently purchased a Greenwich estate once owned by a lieutenant in the Escobar drug cartel. The place was awash with security cameras and bulletproof glass. Harvey had made a point of showing everyone some windowless concrete rooms in the basement he said had been used for God only knows what. These days he kept his wine collection down there and jokingly referred to the cellars as Abu Ghraib. Struggling to maintain her soap-star smile, Lauren surveyed the party crowd and wondered how she could decently escape. Holding court in the center of a throng

of men in dinner jackets and black tie was her father, Congressman Wendall Douglas III, better known as the owner of a pickles empire that printed his grandma’s beaming face on every jar. Lauren had got her start in television at the age of four years singing jingles for Ma Kelly’s Extra Sweet Choice ’N Chunky Gherkins. Why pay one of those brat actors with a pushy stage mother when he had the cutest kid in the world, her father had said. It was Lauren’s grandfather who had converted Ma Kelly’s prized canning recipes into a pickle fortune. When Lauren’s dad took over the business in the 1980s, he promptly embarked on a rash of takeovers that had turned the family company into a huge conglomerate. These days they made everything from pickles to frozen baby food. It was during the Clinton era that Wendall Douglas had turned his attention to politics. Lauren could never figure out whether he’d entered public service because he wanted to improve the world, or because power was a more alluring mistress than wealth. Whatever his motives, her father was a fixture at the parties of media moguls these days. Politics was just another reality TV show, he told Lauren and her brothers. He needed the right people in his corner if he was going to make it to

the Senate and Lauren’s boss was one of them. Spotting one of the so-called right people making a beeline for her, Lauren beat a hasty retreat and promptly collided with a geeky looking waiter holding a tray of blinis topped with caviar and sour cream. Several slid off and plopped wetly to the floor at her feet. “Oops! I’m so sorry,” she said. “Not at all. It was my fault, ma’am.” Red-faced with embarrassment, the waiter knelt to scoop up the mess with a napkin. “Let me help.” Lauren looked around for more napkins. “No. Please.” The waiter cast a browbeaten glance toward the bar, where a supercilious-looking man adjusting a butter statue of David paused to glare across the room. Lauren guessed this must be the catering supervisor. She had probably caused trouble for a guy who really needed his job. Feeling guilty, she hung around until he was back on his feet then took one of the remaining blinis from his platter. “I can’t resist these,” she said, faking a big smile. The waiter rearranged a strand of lank mousy hair that had flopped forward while he was on his knees. “If I

may take the liberty of saying so, it’s a privilege to meet you, Ms. Douglas,” he said, obviously grappling with timidity. “I have the entire series of Dr. Kate on video. I’m your number one fan.” Trying not to picture Kathy Bates in Misery , Lauren said, “Well, thank you. I’m glad you like the show.” His face seemed familiar, she thought. Maybe he was one of those regulars who lurked around the studio doors hoping for an autograph or a few words from their favorite star. Some showed up week after week. “You should have won an Emmy this time,” he announced. “I wrote to them.” “You did?” Lauren didn’t know whether to be amused or shocked. It astonished her how some fans reacted when their favorite show was snubbed. The waiter licked lips already too wet. “I hope you don’t mind if I mention something.” He assumed a confiding tone. “Your new hairstyle…it’s obvious where they’re going with that.” Lauren had no idea how to respond. She ate her blini and listened. “They’re making you look older…you know …compared with that new brain surgeon who, by the way, is not credible. They must think we’re stupid.

She’s right out of high school. Ask yourself this question—would you let a doctor with plastic fingernails prise open your skull?” “Probably not,” Lauren conceded. Diplomatically, she asked, “Why do you think they want me to look older?” In her experience it was sometimes wise to let a fan say their piece and leave happy. “Isn’t it obvious?” he hissed, with an air of smug complicity. “Dr. Addams is going to recover from his wounds and fall for the nymphet. You’ll get tangled up in a crazy malpractice suit that could threaten the hospital. The nymphet suddenly gets your lines and voilà. They’ve got themselves a new lead actress for ten percent of what they pay you.” He gripped her arm with a damp paw, his nondescript blue eyes fierce. “Don’t let them do it.” His intensity was unsettling, but this kind of fan fervor was nothing unusual. At least he hadn’t called her a conniving home wrecker like that woman in the supermarket last week. Lauren gave her arm a slight tug and the waiter released her. “Forgive me, Ms. Douglas. That was inappropriate.” He looked like a dog caught messing in the house. “I became over-excited on account of my strong feelings about this issue. They have no respect for your talent.”

This guy was a trip. “I’ll definitely think about what you’ve said,” Lauren promised, edging away. “I’ll be watching,” he replied. “When they dump the new hairstyle, I’ll know we’ve got them where we want them. Remember,” he added as he thrust the platter at a passing guest. “Fans like me are the only people you can trust.” Lauren knew she should dismiss the waiter’s paranoia, but she found herself pondering the hair theory as the evening progressed. He was right about one thing, she decided. The style aged her. She had discussed this with Earl. He said it gave her gravitas. The series was moving away from the usual stereotypes. They no longer had to play so much on her girl-next-door sex appeal. The new look would enable her to create some distance with Dr. Addams, increasing the tension between them. Her hair was a metaphor, symbolizing the struggle between her two selves: the self-sacrificing surgeon and the passionate woman. It sounded like a crock of shit. And the up-do had coincided with the arrival of Dr. Farina Fairchild, the breathless coed who had presumably won her board certification in a raffle. Lauren could not imagine how Dr. Fairchild’s

character could be developed beyond its current role, that of competing for Dr. Addams’ lecherous attentions. So far her inept pronunciation of medical terminology had stymied the writers; despite coaching, she still said Bahrain instead of brain. Surely she would be written out of the series once her novelty value wore off. Maybe it was time to confirm that. As if he had read her mind, Harvey Garfield presented himself in front of her, all teeth and Italian tailoring. His arm encircled his wife Marcia. That he had married a thinking woman instead of a trophy wife spoke well of him in Lauren’s book. They had met in high school and had been married for sixteen years. According to Dorothea Hillman, they were genuinely in love. “You look wonderful tonight, Lauren,” Marcia said. “We were just speaking with your dad. He’s so proud of you.” Lauren smiled. “Only daughter in a family of five. I can do no wrong.” “Blind adoration is a father’s prerogative.” Marcia cast a fond, wifely look at her husband. “Harvey is walking proof. Simone has him around her little finger and she’s only three.” “Hey, now.” Harvey objected. “I treat her exactly the

same as Lance and Guy.” Marcia raised an eyebrow. “I’m pleading the fifth.” She paused, distracted by something, then groaned. “Oh, that’s perfect. Cedric Mortimer just turned our butter sculpture into porn. Why do artists think everyone’s party is an exhibition? Excuse me a moment…” For a few seconds they both followed Marcia’s progress through the guests, then Harvey cleared his throat and refocused on Lauren. “Sounds like your dad actually watches the show. Did he give you a hard time over that kiss?” “He wasn’t impressed. He doesn’t like my hair either,” Lauren said pointedly. Harvey chewed on that a moment. “Let me share something, Lauren. You’re a key part of our new vision. We’re looking to attract a new daytime demographic —the stay-at-home professional mom. You know …lawyers, accountants. They’re having their first kids when they’re thirtysomething and they’re not going to buy a surgeon with big hair and French tips. They want a woman they can relate to—strong values, professional, but also feminine.” “I’m listening.” Harvey had saved the best till last. “We’re going to

make you the Kate Hepburn of daytime television.” “Then why am I losing lines to a cheerleader with a stethoscope bouncing off her implants?” “C’mon, Lauren. It’s about conflict. She’s the antithesis of you. She makes you look even more credible.” Harvey sounded sincere. Unconvinced, Lauren said, “She shouldn’t be in the OR when I operate. Her boobs get in my way.” “You want her out. You got it. And hey, if you hate the new hair, no problem. I’ll mention it to Earl.” Well, that was easy, Lauren thought, nonplussed. Wondering how much further she could flex her muscles, she said, “Todd Hudson…” Harvey compressed his lips. “Dorothea told me. What happened?” “I don’t know. Todd can’t keep it in his pants, I guess. And Carole got fed up.” “He had to do this while she’s pregnant. What’s wrong with the guy?” “It’s not going to help the show’s image,” Lauren stated the obvious. Rumors were flying already, fanned by the publicists, of course. “Everyone’s going to think this is about me. The hate mail will be rolling in once the story gets out.” Harvey did his best to look concerned, but Lauren

knew he wouldn’t be losing any sleep. Publicity was publicity. “Dorothea is handling damage control,” he said. “Make no mistake, by the time we’re through, no one will believe you had a damned thing to do with that breakup.” “I wish I could share your confidence. But I have to tell you, if my character is going to be assassinated in magazines my mother reads, I’m not sure I can sign on for another season.” Lauren allowed that to sink in. “And since we seem to be at an impasse over my rate—” Harvey winced. “Jesus, Lauren. A five hundred percent raise? I can’t set a precedent like that.” “Come on, Harvey.” Lauren knew better. “You’ll just pass it on to the advertisers. You know, it’s not just about the money for me. It’s the whole package—my career, the development of my character, my input into the direction of the show…” “You want co-producer,” Harvey interpreted. “Put that on the table and I’ll rethink the salary issue.” She smiled breezily. Take that, Todd Hudson. “I’ll work on it.” Harvey said something else, but Lauren didn’t catch it. Her scalp prickled suddenly, and sensing someone was watching her, she cast a quick look around. Over

by the bar, the geeky waiter gave a brief thumbs up as if he knew exactly what she and Harvey had been talking about. Evading his moist direct stare, Lauren shifted position so her boss’ tall frame would screen her. “It’s been good talking with you, Harvey,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to step outside. I need some fresh air.” Harvey was instantly solicitous. “You okay?” “It’s been a long day.” She longed to go home and crawl into bed with Sara. They would make love the next morning, then go out for coffee and croissants. Maybe she could persuade Sara to come with her to St. Michael’s for a couple of days. Sara loved staying at the Douglas family’s Chesapeake house. “Listen. Get out of here,” Harvey said magnanimously. “Take it easy this weekend. Have a spa. It’s on me.” “That’s sweet of you, Harvey, but I—” “Want Tommy to drive you?” He scanned the room for one of his underlings. Lauren shook her head. “I could use some time to myself.” “I hear you.” Harvey took her hand. “Remember what I said. We’ve got big plans for you.”

Past Harvey’s shoulder, Lauren caught her father’s eye. He looked gratified to see her schmoozing with the boss. Producing a daughterly smile, she signaled she was leaving and he gave her an I’m busy wave. Lauren figured he was talking politics. She passed Marcia on her way out and thanked her, accepted some glib compliments from network staff lower down the food chain, and vanished before the geeky waiter could hunt her down for an autograph. Once outside, she took several deep gulps of air. Damp misted over her cashmere evening coat, weighing the folds. Shivering, Lauren fastened the buttons and pulled on her driving gloves while she waited for the valet to bring her car around. As always, she promised herself that one day she would no longer come to these parties alone. She would bring her partner, and they would be accepted just like any other couple. Times had changed. There was a lesbian soap, even if most of the actors in it were straight. Ellen was out and her career wasn’t in the toilet. Her public coped. All over America families were coping better with gay members, partly because famous people gave a familiar face to gayness. Lauren looked forward to the day she could do the same. A pearl gray Audi TT convertible rolled to a stop in

front of her and the valet held the door. With a grateful sigh, Lauren tipped the kid and sank into the driver’s seat, briefly closing her eyes. Giving the heating time to warm the car, she took a small leather box from her purse and flipped open the lid. Nestled in a velvet cocoon, a huge silver-blue star sapphire glowed from a platinum and diamond setting. Sara had been hinting about needing a “statement piece” now that she’d joined a big law firm and had to impress people at social events. She would love the pendant. It was elegant, unique, and obviously costly —the ideal gift for their anniversary in two days time. Lauren had picked it up from the custom jeweler on her way upstate and was sorely tempted to give it to Sara tonight. She couldn’t believe they’d been together for three years. They had fallen in love virtually the moment they’d met. An attorney, Sara had been doing graduate papers in entertainment law and interning at a production company. Lauren was auditioning for walk-on parts. They’d crossed paths in a parking lot after Lauren had tried out for a dog food commercial. Sara had asked her to dinner. Three months later they were living together in the Chelsea apartment that was Lauren’s graduation gift from her parents. Lauren pictured Sara’s surprise to have her home

from the party so much earlier than planned. Maybe they would make love tonight instead of tomorrow. Sara had promised to make some time for their sex life this week. The prospect soothed Lauren. Pain in the ass contract negotiations aside, life really couldn’t get any better. * Pat rested her head in her hands. Her stomach churned. On the desk in front of her, the autopsy report blurred as her mind prowled restlessly around the periphery of an ever-expanding vortex of data. She could not shake the feeling that if she descended completely into that swirling chaos, she might never find her way back. Tonight…too often these days…she felt displaced. It was as if she were slowly being consumed from the inside out by a succubus bent on evicting her calm, optimistic self. Numbed into the refuge of inaction, she was witnessing her own unravelling like an idle bystander. She jotted six names on a notepad and stared at them until her eyes hurt.

Shelby-Rose Dubois Kaitlyn Smith

Jaydeene Harper Fawn Maxwell Lashelle Adkins Destiny O’Connor Pat was visited by a vision so palpable, she could not banish its taunting presence; six little girls sat along the wall of her office like so many broken dolls, in their frilly dresses and white satin sashes. Only their eyes moved, haunting her with their pleading. He had seen this look, she thought, but he was heartless in its face. Absent in him was the compulsion that would drive most human beings to return a terrified child to her mother. He behaved as a hunter with prey. If his pleasure demanded the death of a living being, so be it—he was entitled. Pat got to her feet and paced the room. The man who had murdered these children was meticulous in his work. With the exceptions of Jaydeene Harper and Destiny O’Connor, he had buried his victims with great care, even marking the graves as if to ensure they would be found. She had wondered if this signified some form of remorse or maybe his way of laying claim to the killings. But the profiler had dismissed this; he thought it more likely that the burial activities were

simply a fetish. The killer did what he did because he enjoyed it. It was newspaper reporters and moviemakers who perpetuated the myth that serial killers intentionally left a “signature.” In real life most weren’t thinking about how to alert authorities that their crimes were linked. Few offenders were as ritualistic and methodical as the Kiddy Pageant Killer. He was a Mr. Clean, a guy who lived an orderly life, had immense personal discipline, and came across as likeable. The profile said he was probably active in his church and generally regarded as an upstanding citizen. But he found it difficult to accept criticism and had a superiority complex that had possibly alienated some people. Cicchetti said this described half the white males over thirty in the entire country, which sure narrowed it down. The case still attracted thousands of tips. Some had resulted in arrests for other offenses. None had brought them any closer to naming a suspect. Pat stared around her office. It was only midnight but she felt like a zombie. The more she tried to sort through the latest deluge of facts, the more tangled they became. Sluggishly, she packed her briefcase. Tomorrow was another day. If she could face it.

* Lauren pulled into the parking garage. She hoped Sara was home and not working another all-nighter. There had been so many since she’d joined Bernstein Ross. Lauren could understand her commitment. As one of the youngest associates in the prestigious law firm, Sara wanted to make an impression. But sometimes Lauren was tempted to tell her to pack the job in. It’s not like they needed the money. Lauren had enough for the both of them. Sara could do pro bono work and they could travel the world between seasons o f Dr. Kate. With a resigned sigh, she let herself into their apartment. She knew exactly what Sara would say to that idea. She was far too ambitious to settle for a life in her partner’s shadow. Lauren turned on the living room lights and dropped her coat and purse on a sofa. Spotting Sara’s laptop case, she felt a surge of happiness and crossed the hallway to their bedroom, unzipping her dress as she walked. She pushed the door wide and stopped dead, her smile weirdly snagged in place. A single lamp burned, revealing a room in disarray. Garments littered the floor. The bed was a tangle of sheets. Lauren caught the distinctive sound of the

shower running in the adjoining bathroom. There was another sound too, the murmur of voices. A cold sweat beaded on her face and for a moment she was certain she would faint. Her pulse hammered in her ears. A whimper emerged from her lips. Of their own volition, her legs carried her toward the bath-room door. She stood there, frozen. The water stopped running and she heard the voices more distinctly. Finally, the sound of seductive laughter gave her the strength to turn the handle. White-faced, Sara stared at her. “Oh fuck.” A hunky, dark-haired man drew a towel hastily around his middle. “Who’s this?” he asked Sara. Lauren imagined herself on set, improvising lines for such an occasion. With icy calm, she informed Sara, “You can tell him who I am while you pack your things. I want you out of here in thirty minutes or I’ll call security and have you both removed.” “Lauren…please,” Sara blurted. “Listen to me. This isn’t what you think. It doesn’t mean anything…” Sara tried to grab her arm but Lauren wrenched herself away and slammed the door in her cheating lover’s face. On shaking legs, she walked through the apartment to the study, poured herself a shot of vodka, drained

the glass, and poured another. She stared at the marble clock on the mantel. It had stopped; she had no idea when. She’d been blind to quite a few things lately, it seemed.

Chapter Three Two weeks later, Wendall Douglas III stalked into Lauren’s apartment and dropped a tabloid newspaper in front of her. A headline shrieked dr. kate’s lesbian love affair and alerted readers to a double-page spread inside. Lauren whipped the paper open and stared helplessly at an obnoxious photo layout. There was a shot of Sara emerging from a nightclub, and a publicity photo of Lauren. Juxtaposed between them, in a clichéd torn-between-two-lovers format, was Sara’s boy-toy. A picture of Wendall Douglas shaking hands with the president was prominently positioned on the opposing page. “Do you have any idea how much this will damage my campaign?” her father fulminated. Lauren scanned the text. In other circumstances, she would have laughed to see her apartment referred to as a love nest and herself described as a Pennsylvania pickle princess. But this was not funny. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “Sorry! How could you be so careless?” “What was I supposed to do?” Lauren retorted. “Shoot them and dismember the bodies?”

The idea seemed to appeal to her father. He sat down in an armchair and lit a cigar. “Too late for that now. You’re going to issue a denial and sue anyone who prints this garbage. I want you out of the country. Do something in Europe. Or join your mother on her next bleeding-heart trip to save the world.” Lauren shuddered at the thought. Her mother was a member of Doctors Without Borders. Until recently, she’d been in Afghanistan. But her organization had been forced to withdraw after local Taliban commanders murdered five of their staff and the government refused to arrest the perpetrators. So much for security. Now Helen Douglas was planning to return to a hospital in Addis Ababa where she’d worked on and off for the past ten years. Lauren felt inadequate just thinking about it. “I can’t leave the country,” she objected. “I have a career.” “Not anymore.” “Times have changed, Daddy. Gay is okay on TV now.” Her father was unimpressed. “I’ve spoken with Harvey Garfield. They’re going to shoot an episode with you in a plane crash. Leave it up in the air for you to return from the dead once everything settles down.”

Lauren gasped. “I don’t believe this! You can’t organize my life. I’m twenty-eight, not twelve.” “There’s a morals clause in your contract, or have you forgotten that? I just made sure you’re not going to be sued.” “What about my new contract?” Lauren’s heart sank. The negotiations had finally been settled and she was expecting to sign the documents by the end of the week. The deal was good. Even her agent was happy. “Garfield says they’re going to wait and see what happens.” Lauren sank down on a loathsome minimalist sofa Sara had insisted they buy from some hip furniture designer. She was probably fucking the guy. “This is a nightmare,” she said. A cloud of cigar smoke masked her father’s face. Through the haze, he explained, “Here’s the deal. Your ex-roommate and her boyfriend are shakedown artists who concocted this bullshit story as revenge after you refused to give them money for his drug habit. My people have done some digging. The guy has a history.” “But that’s not what happened.” “Jesus, babydoll. No one gives a fuck what really happened. The question is, how do we control the

damage. For starters, you’re going to hit anybody who runs that story with a lawsuit. People has pulled it. They had it planned for next week.” Lauren was speechless. You knew you’d made it when your personal problems were plastered all over People magazine along with sleazy revelations about the latest crop of reality show bimbos. “By the time I’m done, your ex will be looking for work as an ambulance chaser in Bumfuck, Ohio, and that low-life boyfriend of hers will be in a soup line at the Salvation Army.” Her father drew on his Cuban with patent satisfaction. “Daddy…please…I’m sure Sara had nothing to do with this.” “Think again. Did it ever occur to you that you’re a pretty good meal ticket for a girl from Jersey City who had to work three jobs to put herself through law school?” “Sara’s not like that. Just because she had to work hard to get where she is doesn’t mean she’s a gold digger.” Lauren fell silent, wondering why she was defending a woman who had brought a man into their home…had sex with him in their bed. Her father made an impatient noise. “How do you think she landed that job? I made some calls, that’s

how. You didn’t know she’d asked me to talk to Ari Bernstein, did you?” Lauren was stunned. Sara had made a huge deal out of getting her new position, telling her family how she beat out a horde of Ivy League applicants. She’d always expressed disdain for people who only got ahead because they knew people. Lauren tried to think of something to say, but her father got in first. “Look, I don’t want to pick a fight with you, babydoll. Your girlfriend thought she could live off you and screw any Tom, Dick, or Harry she wanted behind your back. Well, no one treats my daughter like that. Good Lord. Your mother and I welcomed that little tramp into our home.” Lauren felt humiliated. Her parents had been unshakably supportive of her from the time she’d come out. Remaining in the closet was her one compromise; and that was as much about her own career as her father’s. “You and Mom have been wonderful,” she said. “But you’re asking me to deny who I am, publicly. What if this ends up in court? You want me to lie under oath?” Wendell looked her dead in the eye. “Isn’t it a bit late to get a conscience? Up till now, you’ve made darned sure everyone thinks you’re a card-carrying

heterosexual.” Lauren stared down at her hands. “There has to be some other way.” “There isn’t. You’re a TV star and I’m campaigning for the Senate next go ’round. You can get all highminded about this, or you can get real.” Mouth trembling, Lauren said, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I never meant for any of this to happen.” Her father stubbed out his cigar and slung an arm over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. No one’s going to remember squat about this in six months. Have you eaten today?” “I’m not hungry.” Despondently, Lauren gazed at the newspaper once more. “Lousy picture of Sara,” her father commented. “She should have gotten her nose fixed while you were still paying.” * Pat stared grimly into her beer. “This was a big mistake,” she informed Cicchetti. Why hadn’t she just requested a transfer? There was an NCAVC position open at Quantico; the chief had said he would recommend her. But Pat didn’t want to

leave Philadelphia. Taking a complete break had seemed like the best plan if she wanted to stay in the Crimes Against Children unit. Burnout was a bitch. Pat was owed eight weeks’ annual leave and the Bureau had approved another twelve without pay if she wanted them. It had seemed like a good idea. But after two weeks at home with nothing to do, she was having second thoughts. Cicchetti downed a fistful of pretzels. “I was talking to a buddy of mine. Left the job a few years back. He’s in private security now. Personal protection. Celebrities, rich people, that kind of deal. He’s interested in you.” “Me? What are you talking about?” “There’s a demand for females. Lady clients don’t always want a male tagging along, if you get my drift.” “I’m not looking for a new job.” “Yeah, I know. This is just a filler…a short-term assignment type of thing.” Pat shifted in her chair. “I can’t take other employment during leave—” “Here’s the thing. This is not, officially speaking, employment. If money changes hands, that’s between you and the client. Franco takes his cut is all. As far as the Bureau’s concerned, you’re doing a favor for a friend.”

“I don’t know…” She was aware plenty of former agents and cops made a good living providing personal protection to movie stars and the like. But most so-called celebrities weren’t in any real danger. Pat had better things to do than stand around all day acting like the Secret Service for some talent-stricken publicity junkie. Life was too short. “C’mon. You’ll go nuts sitting at home in front of the box,” Cicchetti said and started working on his hair all of a sudden. Automatically Pat glanced toward the door. Yep. Blonde. Stacked. Tight skirt. She finished her beer. “I appreciate it. But I’m not cut out for that line of work.” “Okay, I hear you.” Cicchetti wasn’t giving up that easily. Eyes flicking between his beer and the reflections in the bar mirror, he said, “How about I tell Franco to give you a call if he’s got something. Then you can decide in full possession of the facts. Okay?” Pat made an effort to sound appreciative. “Sure. Why not.” She’d rather say no to this Franco guy than knock Cicchetti back when he thought he was doing her a big favor. “One condition, okay? If it’s Angelina Jolie, tell them you’re bringing a sidekick.” “I’ll bear that in mind.” Pat met his lazy brown eyes.

“So…how’s it coming?” Something in his face sagged and from the corner of her eye, Pat saw the blonde settle at a nearby table with a guy whose hand never left her ass. “I thought we weren’t talking shop,” Cicchetti said. “Just wondering how Agent Sullivan is shaping up.” “So far, so good.” Her companion contemplated a neon beer ad suspended above the bar. “We picked up Mulrooney.” “What?” Pat felt winded. They’d both been sure their third victim, Jaydeene Harper, was the work of a copycat and liked a guy for the killing, a convicted pedophile named Desmond Mulrooney. A Jehovah’s Witness, Mulrooney had talked his way into the homes of several Maryland families on the pretext of leading Bible study. Once he’d secured their trust, he molested their daughters. Mulrooney had been convicted on three counts of child sexual abuse, served five years, and now lived in Pittsburgh. He claimed to have rehabilitated himself through the power of prayer. Evidently the parole board had bought this story. Mulrooney had quickly resumed his activities for the church, whose leadership didn’t seem to care that he was a registered sex offender. He had door-knocked

in the Harpers’ neighborhood two weeks before Jaydeene went missing, and had a shaky alibi for the afternoon of her disappearance. But they couldn’t get enough evidence to make a case stick, so they’d been keeping tabs on the guy for a year. Meantime the media had pegged Jaydeene’s murder on the Kiddy Pageant Killer. No one argued. They wanted Mulrooney to think he’d outsmarted the law. “Got a call from his landlord,” Cicchetti said. “Seems he had a plumber in Mulrooney’s place last week. The guy sees Mulrooney perusing a kiddy pageant site on his computer and he adds two and two. But he acts polite. Asks Mulrooney if he’s got grandchildren.” Pat’s heart rate increased. Mulrooney would have figured the heat was off and he could relax and lower his guard. Like most pedophiles, he would find some covert way to relive his cherished crimes in company if he could. “So Joe plumber gets our guy talking and he spills his guts about quote unquote, a very special little girl who is now at home with Jesus.” “You’re kidding me.” “Wait. It gets better. Next thing he’s showing Joe this art piece thing with an impression of a kid’s hand. He’s all sentimental like it’s his own kid or something.”

Pat’s jaw dropped. “He made a cast of her hand?” This slimeball was serious about his trophies. “Had it in plain sight when we knocked on his door.” “Damn, I want that interview.” Pat couldn’t believe it. She goes on leave and next thing, Cicchetti makes a collar. Perfect; just perfect. Cicchetti ordered another round. “I knew you’d get all bent out of shape. I shouldn’t have told you.” “I’m coming back. I’ll call the chief tomorrow.” “Big mistake,” Cicchetti said, sliding a draft along the counter to Pat. “We knew Mulrooney did Jaydeene. It doesn’t change anything us bringing him in.” Pat cradled her chin glumly in her hand. Cicchetti was right. Getting an arrest on the Harper case was a morale boost, but it didn’t bring them one iota closer to catching the Kiddy Pageant Killer. She owed it to the other victims to infuse some new energy into the investigation. Looking awkward, Cicchetti gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Hey, if anything else breaks, I’ll call you. Deal?” Pat raised her glass. A bilious feeling almost choked her. “Deal.” *

Antiques Row had changed since Pat moved into the neighborhood five years ago. She rarely had the time to wander through Wash West anymore, but after she left Cicchetti, she walked along Camac Street and turned onto Pine. The Row used to be an austere stroll past a procession of antique stores. Most of these had now closed their gated doors, and the street was lined with trendy home stores and cafés. It was too cold to window shop, so Pat cut through Louis Kahn Park, not the safest place to stroll after dark. Lately there’d been some incidents involving drug dealers from 13th and Walnut trying to extend their turf. But cops from the Sixth District had increased their patrols and the clean-up was working for the time being. There were only two other people in the park, a gay couple who lived a few doors down from her on Clinton. They always walked their poodle, Princess Di, around this time. “Hey guys,” Pat called, her breath fogging. She stopped at the fountain to chat with them. “Want to come on home,” Gareth insisted after a few minutes. The taller of the pair, he managed to look sartorial even in a wool overcoat and muffler. “We’re mulling cider.”

“Another time,” Pat said. “I’m kind of tied up.” “We were reading about that little girl. The latest victim.” Gareth’s partner, David, lifted Princess Di into his arms, whipped off a glove, and adjusted her plaid coat with plump fingers. “Awful, just awful. You must be devastated.” “Yes.” Pat found a tight smile. “It’s been a frustrating investigation.” She hadn’t told anyone she had taken herself off the case for the time being. Despite her attempts to keep a low profile, the entire block knew there was an FBI agent living in their midst. Her presence seemed to engender a mixture of paranoia and gratification. Last year, after she was interviewed on CNN, her neighbors had organized a potluck as moral support. Since then, whenever the Kiddy Pageant cases were in the news, someone always showed up on Pat’s doorstep with frozen dinners and helpful theories. Pat loved this sense of community; it was something she’d never known growing up. In Wash West, she seldom felt lonely, merely alone. “Well, we’re home if you need a cup of foie gras or anything,” Gareth said. Pat grinned. “I’ll sleep easy knowing that.” They walked along Clinton together, parting

company at Pat’s place. She unlocked her door and wandered along the narrow hallway, flicking a few light switches as she went. In the kitchen, she poked listlessly through the refrigerator, discarding the inedible—three-day-old Chinese takeout, a decomposing Caesar salad, sour cream with a fungus growing on it. She was not by nature a slob, but lately she’d been too exhausted to deal with domestic trivia. She found some sliced turkey that hadn’t passed its use-by date and made herself a sandwich. Tomorrow she would clean house, buy groceries, and stock up on reading material. She had to figure out how she was going to spend the rest of her self-imposed leisure time. Maybe she should go somewhere, Pat reflected. A change of scenery was supposed to lower stress. Mexico would be warm. Mind wandering, she gazed into the corner of the room. She could almost see her cat Bruno sitting there next to his food bowl, his big ginger face puzzled. Before his kidneys failed, Bruno had been on a diet. It had been hell for both of them and, in the end, it wasn’t enough to save him. Pat felt her eyes prickle. She missed the warm heaviness of that feline body in her lap. She missed sleeping with him stretched along her thigh; Velcro-cat, she used to call him. Maybe she

could take a trip to the Humane Society while she was off work and adopt a cat. There would never be a better time to get a new pet settled in. Bruno had come from a crime scene. The sole survivor of a family annihilation, he had been slashed across the spine. A CSI had found him hiding in an upstairs closet, half-dead. Relatives hadn’t wanted to pay the vet bills, so Pat had driven the injured cat to the animal hospital, telling herself he would have to be euthanized. But from the moment she’d wrapped him in a towel, they both knew that wasn’t happening. Bruno was hers. If he could have come to work with her, he would have. Instead Pat would leave the phone on speaker so she could talk to him via the answer machine while she was working. That was seven years ago, in the days when Pat was still kidding herself she could hold down a relationship. Her ex, Wendy, had made it clear they would never move in together if it meant sharing a home with Bruno. Wendy thought Bruno should have been euthanized, especially when his hair didn’t grow back properly over the scar along his back. She had pestered Pat to have him declawed, and had finally issued an ultimatum. If Pat wanted her to sleep over, the cat had to go to the vet. Pat took a pass. It was one

of the easiest decisions she had ever made. The relationship had petered out soon after, and Pat had felt only vague regret. She and Wendy were not meant for one another. They had defaulted into dating when Wendy’s partner, a friend of Pat’s, hooked up with another woman. Nowadays Wendy was living with a chiropodist and her Mexican hairless dog. Pat ran into the happy couple at the supermarket every so often. She always detected a certain smugness about Wendy. I’m with someone who knows the meaning of commitment, was the message. Pat chewed on her sandwich. She had concluded a long time ago that she wasn’t the type to fall head over heels for any woman. From what she could see, that was a plus. Relationships involved too much risk for uncertain returns. No matter what the couple cultists wanted everyone to believe, Pat didn’t think she was missing out on a whole lot. She was perfectly happy by herself. Occasionally she missed having a sexual partner, but you didn’t have to get married to find one of those. Maybe that was something else she could do for her mental health over the weeks ahead, she decided. Get laid.

Chapter Four Retail therapy was supposed to be fun, Lauren thought as she jammed her credit card into her wallet. A sales assistant wrapped several new dresses in tissue. “I record your show every day,” she gushed. “Oh my gosh, when you and Dr. Addams finally kissed, Mom and I were like…screaming.” “Yeah, that was quite a moment,” Lauren said, fingers tapping the counter. “I’ve got a friend who’s at college and she wrote an essay about how you should be a role model, not what’s-her-name…you know…she’s rich and she worked in McDonald’s for a day so she’d know how it feels to be poor.” Lauren had no idea who the young woman was talking about but she smiled and nodded. The least she could do was behave like a star. Apparently this girl hadn’t read a newspaper recently. “I’m flattered,” she said. “It’s fans like you who’ve made it possible for me to have the career I always dreamed of.” “I can’t believe you told that hijacker to get out of your face and let you do your job. That was so brave.” “It will be a cold day in hell when some lunatic with bad breath tells me to let a patient die,” Lauren

reprised one of Dr. Kate’s lines from the last episode. Buoyed, the sales assistant asked, “If it’s okay, could I have your autograph?” “Absolutely.” Lauren scrawled her name on the back of a store map. A small squeal. “Oh my God, what’s going to happen? Are the passengers going to attack the hijackers? I won’t breathe a word. I promise.” “I wish I knew,” Lauren said as sincerely as she could. “But the writers haven’t even told us.” “Well, it has to be a happy ending. I mean they can’t kill off Dr. Kate, can they?” Laughing, the sales assistant handed over Lauren’s shopping bags and added, “I just want you to know I don’t believe any of that stuff about you and that woman. Anyway, even if you were gay, so what? I’d still watch the show. I love Ellen and so does my mom.” Lauren found herself unable to respond. Here was an ordinary young woman who was willing to accept her for who she really was, yet she had to maintain her deception. Would Dr. Kate really lose most of its audience if she came out? What was worse—to lie to the decent people who might support her, or to tell the truth and offend the bigots who would not? Ashamed of her own moral cowardice, Lauren said,

“It’s great to have your support. I really mean that.” A few minutes later, watching the floor numbers light up inside the elevator, she felt demoralized. Was this to be her life? She was caught in a trap of her own making and it didn’t feel good. They had shot the cliffhanger episode of Dr. Kate yesterday, and Lauren would be packing her bags for an extended European vacation as soon as she got home. By the time the show went to air next week, she would be leaning on a banco in Milan, sipping a real macchiato instead of the Starbucks version. Numbly, she stepped back to allow a horde of people into the elevator. As the doors swished closed, she was aware of being recognized but avoided meeting inquiring eyes. Hopefully she would reach the parking garage before a fan plucked up the courage to talk to her. Or not. “Excuse me. Are you Dr. Kate?” an older woman asked. Lauren hesitated. She could almost hear the next question, the one she was asked every time she set foot outside her door. Is it true that you’re a lesbian? She opened her mouth to reply but was saved by the bell. As the elevator doors opened, a woman in a pink

chiffon blouse hissed, “It is her.” With a quick apologetic smile at the older woman who’d spoken first, Lauren set off across the parking lot at a brisk pace. With any luck she would make it to her car before she was asked to pose for a picture. She poked around in her purse, located her car keys, and pressed the remote to unlock the doors. As she lifted the trunk to stow her shopping bags, someone called her name. Groaning, Lauren closed the trunk and turned. At that moment, there was an explosion and her body was thrown back against the car as if she’d been struck by a sledgehammer. Lauren dropped to the concrete floor, clutching her left shoulder. “You thought you had everyone fooled!” yelled a man standing about twenty feet away. With both arms extended, he aimed a handgun at Lauren’s chest. “God hates homosexuals.” Another explosion followed and the car’s rear window shattered, spraying glass in all directions. Lauren lowered her hand from her shoulder to swat the shards away. In shock, she stared at her fingers. They were covered with blood. A tide of red inched down her jacket. It dawned on her that she was shot. Oddly, there was no pain. Time ticked by with exquisite slowness as

the man walked toward her, his face contorted by hatred. Lauren dragged herself around the side of her car, reaching for the door. Another shot rang out, and there was a stinging pain in her side. She heard screams, shouts, running feet, the sound of a car motor revving, tires squealing. A throng of people converged on her, voices shrill and panicked. Lauren caught half sentences. “Call 911 …over there…escaped…take down his registration. Oh my God.” “I told you it was her,” said the woman in pink chiffon. “Is she dead?” a man asked. The older woman from the elevator removed her heavy coat and placed it over Lauren. “Just hold on, Ms. Douglas. The ambulance is on its way.” She took Lauren’s hand in an urgent grip. “I know him,” Lauren gasped between chattering teeth. “The man who shot you?” The woman bent close. “What’s his name, darling?” Lauren felt pain stampede through her body, stealing her breath away. Panting, her mind growing foggy, she said faintly, “He’s my number one fan.” *

“I’ve never heard of her,” Pat spoke into her cell phone. “Don’t you read the newspapers?” Cicchetti’s pal, Franco Giordano, sounded incredulous. “Not very often.” “Got herself shot by a nutcase fan.” Pat frowned. “I saw that on TV. A soap star. Right?” “Look at your fax machine. Okay?” A moment later her printer spat a newspaper article onto Pat’s desk. The headline drooled Dr. Kate Denies Lesbian Love Affair. Pat scanned the printed columns. “Congressman Wendall Douglas III,” she remarked. “Yeah. The gherkin millionaire. That’s who’s paying us. Full-time personal security for two months. You get sixty K plus expenses. Twenty up front.” “You’re kidding me.” A bodyguard was a mighty expensive vanity trip if you didn’t need one, Pat decided. “Rates for the elite-type service went through the roof after nine-eleven. Terrible thing.” Franco poured cold water on his enthusiasm. No one wanted to sound like they were cashing in on that tragedy. “You gotta be crazy to work for the Bureau anymore. You wanna think

about a career move, just say the word. You’d do real good. My guys, they’re making six figures for getting out of bed.” Pat keyed “Lauren Douglas” into Google and ran a search. Every link she clicked brought up publicity shots of an actress with strawberry blonde tresses, indigo eyes, and a girl-next-door smile that underplayed her beauty. Everyone thinks I’m gorgeous, but I’m really just like you, it announced. “Yeah, right,” Pat muttered. “Hey. You ask them.” Franco thought the comment was intended for him. “Beats the crap out of guarding payroll.” “I’ll think on it overnight.” Pat tried to picture herself pandering to a self-absorbed soap star 24/7. What a nightmare. “Sixty large,” Franco reminded her. “Where is this island again?” “Middle of the fucking Pacific Ocean. There’s no way that whack job’s gonna show up there. You’ll be sitting ’round the pool all day working on your tan.” There were worse ways to make a living; she should know. “I’ll think on it and get back to you,” she said and dropped the cell phone on the counter. Stomach gurgling, she prowled into the kitchen and

consulted the refrigerator. The frozen dinner situation was grim. It was weeks since she’d been in a supermarket. She pulled the nearest box from the freezer and shoved the contents in the microwave. A few weeks of sun and surf was sounding better and better, even if it did mean babysitting a ditz whose lesbian publicity stunt had backfired on her. Lauren Douglas wouldn’t be the first actress to spread a rumor that she was gay so she could issue denials and get herself chased by the paparazzi. It must have come as quite a shock to find that some people took her much more seriously than she deserved. But maybe the shooting was nothing to do with the lesbian revelation. Maybe the fan was just your gardenvariety kook who’d built a castle in the air and got hurt feelings when his chosen princess didn’t notice. Whatever his story, the guy would be back to finish what he’d started; Pat would put money on it. She ripped the plastic off her chicken primavera and poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio. Contemplating her options, she watched the steam rise from her food, took a swig of wine, picked up her cell phone and called Franco back. “Hey, man,” she said. “You hired yourself a gun.”

* “A bodyguard?” Lauren shook her head emphatically. No way was she buying groceries with some steroid-pumped gorilla in dark glasses and a cheap suit pushing the cart. “Absolutely not. Daddy, really…I don’t—” “There’s a crazy out there who wants to kill you,” her father said. “Do you think I’m going to let that happen? We’re playing it safe until that creep is behind bars. Period.” “But they come everywhere with you,” Lauren protested. “You can’t even use the restroom without big feet outside the door.” She swung pleading eyes to her mother. Helen Morrow Douglas squeezed her hand. “Your father only wants what’s best for you, darling.” “Give me some credit,” Wendall Douglas said. “I’ve hired a female. She’s FBI. Graduated top of her year. Black belt in everyfuckingthing the Japs ever thought of, then some. Sniper training. The whole nine yards. Packs a Glock 23 Compact.” An edge of disappointment invaded his tone. Clearly this would not have been his choice of firearm. “Nice piece for concealed carry,” he went on as if needing to convince

himself. “She probably switches to a .45 ACP when she means business.” “I’m terrified already.” Lauren clutched her ribs. Breathing too deeply hurt, so getting agitated was not a good idea. On the other hand, it was a small price to pay for being alive. Her father checked his wristwatch. “She’ll be here any minute.” “She’s coming here?” Lauren groaned out loud. She already had a police guard sitting outside her private hospital room. And every time her father visited, his security detail lurked in the corridors like sharks at a shipwreck, lifting gurney sheets and getting in the faces of the nursing staff. Just wait ’til this karate expert started throwing her weight around. Lauren would really be Miss Popularity then. “You bet your life she’s coming here,” her father said, looking pleased with himself. “The good news is you’re getting discharged, and she’s going to escort you home.” “Really? I’m going home?” Her mother smiled. “Isn’t that wonderful! We thought you’d want to be in your own apartment tonight, but if you’d rather stay with us at the hotel, that’s fine. Tomorrow, if you’re fit to travel, we can go back to St.

Michael’s.” Lauren felt tears prickle. It was funny—since the shooting, her emotions had been all over the place. She cried over complete trivia, yet felt weirdly removed when she contemplated really big things like her breakup and the shooting. Wiping her face, she hugged her father. “I love you,” she said, inhaling the reassuring scent of his cigars and Truefitt & Hill cologne. If having a bodyguard meant she could get out of this dump, she could live with that. But there would have to be rules. A bodyguard was an employee, like any other. Lauren would respect the woman as a professional and listen to her opinions, but she would set boundaries. If there was one thing being famous overnight had taught her, it was how to keep people at a distance while appearing friendly and gracious. Celebrity was a balancing act. Perception was everything. The bodyguard would already have perceptions, most likely shaped by Lauren’s TV persona, Dr. Kate Chatterley. She would expect to meet an intelligent, wholesome, and somewhat glamorous woman, a dedicated professional with noble instincts and poor taste in lovers. It wasn’t far off the mark. But Lauren’s

public image was a carefully crafted one-dimensional snapshot of who she really was, and at its heart was a huge lie. No doubt she would have to date a few men with the bodyguard in tow, to ensure the woman had nothing to leak to the press once her contract ended. It was just as well she and Sara had broken up, she thought cynically. An odd sound drew her attention and she started with fright. A dark figure stood in the doorway, silently observing. The stranger knocked and entered the room. “Sir, ma’am.” A brief nod. “Patrice Roussel.” Wendall Douglas stood and extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Pat. You’ve met my wife, Dr. Douglas, of course. And this beautiful young lady is our daughter, Lauren.” Pat’s hand was firm and square, larger than Lauren’s, her grip businesslike. She greeted Lauren with polite indifference. “Nice to meet you,” Lauren mumbled. It was all she could do not to choke. What was her father thinking? This woman was possibly the most butch lesbian she had ever seen. No doubt part of the look was for the job. Lauren took in black pants and a cream turtleneck, a tailored leather trench coat, and a thick belt that presumably

supported the inadequate Glock. Pat Roussel’s straight dark hair was cut very short and she wore no make-up. Long, dense eyelashes were wasted on a sensible face with a stubborn jaw and a straight, unsmiling mouth. How typical—it was always guys or unfeminine women who got the eyelashes. And the amazing eyes. The bodyguard’s were a mossy shade of green, their expression a mix of sorrow, wariness, and cold detachment. She’s seen it all, Lauren thought, unsettled. Her parents and Pat Roussel were looking at her expectantly. A beat behind, Lauren said, “I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” Her mother’s perceptive gaze shifted from Lauren to Pat and back again. “I asked if you’d prefer to get dressed or go home in your robe, darling.” The tone was benign, but Lauren could almost hear her mother’s gaydar bleeping. She knew better than to hope for a reprieve. Helen Douglas was the last person on earth who would raise a fuss over an employee’s being gay. In her book, bigotry was a hallmark of profound unintelligence. Filled with gloom, Lauren said, “I’ll get dressed,” and buzzed for a nurse. Her father took Pat aside. In a man-to-man tone, he

imparted his plan for a safe getaway. “I’ll bring the car around front. There’s a couple of my security boys out there by the nurses’ station. Just let them know what you want.” Lauren couldn’t help but smile. Her father liked nothing better than an occasion he could rise to, preferably one that involved guns and fast cars. Evidently, he saw Pat Roussel as a kindred spirit. Stealing a quick glance at her, Lauren decided he might be right. Pat probably got called Sir all the time. “I can come home with you tonight if you’d like,” Helen Douglas offered. “No. I’m fine, Mom. Honestly. You guys should go see a show while you’re in town.” Her parents got little enough time together these days. Already they had spent too much of it glued to her bedside over the past few weeks. Lauren waved her parents out of the room, then slumped against her pillows. “The nurse will be here any minute,” she informed Pat. “If you’d like to go get a drink or something, I’ll be ready when you get back.” Ignoring this tactful request for privacy, her unwanted pit bull paced the room. “I’ll need the curtains open while you dress, so I can maintain visual contact. Sorry. I know it takes some getting used to.”

“No kidding. Look, I understand you have a job to do,” Lauren said with phoney good grace. “But my father’s not here now, so you can relax. I’m sure we can come to an understanding about this stuff… For a start, you’re not in the room while I’m getting dressed. Got that?” The green eyes regarded her unflinchingly. “I can appreciate your concerns, Ms. Douglas. However, your father pays my wages and I report to him. I’m not here to please you, I’m here to protect you.” Speechless, Lauren could only stare as a nurse entered the room and was neatly blocked by Pat, who requested identification. “She’s wearing a uniform,” Lauren pointed out. Like a parent dealing with a problem child, Pat cast a warning look her way. Don’t try my patience , it said. Flushed with anger, Lauren greeted the nurse sweetly and instructed, “I’ll wear the Colette Dinnigan outfit over there, so long as it fits over the dressings. Oh…and please draw the curtains.” * Eyeing the pastel peach drapes that screened her principal from view, Pat contemplated her options.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been satisfied to check the nurse’s ID and maintain a watch on the room and its immediate environs. But just as a prison inmate would probe a new guard for weaknesses, Lauren Douglas was attempting to test Pat and assert dominance. The behavior pattern was so predictable Pat succumbed to a half-smile. At this early stage of their relationship, it was Pat’s task to define limits and boundaries. Ironically, although her principal would resent this, it would also make her feel secure. At least that’s what Franco’s primer on personal security etiquette claimed under the header

Children and Other Reluctant Principals. Pat could tell that Lauren Douglas had not even begun to deal with the post-traumatic stress of her shooting. She was still focused on her physical injuries. When the emotional shock waves hit, as inevitably they would, she would need to feel safe and Pat knew exactly how to make that happen. Stepping inside the curtain, she occupied a chair near the bed and trained her gaze on the gap between the curtains. If anyone tried to enter the room, she would see them. Out of the corner of her eye, she kept tabs on the nurse’s activities. Lauren was probably in no immediate danger here in the hospital; however, Pat had been

trained to expect the unexpected. Having read the police file on the shooting, she was certain Lauren had been stalked for some time before the shooting, whether she knew it or not. And the guy was still out there. In Pat’s experience, stalkers were patient and learned from their mistakes. This nut had tried to kill Lauren in broad daylight in front of witnesses. He was audacious, obsessive, and from all accounts, a religious fanatic. It was a lethal combination. He would try again; no question about that. “Satisfied?” A fully dressed Lauren dangled her legs over the side of the bed and glared at Pat while the nurse slid shiny black shoes onto each foot. “Lovely,” Pat commented, intentionally misreading the petulant remark. Lauren Douglas wore a black sweater and tights. Over this was an ivory lace jumper with a gathered skirt threaded with black ribbons. The net effect lay somewhere between beautiful woman and jailbait schoolgirl—a crazy fan’s wet dream, in other words. As the nurse helped Lauren into a wheelchair, Pat said, “Wait here,” and stepped into the corridor. A couple of security guys wearing earpieces stood a few feet away, drinking coffee and eating Danish.

Congressmen weren’t important enough to warrant taxpayer-funded protection. But Wendall Douglas seemed to think he needed a security detail. He had told Pat it cost less to employ his own team than to hire specialists every time he traveled overseas on business. On the detail were several former cops, a Navy Seal, and an ex-DEA agent. “Hey guys. Babydoll’s on the move,” Pat told them, adopting their code name for the boss’s daughter. Pat wondered if Lauren knew this was her handle. Probably not. One of the guys spoke into his lapel mic. He gave Pat a nod and she wheeled Lauren from her hospital room. Bending, Pat murmured to her principal, “Anything happens, you do two things.” “Okay…” Grudging but attentive. “First. Get down. Hit the deck and stay there.” Pat inhaled the scent of Lauren’s hair. Citrus and something else; a hint of jasmine. “Second, listen and do exactly what I tell you. No arguments.” “Remind me,” Lauren said dryly. “How long do I have to put up with this shit?” “Your father hired me for two months,” Pat replied. “After that, who knows?”

Lauren grimaced. “He’ll probably retain you on permanent staff.” “Don’t worry. I won’t be available.” Pat wheeled the chair into the elevator. “A better offer?” Lauren shot a quick glance up at her. “Yep,” Pat said. Lauren’s eyes widened at this casual rebuff. She looked very young without the professional make-up she wore in the publicity photos Pat had seen. Her skin was smooth and almond in tone, her mouth a true bow. Traces of puppy fat lingered in the heart-shaped contours of her face. She was not a classic beauty, although her reddish-gold hair was striking. Notably absent was the prom queen look most soap stars paid their plastic surgeons to clone. Her slightly stub nose looked like her own and her smile was a shy display of small pearly teeth instead of the customary expanse of dazzling crowns. There was a girlish sweetness about Lauren Douglas that was resonant of another age, Pat observed. No doubt she had been protected from life’s harsh realities since the day she was born. She would have sailed through high school and college: popular, rich, and pretty. The Laurens of this world were

untouched by the turmoil that lay beyond their social bubble. For them, life was not a quagmire in which good slugged it out with evil. They did not agonize over the human condition. They were too busy shopping. Pat could understand the Douglases wanting to spare their daughter fear and worry. Yet they would not be doing Lauren any favors if they insulated her from the challenges that made people grow. She thought about the stack of Web pages and newspaper clippings on her desk at home. Did the wholesome, allAmerican Lauren they depicted lead a secret life as a lesbian? Had there been a ‘love triangle’? At first glance, it seemed unlikely. But Pat had been investigating crimes too long to take anything at face value. After helping Lauren into the back seat of a Mercedes limousine, she slid in next to her and asked, “Comfortable?” “Shitfaced on morphine,” Lauren replied. Wendall Douglas stuck his head in the door. “She’s in your capable hands now,” he informed Pat. “Bring her home safe.” “Count on it, sir.” “Don’t you worry about a thing, babydoll.” He kissed his daughter’s cheek, slapped Pat on the shoulder,

and waved the driver on. * “What did he mean about bringing me home safe?” Lauren demanded some time later, when they were stuck in traffic on Broadway. “From the vacation, I guess,” Pat said. “What vacation? My trip was cancelled.” Pat paused. “Your trip to Europe was cancelled. Instead you’re going to spend a couple of months in the tropics recuperating, remember?” “I don’t know anything about that.” Lauren sounded indignant. “When was I told? Was I awake?” “I don’t know.” “Well, tell me what you do know,” Lauren insisted. “The tropics. Where in the tropics?” “We’re flying to the Cook Islands at the end of the week,” Pat said. “From Rarotonga we go to a place called Moon Island. It’s a resort. Very isolated. Your father says it’s the safest location he could find for you. ” Lauren looked dumbfounded. “I can’t possibly get organized so soon. We’re going to St. Michael’s with my mother tomorrow. I won’t have time.”

“You’re already packed. Your executive assistant came around yesterday and took care of that. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.” Lauren was silent for a long moment. “How did this happen to me?” she murmured eventually, as if talking to herself. Pat did not answer. She was asking herself the same question. It felt surreal to be sitting in a limousine, guarding a TV star, about to embark on the kind of luxury holiday she would never have dreamed of. And she was getting paid for it, paid handsomely. Nice work if you can get it. “Tell me something.” Lauren looked at her squarely. “Are you gay?” Pat controlled her expression. She’d expected the question would come up, but Lauren’s direct approach had caught her napping. She produced the response she had already rehearsed. “My private life has nothing to do with your security.” “On the contrary,” Lauren said. “What if I’m not comfortable with a gay bodyguard?” “Ms. Douglas, your father is paying me to take a bullet for you if necessary,” Pat said. “Maybe you want to give him a call and tell him you’d feel safer with someone who has big hair and wears a skirt.”

Lauren blinked. “I’m sorry. I was out of line asking you that. And will you please stop with the Ms. Douglas thing. My name is Lauren.” “Okay…Lauren. Let me tell you how this works,” Pat said patiently. “I need to know personal stuff about you for one reason only—so that I can keep you safe. It’s not quid pro quo. We’re not making friends here. All you need to know about me is that I’m qualified to protect you. If you have any concerns about that, feel free to express them.” Emotions played across Lauren’s face. She averted her head, gazing out the car window. Pat had the odd impression that she was trying to control tears and mentally reviewed their interaction. Had her approach been too blunt? She was not accustomed to tiptoeing around sensitive feelings. Pat reminded herself that this woman was an actress. Creative types were more emotionally volatile than the rest of humanity. On top of that, Lauren had just suffered a trauma. The situation called for tact and diplomacy. Pat switched to a kid gloves approach. Invite the

subject to empathize by offering a personal disclosure. “Lauren…listen, I’m new to this. Please bear with me.” Her companion shifted her attention from the traffic

to glance sideways at Pat. “What do you mean, new?” she asked huskily. “The last few years, if I’ve ever had to guard anyone, they’ve been criminals. Real assholes. We get taught to use a certain manner with them so they won’t take liberties.” “I’m sure.” Lauren looked interested. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she faced Pat more squarely. “So you don’t do bodyguard work very often?” “The truth? You’re my first private job.” Lauren’s mouth parted in that shy smile, front teeth just peeping. “Does Daddy know?” “It never came up. And…I didn’t advertise it.” The smile grew wider. “I’ve never had a bodyguard, either.” “I’d hate it.” Pat built on the rapport. “Someone hovering around me all day, telling me what I can do and where I can go. Jesus.” Lauren seemed to relax by degrees. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time,” she said softly. “I can understand why Daddy hired you. I just wish they’d catch the guy. It makes me really nervous to think he’s still out there. I can’t believe he actually meant to kill me. What did I ever do to him?” “It’s not about you,” Pat said. “This guy has

problems. You have every right to feel scared, but I promise you something. I will not let anyone hurt you.” Lauren took a deep breath and released it. Pat could tell from her body language that she felt more secure already. Eyes darting to Pat’s belt, she said, “You’re carrying a gun?” “Actually, I carry two. This one’s a semi-automatic.” Pat opened her jacket to display the Glock holstered at her side. “And this is a back-up revolver.” She lifted the leg of her black jeans. A .38 snubbie was strapped to her calf—a new Smith & Wesson 360 Airlite she’d bought for this assignment. She did not offer up any of the other weapons she concealed. Lauren hadn’t asked her about knives, pepper spray, or Tasers. “Oh my God.” Lauren giggled with fetching softness. “You look like an assassin. Are you sure you’re not CIA?” “I considered it once. But no.” It had been a close thing. Not long after she’d graduated from the academy, Pat had set her sights on entering the clandestine service. Thanks to her father’s engineering career, her family had led a peripatetic existence that included lengthy periods living in the Gulf States. Pat spoke fluent standard Arabic, a fact that had drawn little attention from her superiors prior to 9/11. But

she’d always suspected it might open doors for her one day. Looking to broaden her options and enhance her appeal to special ops recruiters, she had taken FBI sniper training and various advanced weapons courses including hand-to-hand combat and knife combat. Since she was twelve years old, Pat had been involved in martial arts. Once a hobby, these disciplines now formed part of her resume. She had been in discussions with a CIA operations officer when the chance came to join the CAC unit. In the end, Pat had felt she could do more to help people in an everyday sense by remaining with the Bureau. “So you left the FBI to become a bodyguard?” Lauren asked. “No. I’m still an agent. Officially, I’m on vacation.” “Ahh. So this is kind of a moonlighting thing? That’s why you won’t be available if Daddy wants to hire you?” Pat smiled. “Uh-huh.” “It’s a long vacation.” Lauren met her eyes and held them. “I need some time out.” “You don’t want to talk about it.” “Very perceptive.” “We learn about body language in my job too.”

Lauren’s tone was light, but the message was loud and clear. Don’t assume I’m an airhead. She yawned slightly, and changed the subject. “The police think the shooter’s going to come after me again.” “People like him tend to,” Pat commented. “I thought so.” Lauren ran a cautious hand over her injured shoulder and shifted in her seat. She looked sleepy, Pat thought. Whatever they’d given her for pain relief before she left the hospital, it was kicking in. “Don’t worry, they’ll have the guy in custody before you get back from this vacation.” She injected her voice with confidence. “Meantime, there are some things I’ll teach you.” “Like what? Self-defense?” “No, just a few tricks of the trade. So you’ll notice more about people. About what’s happening around you.” “I think he was watching me,” Lauren said. “What makes you say that?” “The first time I met him was at a cocktail party. But there was something about him. His face seemed familiar.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back into the cushioned upholstery. “I wish I could remember.” Her voice trailed off and she yawned again.

“It’ll come to you,” Pat said. “Don’t force it. Just relax and let your mind wander. Think about your normal daily activities. Driving out of your apartment building. Walking to the store. Filming your TV show. Think about the people you saw without really noticing them …the cars that were always there…” Pat started slightly as Lauren’s body connected with hers. Head drooping, mouth softly parted, the young woman had surrendered to exhaustion. Carefully, Pat placed an arm around her, providing a shoulder for her to lean on. As she sank deeper into her drugged sleep, she snuggled contentedly closer, one of her hands curling against Pat’s chest. Very gently, Pat stroked the hair away from her face, so she could sleep unbothered by the heavy red-gold waves. It was a long time since she’d held a woman. Pat had forgotten how good it felt.

Chapter Five Dr. Helen Douglas strolled into Lauren’s cozy sitting room. “Don’t tell me she’s still sleeping,” she said. Pat rose politely from her armchair. “Like a baby. I checked on her a few minutes ago.” “Oh please, don’t get up.” An impatient gesture. “And my name’s Helen.” She crossed the room to a small table where the household staff kept coffee brewing all day. “Would you like a fresh cup?” “Not for me, thanks.” Pat resumed her seat near an old-fashioned fireplace. Several split oak logs glowed in the hearth, putting out the kind of heat you never got from the gas equivalent. Stacks of wood on either side, and antique fire tools added to the rustic charm. Located on the eastern shores of the Chesapeake Bay, the sprawling Douglas home had been in the family for generations and was now the congressman’s weekend retreat. Lauren’s wing was comfortable and unpretentious. Photographs jammed the walls, bearing witness to the traditions that bound the close-knit Douglas clan. The furniture was solid and smelled of beeswax, centuries-old wood surfaces softy lustrous with the patina of regular polishing. A family residence drenched in history, it was the kind of home Pat could

never have imagined as she grew up. Hers had been a life of impersonal apartments in gated expatriate communities patrolled by heavily armed security guards. Helen Douglas set her coffee down next to a sofa, prodded the fire, and reached for another log. “Allow me.” Pat took over from her. Feeling selfconscious, she rearranged the logs with a poker, and watched as orange flames licked the fresh wood. For some reason Helen Douglas awed her, Pat realized. She was not a large woman, but she had a powerful presence. In her finely boned face, Pat caught glimpses of Lauren the way she might look in thirty years, if she matured with wisdom, grace, and courage. There was something else, too. Helen’s clear blue eyes shone with extraordinary candor and perception. She was not a woman who saw anything in superficial terms, Pat guessed. Wendall Douglas had mentioned that his wife did foreign relief work. It was only during the drive from BWI airport to the Chesapeake that Pat learned she had just returned from Afghanistan. She replaced the poker and glanced up to find the doctor observing her intently. Reading faint unease in the summer sky of her eyes, Pat guessed at the cause

and said, “You must be worried for Lauren.” Helen blinked, as if shifting her thoughts in a new direction, then said, “I’ll certainly be relieved when they make an arrest. I understand he was stalking her for a while.” “The police think so. They’ve identified a suspect. It’s only a matter of time before they find him. Of course, Lauren is not just anyone, so their feet are to the fire.” “Yes.” Helen’s tone was dry. “I’m not sure how I feel about us getting special treatment because of my husband’s influence. I know most women end up fending for themselves in these situations.” “Actually, I was talking about Lauren’s TV career. When someone is in the public eye, the police want to be seen to do their job.” “Ah. Yes. That makes sense.” Helen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then she remarked, “My daughter is still a child in many ways. I blame myself. After four sons, it was like a miracle to have a girl. And, you know…when there’s a houseful of rowdy boys one tends to be protective of the only girl.” Pat wasn’t sure quite how to respond without sounding patronizing. “I think Lauren’s a credit to you.” “You’re very diplomatic.” Helen smiled. She had the same small, pearly teeth as her daughter. “I had hoped

Lauren might want to come with me to Ethiopia this time. But of course, with her injuries, it would not be advisable.” “Well, that’s one place the stalker wouldn’t follow her. ” Helen laughed softly. “Yes, he’d have to be truly crazy.” “They’ll get him.” Pat assured her. “Meantime Lauren will be with me and I won’t let anything happen to her.” “I can believe that. In fact, I think I’d feel safe in a Kabul alleyway with you.” Pat’s cheeks warmed at the compliment. “If I may ask, what made you get involved in such dangerous work, Helen?” “I’m often asked that, usually by my husband’s political colleagues. I tell them baking cookies just didn’t cut it for me.” Pat could just imagine Helen Douglas saying that to a bunch of good ol’ boys. She was one of a dying breed, Pat decided, a woman with real class. “Seriously, though,” Helen continued. “My children are grown up, and I’m in a position to be able to make a difference. For me, it would be moral cowardice not to.” “And Congressman Douglas? How does he feel

about it?” Pat had trouble imagining her employer cheerfully waving his wife goodbye as she departed for a place where women were routinely stoned to death until recently. “For all his campaign slogans, my husband has a wider view of this world than one might imagine. He knew he wasn’t marrying a Stepford wife when he married me.” Wendall Douglas immediately leapt several notches in Pat’s estimation. Lauren’s parents were quite something, she decided. It was hard to imagine how they had produced a daughter who was so…Pat tried to avoid the word shallow, but nothing else seemed to fit. As if Helen could read her mind, she said, “None of us is born the person we’ll become. We’re all forged by our experiences. I’ll be interested to see how this one shapes my daughter.” * Five thousand miles away, on Moon Island, Annabel Worth reviewed her guest schedule. “Someone booked a Celebrity Seclusion Package. They want adjoining rooms for the principal and her bodyguard.”

“There’s a connecting door between the bedrooms in Hibiscus Villa,” her partner, Cody, said from the other side of the kitchen counter. “Who’s the…uh …celebrity?” She added nonverbal parentheses to the word celebrity with a flick of each index finger. Annabel smiled. As always, her beloved was unimpressed that they might be hosting someone famous. “A television star traveling incognito. But the phone number for the reservation is a U.S. Congressman’s office. Interesting.” Cody slathered peanut butter across a slice of bread and handed a corner to their two-year-old daughter, who took a couple of bites, then declared, “Enough,” and consigned the sandwich to the floor, where it joined an array of chopped fruit scattered beneath her booster seat. Briar Stanton Worth preferred to watch food fly, instead of eating it. “You’re going to pick that up,” Annabel told the toddler. With a toss of her glossy black ringlets, Briar declared, “I don’t want to.” Huge dark eyes challenged Annabel. “After you’ve picked it up and put it in the trash, we’ll go see Kahlo,” Annabel said firmly. There was no reasoning with a two-year-old. After weathering a few

screaming tantrums, she had concluded distraction worked much better. Briar beamed, rebellion instantly forgotten. She adored the dark mare and loved her riding lessons. Cody lifted the toddler from her seat and brought the trash bin over. Holding the lid open, she looked up at Annabel and said, “So, scare me with the nutty demands. Are we talking just slightly pretentious or is she one of those do-not-be-fat-in-my-presence twats?” “Nothing too extreme.” Annabel scanned the additional information form for the highlights. “No carnations. Needs the fridge stocked with Pellegrino mineral water. Her make-up artist will be flying in a couple of times to do her hair.” Predictably Cody snorted with laughter. “She’s on an island in the South Pacific where no one gives a damn, but the hair has to be perfect. What planet do these wankers come from?” Cocking her head a little to one side, she said, “A bodyguard in the next room, huh. Did you organize a firearms permit? Can’t have Customs impounding her gun. It is a her, right?” “Right. Patrice Roussel. Goes by Pat.” Annabel skimmed through the profile form security staff were asked to supply. “Female, aged thirty-four. Five foot ten. Speaks some very bizarre languages…Urdu,

Arabic, Mandarin. Interests—reading, shooting, running, martial arts…” “A major jock, huh.” Cody helped Briar sweep up the lunch debris and led her to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. “I guess in her line of work it’s essential.” Annabel closed her notebook. “It must be stressful guarding someone ’round the clock.” “Like anyone is interested in attacking these Botoxbunnies. Seriously, if they didn’t pay publicists to turn them into celebrities, no one would have any idea who they are. It’s pathetic.” “Actors can be targets,” Annabel pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Everyone knows their faces. It’s pretty hard for them to keep a low profile.” “Oh please. Getting their faces in the media is their purpose in life. Then they bitch about losing their privacy. My heart bleeds.” “I guess you won’t be volunteering to meet her at the airport, then.” Cody paused. “I could make an exception. I mean, if we were talking about a real actress like, say, Helen Mirren, that would be a different story.” “Sycophant,” Annabel teased. Cody grinned as she cleaned goo off Briar’s face

with a washcloth. “I prefer to think of myself as a woman who has her priorities straight.”

Chapter Six Lauren lifted her hair from her neck and twisted it awkwardly into a topknot. Pain shot through her left shoulder as she struggled to pin the style. They had left the air-conditioned interior of the Rarotonga International terminal several minutes ago and were crossing an expanse of oozing tarmac. Ahead of them, a group of hangars shimmered in the afternoon heat like a watery mirage. Strolling along next to her, Pat looked disgustingly cool and comfortable in a loose pale linen suit and Hawaiian shirt. “God, it’s hot,” Lauren grumbled. “Would you like some water?” “Sure,” she said ungraciously, and Pat passed her a bottle of Pellegrino. The Rarotongan man pushing their luggage cart pointed at an old airplane parked a few hundred yards away. “You can get on board now if you want.” “We’re flying in that?” Lauren gasped. Painted khaki green, guns in the nose and tail, the plane was obviously a military vehicle. Did this place even have an army? If so, they must be severely under-funded if they had to rent out their planes for tourist

transportation. Still, anything was possible in a banana republic where some local crooner played the ukulele in the airport terminal to entertain the tourists waiting to get their passports stamped. “Where’s our pilot?” Pat asked. “That’s him with the tinny and the fag.” The Islander indicated a man dawdling across the tarmac toward them. Mystified, Lauren shot a glance at Pat, who translated, “A can of beer and a cigarette.” “Our pilot drinks on the job,” Lauren said tartly. “I feel confident.” In light cotton fatigues and moth-eaten Panama hat, the guy didn’t look like much of a soldier, Lauren decided as Pat shook hands with him and waxed lyrical over the plane. When they were done with their bonding ritual, the bodyguard remembered her manners and said, “Bevan Mitchell, meet Lauren Douglas.” “A pleasure, Ms. Douglas.” The pilot removed his hat and aviators and surprised Lauren with a smile that made him seem almost handsome, that’s if you were straight and went for the Robert Redford type. He shook hands and, in a distinctly British accent, said, “I must apologize. Ms. Worth was expecting to be here to

welcome you, but she’s been held up…faith healer protest march in the village or some damned thing. Anyway, if you’d care to get aboard and make yourself comfortable, we’ll push off as soon as she joins us.” A faith healer protest march? Lauren shot a pointed look at Pat. What kind of a place was this? Completely unfazed, Pat said, “At least it’s not a military coup,” and she and the pilot laughed like this was hilarious. With a pronounced sigh, Lauren climbed the steps of a small platform and entered the warplane’s main cabin. There was no first class, in fact, there were only a few seats at all, and half of them were benches that faced one another. Cargo boxes were stacked throughout the cabin and a sign taped on the wall said no bleeding on maps. A stupendously proportioned local woman wearing a floral skirt and a white cotton top greeted them with a broad smile and showed them to their seats. “I’m Mrs. Marsters, the housekeeper for Moon Island. Anything you want, let me know. Okay?” She handed Lauren and Pat tall, chilled glasses of juice, instructing, “Drink this now.” “Do you have any Pelle…” Lauren began, but fell silent when Pat elbowed her. Glancing sideways, she

whispered, “What?” “Drink the juice,” Pat whispered back. “Don’t insult her by rejecting her hospitality.” Concealing her annoyance, Lauren took a small sip, then a longer one. The drink was probably the most delicious smoothie she had ever tasted. Refusing to contemplate the carbs, she said, “This is incredible.” Mrs. Marsters flashed bright white teeth. “It will make you fertile,” she pronounced, as if this were good news. “Did she say fertile?” Lauren asked as soon as the house-keeper had left them. “I believe so.” Pat’s mouth twitched. “Christ, that’s all I need.” * It took an hour and a half to reach their destination, a tiny island in an expanse of ocean so vast it was terrifying. “This is even worse than I imagined,” Lauren said, as Pat helped her unpack a little later in their villa. “Accessible only by air or sea,” Pat observed, pleased by their extreme isolation. “That narrows the possibilities.” “Two months in the middle of nowhere. I’m going to

go nuts.” Lauren dumped an armful of frilly underwear into a drawer. She looked as beat as she sounded. “God, I need a shower.” “Go take one. I can finish up here,” Pat offered. “It’s not your job to unpack my stuff. I’ll finish it tomorrow.” “Suit yourself.” Pat lifted the cases from the bed and stowed them next to the closet. She checked out the bathroom they would be sharing. White tiled and austere in its simplicity, it was not exactly the five-star luxury she’d anticipated. But it smelled good thanks to a huge bowl of creamy gardenia flowers sitting on the vanity counter. And the towels were decent—thick and oversized. “It’s all yours,” she said from the doorway. Lauren glanced over her shoulder. Tugging irritably at the zipper of her dress, she asked, “Can you help me with this?” Pat obliged and the simple linen garment dropped to the floor. She moved to pick it up, but Lauren said, “Don’t. I’ll get it later.” Pat could tell she was exasperated. With her left shoulder partially shattered, she had to manage her daily activities barely able to move one of her arms. Dressing was a problem.

Mechanically, Pat unhooked the strapless lace bra beneath the dress and helped Lauren into a silk robe. It felt strange treading this fine line between intimacy and detachment. She could understand why some people found it impossible to keep boundaries in place and ended up having bodyguard-employer love affairs that were splashed all over the tabloids. That was one eventuality she wouldn’t have to worry about. Apart from the fact that Lauren was probably straight and resented the hell out of her, Pat had no plans to compromise her professional ethics any time soon. Fortunately, she didn’t have a problem with boundaries. She had learned long ago to compartmentalize her life. Emotions got in the way of work. Attraction could lead to lapses in judgment. Pat simply wasn’t going there. “I’ll change the dressings when you’re done,” she told Lauren. Lauren hesitated. Holding her robe closed, she turned to Pat with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “In the hospital the nurse helped me shower. It’s really hard for me to manage. Mom helped me while we were at St. Michael’s, but now…” “No problem,” Pat said impassively. “We can work this out.”

Lauren was bright pink. “I should have let Daddy hire a nurse. It just felt kind of crowded, you know. I thought I could take care of myself. I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. You have two gunshot wounds.” Lauren perched on the edge of the bed. “The doctor says my shoulder won’t close fully for a couple of months and even then I might still have this awful burning pain…what do they call it?” “Causalgia,” Pat supplied, and headed for the connecting door between their two rooms. “I’ll change and see you in there in a few minutes. Okay?” Lauren gave her a grateful look. “Okay.” * “Tell me if it’s too hot.” Pat slowly moved the hand shower over Lauren’s body, avoiding the dressings on her shoulder and side. “It’s fine.” Lauren’s throat felt tight. Pat was sponging her as impersonally as the nurses had, yet the occasional brush of her fingers brought with it a rush of memories. Lauren was suddenly painfully conscious of how much she missed touch, the feel of someone else’s skin against hers. She had expected Sara would come and see her in the

hospital. There had been one phone call, the day after it happened. It was the last time they’d spoken. After a week, Lauren had asked her father if he was preventing Sara from visiting her, but he said she hadn’t tried. Somehow that had hurt almost more than the cheating. If Sara had loved her, she would have been at her bedside no matter what. Tears mingled with the water on Lauren’s face. So much had happened in the weeks since she had caught Sara cheating. She stared down at the dressing below her collarbone. The gunman had aimed for her heart and missed. That’s what the police said. The guy wasn’t much of a shot. Pat handed the showerhead to her and closed the glass doors, saying, “When you’re ready, I’ll help you dry off.” “Thank you.” Lauren was grateful she didn’t have to explain that she needed some time alone to wash her intimate zones. When she was done, she turned off the water and replaced the showerhead. She had barely opened the doors when Pat held up an open towel, screening her as she stepped from the shower, then wrapping her, eyes slightly averted. Pulling a padded bathroom seat from beneath the

vanity counter, Pat instructed, “Sit down,” and with another towel, she dried Lauren’s arms and legs, careful not to jar her shoulder. “It’s very nice of you to make this comfortable for me,” Lauren said, wanting Pat to know her respectful manner was appreciated. A fleeting emotion altered Pat’s expression. “I’ve had some practice. I nursed my mom after a serious car accident.” “Oh. Is she doing better now?” “She died a few months after it happened. A brain hemorrhage. I think it was connected to the accident, but the doctors weren’t sure.” Pat dropped the extra towel in a laundry basket and turned her attention to Lauren’s dressings. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Lauren winced as an adhesive cover was removed. “It was some time ago,” Pat said. “My dad remarried recently, and I have two half-brothers now. Just little kids.” Lauren knew Pat was talking to distract her as layers of gauze were removed, followed by the sterile dressings that covered the entry and exit wounds beneath her ribs. Steeling herself for the burn of the antibacterial solution, Lauren said, “Do they live near

you?” “No. They’re in Dallas, Texas. Hold tight.” Pat swabbed the wounds, front and back, and deftly replaced the dressings. Pausing, she squatted in front of Lauren and took both her hands, saying, “Give me some deep breaths.” Eyes watering, Lauren released the breath she was holding. “I’m fine,” she said. “You’re pretty good at this. Better than some of the nurses.” “You won’t be saying that after I do your shoulder.” Pat secured the waterproof outer dressing below Lauren’s ribs and reflected on how fortunate she was. The flesh wound in her side was not severe. The bullet had passed right through her, missing vital organs. The wound was clean and healing quickly. TNP therapy had obviously helped speed up the process. Her shoulder was in much worse shape. Pat guessed the full extent of nerve and bone damage might not be apparent for some time. Lauren gave a shaky laugh. “Come on then. Let’s do it.” They walked into the bedroom and Pat spread a couple of extra towels on the bed. “When you’re ready,” she invited.

* Lauren lay on her back and inched her towel well away from her injured shoulder. “Knock yourself out,” she invited. This was pretty bizarre, she thought, as she felt the dressing coming off. Pat Roussel’s demeanor was impersonal to the point of coldness, and getting her wounds dressed was not exactly a turn-on, yet Lauren felt strangely aroused. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the bodyguard in the dressing table mirror, standing over her in a pair of loose-fitting khaki shorts and a white tshirt so damp it was glued to her muscular shoulders and torso. Around her middle she wore a heavy leather belt, her gun holstered on the right. She was solidly built, not much of a waist or butt. Lauren wondered if she had a girlfriend, then yelped as she felt the burn of fluid in her wound. “How’s it looking,” she asked, irritated by her train of thought. What was it to her whether or not her bodyguard had a girlfriend? “Pretty good,” Pat responded. “It’s clean. No sign of infection.” Lauren pictured herself reaching for Pat, the towel

falling aside, Pat kissing her mouth, her breasts; that hard body against hers. “Wonderful,” she said, trying to redirect her thinking away from sexual fantasy. What was the matter with her? Pat Roussel was not even her type. And maybe she wasn’t gay, but was one of those tough, butch-looking straight women. Yeah, right. Lauren felt her robe settle on her body as Pat draped the all-concealing garment considerately across her. “How does that feel?”

Excruciating. Like a huge, burning cavity in my body…relentlessly painful, a constant reminder of the event it evidenced. “Good,” Lauren said. She rolled onto her side and found a weak smile. “Thank you.” “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee…um, Pellegrino?” Lauren shook her head. “I think I’ll get some sleep.” Her eyes dropped to the belt buckle at Pat’s waist. Seized by an urge to reach out and unfasten it, she laced her fingers together. “Sounds like a plan.” Pat removed the medical kit and the towels. A moment later, she sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to take a look around while you rest.” She set her .38 on the dresser next to

Lauren. “You won’t need this, but I’m leaving it just in case. Don’t open the doors.” “I have no idea how to fire one of these,” Lauren said. “I’d probably shoot myself in the foot.” “Don’t touch it unless you absolutely have to. The safety catch is off. Just point and squeeze the trigger.” Pat handed her a small black box with an orange button. “If you need me, press this. It’s an alarm siren.” “God,” Lauren laughed softly. “This is like a movie.” The Bodyguard, her mind suggested. She was wet between her thighs. Hoping Pat could not tell the effect she was having, Lauren drew the covers back and got into bed. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.” The epitome of cool, Pat studied Lauren’s face, her green eyes assessing. “Sure you feel okay about being here alone?” “Of course.” Lauren did not want telltale pink to flood her cheeks. Neither did she want her heart to accelerate. Both happened. “To be quite honest, I’d like some time to myself. Nothing personal.” With a faint smile, Pat stood and started for the door. “Get some sleep. And don’t worry. I’ve got your back.” As soon as she was alone, Lauren fell back onto her pillows with a loud groan. She felt like one of those geese she’d seen on a nature program, who treat the

first thing they see after they hatch as their mother. Was this what happened after a painful break-up? Did the first lesbian you encountered somehow become imprinted? Lauren decided this gaydar anomaly would pass. All she had to do was ride it out without making a fool of herself. Meantime, she could permit herself a few harmless sexual fantasies. Arranging her pillows so she would not accidentally roll onto her wounds in her sleep, she imagined Pat in bed next to her. She imagined herself cradled in those strong arms, warm and safe, Pat’s mouth on hers. How did she kiss? Possessively, Lauren decided. Sensuously and deliberately. Sex with Pat would be nothing like sex with Sara. It would not be slow and sweet and sighing. It would be hot and hard. Intense. Sweaty. There would be no negotiations over whose turn it was to do what. Instinctively, Lauren knew that Pat would take control and she would surrender. That simple. Releasing a pent-up sigh, she slid her hand down between her legs and gave her fantasies full rein. * Pat closed the connecting door behind her and took

a deep breath. Peeling off her shorts, damp t-shirt, and sports bra, she removed a neatly folded pile of garments from her suitcase and donned dry clothing. It was tempting to dwell on the sensuous ritual of soaping Lauren’s body, but Pat wasn’t going there. Lauren was attractive, vulnerable, and her job to protect. She was Babydoll. The principal. Pat needed to respond accordingly. That did not include wondering how it would feel to cup those beautiful breasts and bite her neck. Swapping to a shoulder holster, Pat slid the Glock into place beneath her left arm and glanced in the mirror. She felt ridiculously conspicuous. So much for buying a compact handgun so she could carry more discreetly. She opened a heavy reinforced case and checked that her various accessories had survived the trip undamaged. High-powered binoculars. Night vision glasses. Stun gun. She could not imagine needing most of this gear, but Franco insisted his staff act the part. At least it was a tax deduction. Pat pushed the hefty case out of sight behind a large wooden closet that stood in the corner of her room. Sliding the binoculars over her head, she paced quietly through the villa, checking the window fastenings and making a mental note of the vulnerabilities. The

building was a sieve. Might as well throw down a welcome mat that said Intruders—Please Wipe

Before Entering. Moving out onto the verandah, Pat scrutinized the environs through the high-powered binoculars. The beach lay a few hundred yards away, down a slope through a belt of tropical trees and bushes weighed down with fruit and flowers. The air was heavy with their scent, a ripe, fruity muskiness that assaulted her senses. Wendall Douglas was dead right about Moon Island. It was probably one of the few civilized places in the world where a minor celebrity like Lauren could hole up and drop quietly off the radar. Yet the place had its drawbacks. The thick foliage would provide the perfect cover for anyone who had a clue how to camouflage himself. Although it seemed highly unlikely Lauren’s stalker would track them down to this remote Pacific island, he had been cunning enough to shoot Lauren in a public place and escape the scene. Until Pat heard he’d been arrested, she would be taking no chances. Satisfied with what she had seen so far, she returned to the villa and cracked open the door to Lauren’s bedroom. Babydoll was sound asleep beneath the ivory bed covers, her pillows arranged to

cradle her without pressure. Pat took a few steps closer to the bed. Hijacked by a strange tenderness, she could not drag her eyes from the inert form. In the half-light of dusk, Lauren was bled of color. Serene in repose, her hands folded on her chest, she seemed sculpted. Pat was reminded of those reclining marble statues she had seen in the great European cathedrals during her childhood. Sleep had stripped Lauren’s sophisticated veneer away, revealing the childlike sweetness Pat had seen in her face when they first met. Pat knew herself well enough to recognize that Lauren’s vulnerability aroused her most protective instincts. That the younger woman had survived a murder attempt and was still in peril magnified those feelings. It would be a mistake to read anything else into the rush of warmth she felt looking down at the sleeping woman. As for that lustful moment in the bathroom, Pat was only human. She hadn’t had sex in more than a year, and Lauren Douglas was nothing if not alluring. Retreating from the bedside, Pat silently closed Lauren’s door and left the villa once more, locking the front door behind her. Shifting her focus from the woman she was hired to protect, to the mechanics of

protecting her, she circled the building, assessing every weakness. There was no way to make the place secure, she concluded finally. This was a vacation home, built to shelter its occupants from sun and rain, not deranged psychopaths. To guarantee Babydoll’s safety, Pat would need to stick to her like white on rice. A narrow walking path snaked down through the trees to a white beach. She followed it, glancing back toward the villa at regular intervals. Despite its obvious security headaches, the place had a lot going for it as the perfect hideaway. It wasn’t even identified on most maps. Short of housing Lauren on Plum Island, it would be hard to find a more inaccessible spot. By Pat’s assessment, the risks to Lauren were low while she was on Moon Island. Assuming Pat could keep her mind on the game, this would be the easiest money she ever made.

Chapter Seven Lauren opened her eyes, stretched languidly, and reached into a nearby cooler for a bottle of iced tea. Automatically, she scanned the beach, seeking Pat Roussel’s familiar shape. An expanse of white sand extended the length of the bay to a clump of distant coconut palms. The turquoise lagoon was so tranquil the water merely lapped at the beach. Out beyond the glassy calm, waves crashed against the reef in a rhythmic pulse. Pat had said she was going to swim but she was nowhere to be seen. Slightly alarmed, Lauren propped herself up on an elbow and looked left and right once more. Only a week had gone by and already she took the bodyguard’s constant presence for granted. “I’m right here.” The voice came from a few yards behind Lauren’s beach blanket. Pat was sitting in a deck chair in the shade of a mango tree, reading a hefty book. Lauren craned to see the cover. “Profiling Violent Crimes, An Investigative Tool,” she recited aloud. “God, Pat. Take a break. I’ve got a bunch of trash novels if you want some actual entertainment.” Pat looked unenthusiastic. “Probably not my style.”

“Do you ever watch television?” “Not really. I don’t get a whole lot of spare time.” “And when you do, it’s still about your job, huh?” Lauren grimaced with pain as she propped herself into a sitting position. “Sometimes I take in a movie,” Pat said. “Let me guess. Silence of the Lambs .” Pat gave a rueful laugh of admission. “I knew it.” Lauren grinned. “You need to get out more.” “Uh-huh.” “I’m serious. It’s not healthy to do nothing but work. I mean, look at you. You were supposed to be taking time out. Instead you’re guarding me from a crazy man and reading textbooks about crime. There’s something wrong with that picture, wouldn’t you say?” Without answering, Pat closed her book and got to her feet, removing the loose tropical shirt she always wore when they were outside the villa. Beneath it, she had on a midriff-length athletic top and a shoulder holster. God forbid she sit on the beach without being armed to the teeth, Lauren thought. “Come on,” she said, extending a hand to Lauren. “Let’s swim.” Slipping her hand into that reassuring grasp, Lauren

felt a shock of awareness. It was all she could do not to stare at the naked band of flesh between Pat’s closefitting top and shorts. Solid and muscular, her torso was as highly toned as the rest of her. How many hours a week did this woman spend working out? Lauren’s eyes dropped to Pat’s thighs. She wore a folding knife in a waterproof sheath strapped to one of them. The first time Lauren had seen it, she’d spoken her mind, pointing out how superfluous it was, given that Pat carried a semi-automatic. Pat had listened as if humoring an idiot, and said, “Thanks for sharing.” She kept right on wearing the weapon as part of her beach attire. For some reason the knife unnerved Lauren almost more than the gun. She supposed it was because knives implied proximity and hand-to-hand combat. It seemed more violent somehow, although that was absurd. What could be more violent than a lethal handgun? An assault rifle, her mind suggested. Pat probably had one of those stashed under her bed. Nothing would surprise Lauren. As they reached the water’s edge, Lauren removed her sarong and tossed it onto the dry sand a few feet away. Her strapless bikini felt even skimpier than usual today for some reason. It was silly to feel self-

conscious. After all, Pat saw her completely naked in the shower every time she helped her wash, and it was not like she had given the bikini a second glance. Lauren might as well be wearing a sack. Feeling silly over her own chagrin, Lauren forced herself to think more rationally. What did it matter whether Pat noticed her as a woman? It’s not like Lauren wanted that kind of attention from her bodyguard. In fact, it would be a real problem. She was just having a reaction to her breakup, Lauren decided. Who wouldn’t lose confidence having their girlfriend cheat on them with a man? On some level, she was seeking reassurance that she was still attractive, she supposed. That’s why Pat’s lack of interest bothered her. It was not that she was attracted to the woman; far from it. Pat was not her type at all. Lauren had only ever dated other lipstick lesbians like herself. She had nothing in common with women like Pat Roussel. In fact, she had always felt a little uncomfortable around butch lesbians. They were so obvious. Determined to get her mind off this discouraging topic, Lauren waded out into the warm lagoon until the water was just above her waist. When Pat said swimming, what she really meant was walking alongside Lauren as she floated and kicked her way

along. The gunshot wounds were protected by waterproof outer dressings Pat applied every morning. Lauren hoped she would be able to swim without these before they left the island, but for now, healing meant keeping bacteria out. “Your doctor’s appointment is for this afternoon,” Pat reminded her after they had completed a length of the beach. Lauren’s medical records had been faxed to the Rarotonga Hospital. Once a week they were supposed to make the trip there for a medical examination. Today Lauren’s hair-and-make-up artist would be in Avarua, so she could kill two birds with one stone. Toni would be mortified to see her looking like a low-rent tourist. Squeezing salt water from her hair as they waded ashore, Lauren said, “Great. I’ll be able to get my hair done and make some calls.” No one had bothered to warn her in advance that the Cook Islands had only just acquired the GSM network that would enable international cell phone calling and Moon Island was too remote to connect to this. Incredibly, they still depended on short wave radio. Lauren could only imagine how many messages she must have waiting. As they strolled along the beach, she glanced sideways at Pat, marveling that she didn’t feel

ridiculous wandering around an island resort in swimming shorts and top with a gun in a shoulder holster. “You know,” Lauren said. “You could take the gun off and leave it on the beach when we swim. That way you’d actually be able to get in the water. Just a suggestion.” “Thanks for the thought,” Pat said. “But I’m not on holiday.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “I hope my father is paying you well.” “He is.” Pat’s face gave nothing away. Lauren wished she could see her eyes, but as always, they were screened by a pair of those weightless hi-tech sunglasses spies in movies wore. “Want to sunbathe some more, or shall we go in?” Pat asked as they approached their umbrella. “I’ll stay out here a while.” Lauren fastened her sarong, located a comb, and pulled it through her tangled hair. “You can go in, if you want. Honestly. Look around. We’re the only people here.” “Actually, we’re not,” Pat said. “There’s a boat a couple of miles out, and Cody Stanton is coming down to the beach on that horse of hers.” Lauren stared in the direction of Villa Luna. “I don’t

see her.” Pat handed her the binoculars she always carried. Lauren focused first on the trees that screened the owners’ villa, then out to sea. Pat was right on both counts. “It’s quite a big boat,” Lauren remarked. “Deep sea fishing, I guess.” “It’s too big for charter fishing,” Pat said, taking back the binoculars and training them on the speck. “Looks like a marine exploration vessel of some kind.” She glanced along the beach and instructed, “Wait here. I’ll have a word with Cody.” Pat Roussel was way too used to tossing orders around, Lauren decided as her watchdog strode off toward the approaching rider. Niggled, she watched the two women talk, and vacillated over whether to join them. It was one thing to go along with Pat’s specific safety directives, another to mindlessly obey her every instruction. Lauren was not a child. Resolutely, she marched across the hot sand and greeted Cody with a smile. “Hey there. Good to see you.” Patting the tall black mare so she could avoid looking at Pat, she said, “What a beautiful animal.” “Thanks. Her name’s Kahlo. You ride?” “Not as much as I used to.” Lauren could sense Pat’s cool regard, but kept her gaze on Cody. It was

not a hardship. Their cute host would have drawn a second glance from Lauren any time. “I’d love to take her out one day,” she said. “Sure,” Cody responded. “Let me know when and I’ll ride over.” Her frank gray eyes flicked to Pat, clearly seeking her sanction. Irritated, Lauren said, “How about tomorrow morning? Say nine?” “Nine it is.” With a casual wave, Cody trotted off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Pat said, “What are you trying to prove?” “Nothing,” Lauren said coolly. “I can’t permit you to take that horse out.” “You take too much for granted.” Lauren’s voice rose despite her attempts to keep it steady. “If I want to go for a ride, I shall. I’m not a child.” “Then stop behaving like one. You have a gunshot wound in your shoulder, so one of your arms is useless. It would be irresponsible to ride in your condition.” “It’s not the Kentucky Derby,” Lauren said huffily. “Just a trot on the beach.” “If the doctor says it’s okay, fine,” Pat responded. The doctor. Lauren’s heart sank. No self-respecting medical professional would clear her to ride a horse. Yet again Pat had all the answers.

“I’m going back to the villa.” Lauren realized she sounded petulant, but could not prevent herself. She’d never realized how much she cherished her space until it was invaded every waking minute. It was not Pat’s fault. The woman was only doing her job. It was that creepy waiter who was responsible for this whole crazy situation. Fed up, she stuffed her beach gear and reading material into her bag and slouched her way up the slope to the villa, shrugging off Pat’s hand when she tried to help her over a root mass. On second thought, that fan would never have shot her if she hadn’t been outed by that asshole, she decided. And who was to blame for that? Sara Jacobs, that’s who. Lauren retreated to her room and lay on the bed, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. How could she have spent three years with a woman who was using her, and failed to notice what was going on? She had wanted to believe in love, she supposed, and Sara had told her what she wanted to hear. With the benefit of hindsight, she could see that she had missed countless red flags. All those late nights when Sara’s cell phone was turned off so she could “concentrate on work.” The glamorous new lingerie she had started buying, stuff she never normally wore: garter belts,

bustiers, sheer nightgowns. Sara had ratcheted up the golden highlights in her light brown hair and changed the style to a sexier, more layered look. And she had starved and exercised herself down to a size four, not an easy feat for a woman who had weighed over 150 pounds when they met. Lauren had attributed the makeover to Sara’s new job. But even before she’d joined Bernstein’s, Sara had been taking phone calls in the bathroom and keeping all her credit card bills at work, where Lauren couldn’t see them. On and off throughout their relationship, she had pressured Lauren to change the apartment title to joint names. Just weeks before their breakup, she had stepped up her campaign, preparing the legal work herself and handing Lauren a set of documents she was supposed to sign. The emotional blackmail had been low key but unmistakable. With their third anniversary approaching, how much longer did Lauren plan to leave Sara in a vulnerable position should anything happen? Because of their very different financial situations, there had always been a power imbalance in their relationship. Wasn’t it time Lauren trusted Sara enough to share every part of her life equally?

Some gut instinct had kept Lauren from signing those papers when the urge to do so was overwhelming. Had she sensed something was not right? Lauren turned onto her stomach and closed her eyes. She’d been a fool, she thought bitterly. From the doorway, Pat’s voice came as an unwelcome intrusion. “Everything okay?” she asked. “Yes,” Lauren mumbled. “Please, just leave me alone.” She knew Pat remained standing there for some time, but ignored the unspoken invitation to get over whatever it was she was feeling and behave like a regular person. So what if Pat thought she was being childish? She hadn’t been through what Lauren was going through. She had no idea how Lauren was feeling. And even if she did why should she care? She was only here because she was paid to be. Hot tears ran down Lauren’s cheeks. She wanted her life back the way it was, at least—the way she thought it was, before the bubble burst. * A stack of thick files sat on the coffee table in silent reproach. Pat had not looked inside them since

closing her office door three weeks ago. Pouring herself a strong coffee, she contemplated returning the files to her suitcase, locking it, and shoving it out of sight and mind. Instead she sat down in an armchair within view of both the front windows and Lauren’s bedroom door, which was ajar. Babydoll was feigning sleep. From her hunched body language, Pat could tell she was seething, and not just about the horse. Lauren’s mood swings were symptomatic of a wider issue. Pat recognized the misdirected anger, having encountered it time and again among victims of crime and their families. Once the initial numbing shock of an attack passed, victims almost always experienced a free-floating anger. Pat knew better than to take it personally. Lauren, like most people suffering post-traumatic stress, simply channeled her rage at the nearest target. Pat sipped her coffee and wondered if there was a psychologist on Rarotonga who could see Lauren. She had attempted to discuss the idea of therapy with Wendall Douglas, but he had insisted that a prescription of happy pills would tide his daughter over until she returned home. Lauren had refused to take the medication, but Pat had the pills in her possession and instructions to administer them if it seemed her

charge was slipping into depression or suffering panic attacks. Flipping open the file on top of the heap, Pat reminded herself that Lauren Douglas would be just fine. The average crime victim could only dream of a situation in which they could feel safe, cared for, and free of the stresses of everyday life. Most were ordinary people who had to look after children, pay the mortgage, please the boss, and somehow survive an inner hell at the same time. Lauren was one of a fortunate few who could allow her life to come to a complete standstill without dire consequences. So she might not be the overpaid star of a banal soap opera anymore. BFD. Pat dropped her eyes to a stack of photographs tucked inside the file. Shelby-Rose Dubois gazed up at her from a modeling agency portrait her dirt poor parents had spent a week’s wages on. Only six years old, she wore false eyelashes and full make-up, including a beauty spot painted just above her glistening scarlet mouth. Like a cloud of spun sugar, her bottle blonde hair clung to her head, anchored by a diamante tiara. According to Gilbert and Jake, she could actually sing in tune, unlike most would-be Shirley Temples on the pageant circuit. She danced

tap, performed a magic trick involving a rabbit, and could not only recite all fifty states in the Union, but also the first twenty presidents. Gifted as well as beautiful, the tabloids had gushed, reporting on her death. Shelby-Rose’s parents had planned a glittering future for her, pinning their hopes on starring roles in television commercials and a big break that would launch her career in Hollywood or as a supermodel. Failing that, they were convinced she would at least win a college scholarship and marry a doctor. To scrape up the $20,000 necessary to finance her bid for the West Virginia Perfect Miss Supreme title, they had sold their trailer and moved in temporarily with Mr. Dubois’ folks. As far as Pat knew, they were still there, packed into the spare bedroom with their three sons. It didn’t help that John Dubois had now lost his job, along with a couple of million poor schmucks just like him, while millionaires like Wendall Douglas III got a tax break. Reminding herself that she was not too proud to accept a fat paycheck from the congressman, Pat glanced in at his daughter then returned her attention to the file. She had examined and re-examined the minutiae of Shelby-Rose’s short life, hoping that their killer was linked to his first victim through personal contact or

geographic proximity. Every lead had culminated in a dead end, yet she remained convinced that they had missed something. Statistically, almost all serial killers carried out their first crimes close to home. As they gained confidence, they expanded their comfort zone and moved their activities further afield. Likewise, they adjusted their MOs as they became more experienced, learning from the mistakes they made. Serial killers fell into different types. Trappers lured their victims to them; stalkers followed a chosen victim; poachers traveled far from home; trollers committed opportunistic crimes while they were involved in other activities; hunters traveled just far enough from their homes to find a victim. The hunter was torn between a desire to kill away from home where he wouldn’t be recognized, and an opposing desire to remain in the comfort zone of familiar territory. Trying to balance these urges meant he operated close to home, but not too close. Working on the premise that the Kiddy Pageant Killer followed this hunter pattern, FBI profilers had mapped his growing activity radius, the locations of attack sites, and the body dump sites. Their conclusion was not exactly a lightning bolt. The killer lived in the tri-states area.

His psychological profile categorized him as an organized offender. A sadistic, preferential child molester. White, male, probably in his forties. Unmarried. Socially competent. He had completed high school, but probably not college. He was neat and tidy and lived alone but had close contact with his parents. People would find him polite and ordinary. How had he come into contact with Shelby-Rose? Pat didn’t buy the theory her superiors favored—that he was one of those day-pass pedophiles who attended pageants claiming to take freelance photographs for the media. As if People magazine was in the market for a double-page spread of sixyear-old beauty queens. She recalled her interviews with pageant organizers, always eager to declare their God-fearing, right-thinking, good-citizen credentials. Naturally these pillars of society could offer no theories on who, other than parents, might be paying twenty bucks to watch little girls posing like porn stars on training wheels. She and Chuck Cicchetti had attended a bunch of pageants to scope out the audience, picking up a few known sex offenders as they went. These creeps all had alibis that panned out and, unsurprisingly, all claimed to know nothing about the victims. Pedophiles

protected one another. To a man, the child abusers they had interviewed expressed righteous indignation over the killings, insisting they would be the first to turn in the depraved individual who killed those sweet little girls if they knew who it was. Some had seemed genuinely offended to be questioned, loudly protesting their innocence and citing their own ‘lesser’ crimes as proof that they were not killers. But Pat had learned long ago not to believe a word any pedophile spoke. To these masters of self-deceit, lying to others was routine. With a sigh, she dug into the file, locating some of the interviews she had tagged for re-evaluation. In the early stages of the investigation, one of Shelby-Rose’s uncles had caught their attention. But the guy’s alibi panned out and once it became obvious that they were dealing with a serial killer, the focus of the investigation had shifted away from the Dubois family. Yet Caleb Dubois, known to all as Duke because of some passing resemblance to John Wayne, had remained on Pat’s radar. It was gut instinct. The only one of eleven siblings who had graduated high school, Duke was the success story of the family. He had joined the military and was honorably discharged after sustaining a back

injury during a combat exercise. With an ex-army pal, he’d gone into business and now owned a successful string of hamburger franchises. Duke had never married and the picture his brothers painted was of a freewheeling bachelor with plenty of money and glamorous women hanging off each arm. Their wives had a different take. Several had said he made them uncomfortable. Everyone noticed how he had spoiled his niece Shelby-Rose with extravagant gifts yet virtually ignored their children. To help his brother out with the pageant expenses, Duke had even hired Shelby-Rose for a television commercial advertising his burgers. At her funeral, it was Duke who gave the eulogy, his grief visible. When asked about his favoritism, he had been perfectly frank. Most children were rude and repulsive, he said. But ShelbyRose was perfect. His choice of the word ‘perfect’ had preyed on Pat’s mind ever since that interview. It was probably nothing, she had reasoned a thousand times over. But the killer used the same epithet for the sash he awarded each of his victims. Little Miss Perfect Petal. Angry with herself all of a sudden, Pat closed the file and picked up her binoculars. What was the point in taking a break if she was only going to spend all her

time thinking about the case? She was crazy to have brought her notes with her. How could she hope to gain new perspective if she couldn’t let go long enough to clear her mind? She stalked to the window and scanned the surroundings. A rush of tension invaded her limbs at the sight of a small outboard approaching Passion Bay. Cody was on the beach, watching its progress. Pat zoomed in on the occupants—two men wearing casual clothing. They didn’t appear to be armed, but it was hard to tell. Not about to take any chances, she checked the Glock and slid it back into her shoulder holster, pulled on a loose Hawaiian shirt, and stuck her head in Lauren’s door. “I need to go down to the beach. We have company.” Lauren rolled over. Her face was tear-stained. “Who is it?” There was a note of alarm in her voice. “Looks like a couple of guys from that boat we saw earlier. Stay put and I’ll check them out.” Lauren frowned. “What if someone comes to the door?” “You’re not home.” Catching a trace of panic in her eyes, Pat added, “Relax. I’ll be watching. I’m going to lock you in. Okay?” “Okay.” Lauren sat up and swung her feet to the floor.

“Can I sit at the window?” Pat hesitated. It would be better if Lauren were out of sight. On the other hand, Pat understood that her principal had become dependent on her presence. Being able to maintain visual contact would give Lauren a sense of security. Pat crossed the living room and angled an armchair to one side of the window frame. “You can sit here and watch.” She handed Lauren the basic binoculars that belonged to the cottage. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” * A darkly tanned man with sun-bleached hair cut the motor and waved cheerfully from the small outboard. In a broad Australian accent, he said, “G’day. Mind if we step ashore?” Cody took her time looking their visitors over. Designer stubble, ponytails, and costly Maui Jim sunnies. “That depends,” she said. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” The two men promptly jumped into the shallows and pulled their craft ashore as if this were an invitation. “I’m Doug Farrell,” The Aussie stuck out his hand. “My colleague is Pierre Michaeu. We’re with the

Aspiration II research expedition.” Cody introduced herself and shook hands without enthusiasm. “So, what brings you to Moon Island?” “We were hoping to speak to the owner,” Doug replied. “Maybe I can help you. I’m her partner.” She could almost hear them processing this. It seemed comprehension dawned for the Australian. Looking past Cody, he raised his hand in greeting. “And I guess this would be the woman herself.” Turning, Cody saw Pat Roussel striding across the sand, her unbuttoned shirt flapping in the breeze, a shoulder holster plainly visible beneath it. “That’s not my partner,” she said, stifling a nervous laugh. Both men removed their sunnies and wiped them. Cody guessed it wasn’t every day they saw a woman with more muscles than them packing a gun and looking like she could blow their heads off and sleep okay afterward. Unsmiling, Pat said, “These men bothering you, Ms. Stanton?” Cody longed to say yes just to see what Pat would do. Instead, she picked up on her cue and tried to sound as if she employed muscle to mind her beach. “Not so far. Doug, here, was just explaining what

they’re doing in our waters.” Pat gave a short nod. “Are you gentlemen aware this is a private island?” “Merde,” the Frenchman murmured. “Elle a l’air d’un assassin.” “Detendez.” Pat replied with silky self-assurance. “Je n’ais aucun plan pour vous tirer…à moins que vous me rendiez fâché.” Pierre looked startled to receive a reply in his own language. He pushed stray black curls back into his ponytail with a shaky hand. Doug cleared his throat. “We spoke with a government representative on Rarotonga last week. He explained the situation…you know, your rules and what have you.” “Then you know Moon Island is sacred to women,” Cody said pointedly. “There’s actually a curse. If a man sets foot on the island uninvited…” She ran a finger across her throat. “Gotcha,” Doug said. “Look, as a courtesy we just wanted to let you know we’re going to be in the general area for a while.” He hesitated. “And, to be honest, we have a problem. One of our team is not well. We were wondering if there’s a doctor on the island?”

“I’m sorry. The nearest doctor is in Avarua,” Cody said. “Exactly how unwell is he?” Pat asked. “She is curled up in a ball, sick as a dog. Vomiting, fever. Severe stomach pain. It’s almost like she’s gone into shock or something. Could be food poisoning, I guess. Only none of us have got it and we eat the same food.” “Sounds like you better sail back to Raro and get her to the hospital,” Cody said, glancing at Pat. The woman was impossible to read. “How long will that take?” Pat asked. “Most of the day.” Doug sounded uneasy. “I wish we hadn’t left it this long. We thought maybe it was …female troubles.” “And you wouldn’t want to take those seriously,” Cody retorted. Pat had her binoculars trained on the slopes below Hibiscus Villa. “We have a flight for Raro departing the island soon,” she said without lowering them. “We’ll take your crew member with us.” Cody nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go get Annabel. We can leave early.” Pat returned her attention to the men and issued instructions. “Go get her and wait in the lagoon. We’ll

meet you in a half hour.” To Cody, she said, “Radio ahead and let them know we have an emergency. This doesn’t sound like period cramps to me.” * Maritime archaeologist Penny Mercer was not just unwell, she was desperately sick. Lauren took one look at her and said, “Oh my God. I think it’s serious. Peritonitis maybe. Damn, I wish I were a real doctor.” “Peritonitis?” Pat sounded skeptical. “What makes you think so?” “I know this will come as a big surprise to you, but I actually research my television role. I read medical textbooks and I spend time in a real ER observing real emergencies.” Pointing at Penny, she said, “This is a real emergency.” “Should we give her something for the pain?” Annabel asked. “There’s a phial of morphine on our search and rescue craft.” Lauren shook her head. “I don’t think we can risk it. We don’t know what’s caused this. Let’s just get her to the hospital as fast as we can.” Bending over the balled-up figure on the stretcher, she summoned Dr. Kate’s most confidence-inspiring bedside manner.

“Penny. Listen to me. We have to move you again. I know it’s terribly painful, but just hang on. You’re going to be okay. I promise. I’m right here with you.” Taking the groaning woman’s hand, she said. “Let’s go.” The five minutes it took to walk from the jetty to the landing strip felt like an eternity. Penny’s grip was crushing, communicating her intense pain and fear. Her companions from the research vessel, Doug and Pierre, stretchered her gently along the jungle path. They seemed sheepish, as if her condition were somehow their fault. “I should have dragged her to a doctor in port last week,” Doug said. “She’s a stubborn woman.” “And that’s probably a damned good thing at this point,” Lauren remarked. It was obvious to anyone with a brain in their head that Penny Mercer’s condition was worsening by the minute. Suddenly shaking violently, she released Lauren’s hand, clutching herself. “Come on. Let’s move it!” Lauren urged, impatient with their progress. “I know she’s in pain but we have to hurry.” Trying to ignore the cries and moans from the woman on the stretcher, her colleagues broke into a run. Lauren met Pat’s eyes and caught a flash of respect in their depths.

We can make it in a little over an hour at full speed,” Annabel said as they emerged, panting, from the jungle. “I radioed ahead and there’s an ambulance on stand-by at the airport.” Without stopping to catch their breaths, they ran across the strip toward the khaki warplane that was Annabel’s pride and joy. “I’ll be damned.” Doug was plainly awed. “A Flying Fortress. I’ve never seen one.” “She’s the real McCoy. You can still see the flak marks.” Annabel unfastened the hatch. “By the way. You didn’t mention what you’re doing in these waters.” Doug dragged his attention from the bomber. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Odyssey …” “Sure. The salvagers who found the SS Republic, right?” “Yeah…lucky bastards. We’re in the salvage business, too. Not in the same league as those guys, but you gotta start somewhere.” “You think there’s a shipwreck ’round here?” Annabel asked as they settled Penny on board. “The frigate HMS Jaunt, to be precise. We’ve been hunting it for nearly two years.” “And you’ve found it?” A strained note altered Annabel’s voice.

“I sure hope so. The Pacific is full of shipwrecks. Worldwide there are hundreds of thousands. It’s not easy to track down a particular vessel. But we’ve done our homework. All we need now is a little bit of luck.” “What happens if you find a sunken treasure ship?” Lauren asked, belting herself into the seat next to Penny’s stretcher. “I mean, is it like finders keepers or can anyone dive down and help themselves?” Doug shook his head. “Salvage is an expensive business. It’s like mining. You don’t want to sink all that money into striking gold if every Tom, Dick, and Harry can show up the next day and help himself. So you arrest the wreck site legally. That means filing an arrest complaint in the local courthouse.” Lauren laughed. “You’re kidding.” “And that grants you sole access?” Pat sounded intrigued. “What about the artifacts? What if there are people who have an ownership claim…descendents of the original owners or whatever?” “The court hears all the claims and decides a final salvage award,” Doug replied, helping Annabel strap the stretcher securely to the plane’s floor. “Usually the salvage company gets pretty much everything.” Cody, who had been listening quietly, said, “This

ship, the Jaunt. You think she was in the Cook Islands somewhere?” “It’s a possibility. Ten years ago some unusual gold coins came onto the collector’s market. They were auctioned in London but provenance traces to a New Zealand coin dealer. He bought the coins from a Cook Islander who had moved to Auckland. This guy said they were passed down through his family for generations. If he’s telling the truth, it means the coins must have been brought to the islands by a sailor who probably exchanged them for goods.” Cody frowned. “I’m sure a lot of sailors spent money on Rarotonga. We even had the Bounty here.” “Well these aren’t just any coins. They’re King George III military guineas.” Doug gave Penny’s shoulder a squeeze and found a seat. “They were originally struck to pay the Duke of Wellington’s army when they were fighting Napoleon. Most of them ended up in the Pyrenees but it seems the HMS Jaunt had ten thousand of them on board, plus a fortune in gold bars and silver to fund bounty payments for new navy recruits.” “Those coins must be worth a lot of money to collectors,” Pat remarked. “About two thousand bucks apiece.”

From the cockpit, Annabel waved them into silence. “Belt up, people,” she instructed. “And someone hang on to the patient during the ascent.” “What was the Jaunt doing in the Pacific?” Cody asked, releasing her hold on Penny once they were airborne. “I mean if it was fighting Napoleon, how did it end up down here?” “The Jaunt was given a last-minute change of orders to escort a merchant convoy after an increase in the French harassment of trade vessels in the Indian Ocean,” Doug said. “The last record we have says she picked up survivors from a ship the French sank off Mauritius. Then she took off after some French pirate called Captain Henri Boyer. This Boyer was notorious for attacking ships in the waters between the East Indies and Tahiti. Sounds like he hung out in the Cook Islands between times. We did the math and figured these guys probably fought a sea battle somewhere round here.” Lauren was surprised to see Cody looking so uneasy. But she supposed the Moon Island women liked to keep a low profile. If there was a famous shipwreck in their waters, their resort would be mobbed with rubber-neckers. All the same, it was

exciting to think of sunken treasure and a piece of naval history. Maybe Cody and Annabel could cash in on it by offering joy-rides out to watch the salvage operation. She lowered her gaze to the sick woman once more and breathed a silent prayer that they would make it to Rarotonga in time. Penny Mercer was going rapidly downhill from what she could see. Bending close, she said, “Just hang on, Penny. We’re nearly there.”

Chapter Eight Chris Thompson lowered her copy of the Cook Island News and gazed out at the ocean. Sitting here, drinking bad coffee in an open-air café thousands of miles from home, she felt strangely untethered from reality. Honolulu must have been like this once, she thought, before Waikiki became a shopping mall with a beach. It struck her that she had not just journeyed to a new country, she had journeyed to a different state of mind. Here in Avarua, capital of the Cook Islands, it was impossible to be the person she had been back home in Minnesota—an impatient attorney preoccupied with cramming as much work into each day as she could, taking for granted the perquisites of middle class prosperity in a fast food, sound-bite world of instant gratification: widescreen TV with satellite, big house, endless consumer goods. She had only lived on Rarotonga for two weeks, and already she understood that hers had been a life of extraordinary privilege, a life most of the world could not even imagine. Relocating to a poor country was an exercise in humility. Chris could see why most westerners who attempted the fabled transition to life in the slow lane

lasted less than a year before island madness set in and they scuttled back to civilization. Rarotonga was littered with the detritus of big dreams turned to ashes. People vacationed here and were smitten, imbued with a heady sense of possibility that lent itself to flights of fancy and lunatic schemes. They rushed back home to abandon the lives they knew for a tomorrow of tropical sunsets and smiling faces. Chris had read as many discouraging accounts as she could find before she’d made the decision to move here. It was one thing to abscond from your life in your twenties, quite another to do it at forty-two. Absently she glanced around. A handful of diners lingered in the shade of the verandah. The lunch hour rush, if you could call it that, was over and a rooster patrolled the café floor taking care of the debris. At one time, this place had housed the Banana Court Bar, an infamous South Seas watering hole. Now, in addition to housing the Blue Note Café, the bright yellow building boasted a medical practice and a few small stores. These days, the displaced ex-pat Banana Court patrons drank at Trader Jacks, which, Chris had quickly discovered, also doubled as the town’s financial center. On her way back to the main street, she paused in

front of a store window, admiring a huge single pearl on display. It was the kind of thing Elaine would have loved. The thought was painful, and in an odd way Chris welcomed that. Recently, acceptance had dulled her raw grief over the loss of her lover and she’d found she could think of her without that familiar crushing sense of loss. It was almost three years since the accident and sometimes Chris even passed a day without her mind drifting constantly to Elaine. Did that mean she was moving on at last? With a sigh, she strolled away from the store window, past the traffic circle, to a freshly whitewashed storefront with a prominent sign that read: PACIFIC MINNESOTA TRUST Principal: Chris Thompson. “Very impressive,” said a voice behind her and Chris turned to find Annabel Worth standing beneath the tatty awning of the souvenir shop next door. In close-fitting beige pants and a cream linen shirt, her normally ribbon-straight platinum hair in waves to her shoulders, she looked like a displaced movie star from Rita Hayworth’s era. “When do you open for business?” she asked in her soft, polished way. “Officially, next Monday,” Chris replied. “But I could make an exception if you need to launder money today.

” Annabel laughed. “Alas, nothing so exciting. Can I buy you a drink?” “I just crawled out of the Blue Note.” “Are you telling me you have other plans?” Chris shook her head. “I feel like a bum. All I do is wander from one café to the next, reading the newspaper.” “Welcome to the islands.” Annabel tucked her arm into Chris’s. “And since you’re on a roll, let’s go to Trader Jacks. I said I’d meet Cody there in a half hour.” Chris raised her eyebrows. “Wow. What’s the occasion?” Cody seldom budged from Moon Island, claiming she needed to be home with Briar while Annabel shuttled their guests back and forth from Raro. It was clear to anyone who knew the couple that she hated flying and did not suffer Annabel’s passion for airborne pursuits gladly. “We had a medical emergency,” Annabel said. “That’s the good news.” Chris raised her eyebrows. Annabel sounded flippant, but there was a tension in her body that spoke volumes. Something was bothering her. Chris asked the obvious. “Is Briar okay?” “Other than being a two-year-old, yes.” Annabel

removed her dark glasses as they entered the woody interior of the bar. As usual, the place was packed to the gills, but being local instead of a Papa’a , or outsider, meant they scored a table overlooking the harbor. They were barely seated when their waitress confided to Annabel, “Aunty Mere says she can fix that sick lady up good if you want.” “Tell her thank you,” Annabel said. “If they can’t help her at the hospital, I’ll bring her right over.” The girl beamed. “Hey, your hair looks good like that.” Glancing at Chris, she said, “You back again already? Steinlager and Kati Kati?” Chris nodded. “You got it.” As the waitress padded off, she returned her attention to her glamorous companion, noting, “News travels fast.” “The faith healers keep tabs on hospital admissions,” Annabel explained. “Those tents and shacks out by the airport—that’s where they camp. On Sundays, they show up for church wearing nurse’s uniforms.” “This place has an encampment of crazies wearing nurse uniforms and claiming to heal the sick? Why am I not surprised?” Annabel’s perfect mouth pulled into the faintest

smile. “They think Jesus was here in 1986.” “In Avarua? What happened? Were there miracles?” “I understand he revealed a cure for baldness,” Annabel said gravely. Chis lay her head on the table and laughed helplessly. “Wait till the folks back home hear about this.” A hand tapped her shoulder. Their waitress set a bottle of beer in front of Chris and poured mineral water over ice for Annabel. From her tray, she took a platter of assorted Kati Kati, the spicy bar snacks served all over Rarotonga. “Two weeks ago Tutai Kareroa came to Aunty,” she announced as she placed a bowl of sweet and sour dipping sauce in the middle of the table. “Now he doesn’t need his walking stick.” “Wonderful.” Annabel politely listened to the sales pitch and took the business card offered. The girl left with one of those white, perfect smiles that seemed genetically predetermined for all Cook Islanders, and Annabel slid the card across the table to Chris. It read: Visit Aunty Mere Tiwai for Healing,

Potency, and Fragrant Soaps—baldness and lame cures a specialty. “I’m sold.” Chris helped herself to some coconut

shrimp. “Does your medical emergency need new hair?” “They were taking her into the operating room when I left,” Annabel said. “Burst appendix.” “Nasty,” Chris said. “And maybe not Aunty Mere’s field. So, talk to me. What’s on your mind?” “She came off a marine exploration vessel. They’re in our waters looking for a sunken ship that carried George III golden guineas.” Annabel paused, lifting her unearthly lavender eyes to nail Chris in a steady stare. “Shit.” Chris wiped excess dipping sauce from her mouth. “My thought exactly.” “What’s our strategy?” Annabel reached for her mineral water. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see what happens. Maybe they won’t find anything.” “Even if they do, there’s no way they could make the connection,” Chris said, thinking fast. “And maybe there isn’t a connection.” “We find, or should I say you find, the skeleton of an eighteenth-century sailor in one of our caves. Among his possessions are some George III gold guineas and a map of Moon Island with a big X on it. And there’s no connection?”

“Point taken. But the fact is, you have that map locked in a bank deposit box and the only people who know it exists are you, me, and Cody.” Chris fell silent thinking about the fourth woman who had known about the map. It was plain from the shadow that suddenly fell across Annabel’s expression that she, too, was thinking about Melanie Worth, her cousin and Briar’s mother. Chris had struck up a friendship with Melanie during a vacation on Moon Island last year, and had arranged for the legal adoption of her daughter Briar by Annabel and Cody. Dying from ALS, Melanie had spent her final months on the island, succumbing to the degenerative disease not long ago. Chris had returned to the island for her funeral. It was then that she had made up her mind to leave Minnesota. “I’m starting to think there really is a buried treasure.” Annabel intruded on her thoughts. “Otherwise why would that sailor have drawn a map and marked a spot? It has to mean something important.” “What do you want to do?” “Well, you and Cody always wanted to go dig it up.” “Yes, but you were right about the reasons why we shouldn’t. If that cross on the map marks a sacred place—maybe Hine te Ana’s cave—we can’t violate

the tapu. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough bad luck for one lifetime without pissing off the local goddesses.” Annabel sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I guess what I fear most is that they’ll find the ship and the gold will be missing and next thing we’ll have treasure hunters swarming all over the island looking for it. We’re not equipped to deal with that kind of craziness.” “Well, let’s not panic yet. They haven’t even found the shipwreck.” “You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself.” “Try not to worry. If it looks like there might be a problem, we’ll take whatever steps we need to take.” Annabel looked heartened. “Did I mention it’s great to have you here? There’s no one else I can talk to about this except Cody. No one in this town can keep their mouths shut.” “Clearly,” Chris said, thinking about the sick woman from the shipwreck expedition. By now, the entire island had probably heard about her. With a population of only 10,000 people, news traveled like lightning. “How are you finding it here so far?” Annabel asked in a lighter tone. “I mean, it’s a huge change.” “I love it,” Chris replied. “I’m not sure how I’m going to cope in the long term, but right now indolence and

inebriation are working out just fine for me.” Annabel folded her napkin, her face pensive. “I was thinking. Why don’t you come out to the island for the weekend…before you have to open for business.” There was an odd note in her voice, as if she were making an effort to sound as casual as she could. “You could stay in the villa with us.” Wondering what she was up to, Chris said, “Sounds great. Thanks.” Whatever it was, Chris didn’t mind. Cody probably needed a hand with one of her many building projects. Annabel waved as a familiar figure entered the bar and Cody Stanton sauntered across the room, pausing to talk to a couple of people she knew. Chris stood as she reached the table, and they hugged briefly. Dropping a kiss on Annabel’s cheek, Cody dragged up a chair, surveyed the few remaining coconut shrimp with dismay, and flagged down their waitress. “Fish and chips and a Steinie, please. Make that extra chips. Oh yeah, and calamari rings, too. And tell Wiremu I’ll come back there and cook it myself if it’s more than ten minutes. Okay?” “Hungry, sweetheart?” Annabel enquired mildly. “Strangers on our beach, a plane trip, the hospital,

and John Parker was telling me we lost the match. Three bad calls from that lousy Samoan ref. And Benny Titai was sent off for gouging in the ruck. I need comfort food.” Eyeballing Chris after these mysterious rugby pronouncements, she said, “Did she tell you about youknow-what?” “Yep.” “So we’re digging, right?” “I think we should wait and see if they find that shipwreck first.” “I have a bad feeling about this,” Cody muttered, attacking the remaining shrimp. “I was listening to one of those guys talking to someone on the phone while we were waiting for the doctor. He was saying they reckon it’s off the southern shelf a couple of miles out from the Sacred Shore.” The Sacred Shore. Chris’s heart leaped. Just thinking about the night she had spent on that beach was still overwhelming. If she hadn’t experienced the extraordinary Hine te Ana rituals for herself, she would never have believed what had happened. What wouldn’t anyone give to speak with a person they loved one more time after death? She had spoken to Elaine that night and Elaine had answered. She had been able to say goodbye, and for Chris, that had been the

beginning of her healing. It was totally plausible that a ship could have gone down off that shore, she thought, picturing the perilous seas and looming cliffs. Cody and Annabel had placed the southern face of Moon Island off-limits to their guests for good reason. “Have they seen something there?” Annabel asked. “I got that impression,” Cody said. “He was asking for money and organizing for someone to fly out here to replace that woman.” Annabel swirled her mineral water around the melting ice cubes. “Well, I guess we’d better make friends with the expedition.” “Keeping your enemies close?” Chris remarked. Annabel smiled. “Exactly.” “Are you serious?” Cody looked dumbfounded. “I think we should tell them to fuck off.” “And how will that help us spy on them?” Annabel asked with silky sweetness. Cody groaned. “This gets worse by the minute.” “On the bright side, here comes your food,” Chris said. *

Lauren dropped the phone in its cradle and closed her eyes. “Fuck,” she said. “Bad news?” As if Pat needed to ask. Babydoll was fuming. “My little spy on set tells me they’re talking about making an entire season of Dr. Kate without me. It’s the kiss of death.” “You’ve been abducted by terrorists, right?” “Our plane got hijacked. We were flying over Peru. In the final ten minutes, the passengers attacked the hijackers and took back control of the plane. But we’re almost out of fuel, so we have to make a crash landing. ” “Ah. So, you could be dead or alive?” Lauren nodded. “The writers are working on a few different ideas for the alive scenario. I could lose my memory and be adopted by the local headhunters who think the gods sent us out of the sky. Or maybe I encounter a rebel army and become their doctor. Then I meet a CIA spy and he rescues me.” “Those guys get all the glamour assignments,” Pat remarked. “It’s not going to happen,” Lauren said gloomily. “If I’m out for a season, I may as well forget it.” “Your fans won’t wait?”

“People have short attention spans.” “So titillate them,” Pat said. “Use the Internet. Spread rumors. Keep it interesting. What’s to stop you running a competition? The person who guesses what really happens to Dr. Kate wins dinner with you and a studio pass.” Lauren’s brows drew together. After a moment, she said, almost grudgingly, “That’s not a bad idea. I wonder if there’s anywhere ’round here we could get online. I could e-mail my publicist and ask her to get the ball rolling. Surely the better hotels have Internet access or maybe there’s an Internet café somewhere.” “I have no idea, but there’s one way to find out. Let’s take a look around this place.” “What if someone sees me?” “No one here knows who you are. Your dad’s people researched this place pretty thoroughly. They only got television ten years ago and they don’t even play most U.S. shows.” “Amazing.” Lauren wore the startled disbelief Pat had seen a thousand times over in her international travels. It came as a shock for some people to realize that McDonald’s or not, the rest of the world didn’t live and breathe American culture. Pat pondered the risks a little more. What were the

odds an American soap fan would visit Rarotonga, recognize Lauren, and put in a call to a tabloid? According to her briefing papers, few Americans visited the islands, opting instead for slicker destinations where they could shop in the same stores they had back home. Most Cook Island tourists came from Canada and the South Pacific region, places where Dr. Kate was unlikely to have a following. Still, it only took one fan. “To be on the safe side, how about skipping your appointment with Toni?” she suggested. “If your hair’s not styled and you’re not in full make-up, you look just like any other cute tourist.” “Except that I have the butch version of Lara Croft tagging along with me,” Lauren retorted, ignoring the compliment. “It’s not me people look at. It’s you.” Pat shrugged. “Better still.” Lauren’s mouth compressed. Sounding even crankier than before, she said, “You know, you could draw less attention to yourself. I mean, you must be the only person on this island carrying a gun. Even the police aren’t armed. Did you notice that?” “From what I’ve heard, the biggest crime here is having an overgrown yard,” Pat said dryly. Lauren sighed and adjusted her topknot. “What time

are we supposed to be at the airport?” “We have three hours to kill,” Pat said. “It’s your choice. Big hair or we take a drive.” “I do not wear big hair,” Lauren shot back indignantly. “That’s not my look at all.” “I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch daytime television.” “Of course you don’t. You’re too busy being a secret agent.” “A special agent,” Pat corrected, amused by her companion’s attempts to needle her. Did Lauren want to pick a fight? Maybe she was missing drama in her life. “It’s the Secret Service and the CIA that have covert operatives.” “Whatever. Is it true about the FBI and the CIA? That you don’t share well?” “I think turf wars are a feature of most intelligence organizations,” Pat said, choosing her words carefully. “Too much testosterone and not enough accountability,” Lauren observed. “So whose fault do you think it is that we’re in this ridiculous war? Was it the CIA’s idea?” “I’m sure your father would know more about who’s benefiting from the war than I do,” Pat said, tactful but pointed. At this Lauren’s eyes sparkled. Head tilted slightly to

one side, she asked, “Are you always so careful, Pat Roussel? Don’t you ever throw caution to the winds and say exactly what you think…or do something crazy?” “I’m here, aren’t I?” “Oh come on.” Something transparently seductive filtered into Lauren’s voice, and the way she was looking at Pat became downright hot. “You were supposed to take time out, so what do you do for recreation? A fill-in gig involving guns and stress. Wow, that’s really different from your normal job.” Trying to decide if her principal was simply high from the painkillers she took not long ago, or whether there was some other agenda, Pat asked patiently, “What is it you want from me, Lauren? If you’re trying to make me leave the gun behind, it’s not going to happen.” Lauren paused for a moment, her cornflower blue eyes combing Pat’s face. “I don’t know what I want,” she said, suddenly more serious. “Maybe I want to know you better.” “We’re not making friends, remember.” Lauren seemed about to say something, then she lowered her head, as if thinking the better of her impulse. “Let’s take that drive,” she mumbled after a moment. “I’m sick of hospital smells.”

Chapter Nine It cost ten dollars at the local police station to buy a Cook Islands driver’s license—no test necessary if you could show them a valid license from back home. The officer gave Pat two pieces of advice, “Keep left and get extra insurance, mister.” “I’ll do the tip,” Lauren offered, opening her purse. “Put it away,” Pat said. “If you try to tip an official here they’ll arrest you for bribery.” “You’re kidding.” “Maybe. Maybe not.” Pat’s face was unreadable. Was this her idea of humor? Lauren wasn’t sure why she was trying to get under Pat’s skin today. It was as if she wanted to provoke some kind of emotional reaction. So far, there was no sign that she had penetrated her bodyguard’s reserve an inch. Pat remained infuriatingly pleasant and just as detached as always. They rented a Jeep from Budget and set off at a snail’s pace on the wrong side of the road. Rarotonga was only thirty-two miles across and the speed limit was thirty-five miles an hour. “We’ll take the Ara Metua,” Pat said, consulting the map that had come with their vehicle. “It’s probably

more interesting than driving past every motel on the island.” She handed Lauren a tourist brochure that explained the history of the island and invited, “Let me know if there’s any must-see we need to watch out for.” Lauren read the text with interest. She had never been anywhere quite like this place. It felt like a time capsule. The narrow road they were on was built a thousand years ago and was once surfaced in crushed coral. Much of it was still paved in the original volcanic stones. Dappled with the shade of coconut palms, it had connected all the villages of yesteryear, long ago when most of the population lived inland. Back then, the Cook Islanders had raised animals and cultivated vegetables in the cooler temperatures on the mountain slopes. These days, the island’s interior was mostly plantation and rainforest, and there was little traffic, other than a few mopeds and the occasional dog or chicken. “I wish I had my camera with me,” Lauren said as they passed through papaya and banana orchards with spectacular mountain views. Without a word, Pat reached into her pants pocket and produced a tiny digital Canon, slowing down so Lauren could take snapshots. Below the road, a deep valley spread out like a

patchwork quilt in hues so intensely green they seemed painted. Flame trees and hibiscus splotched the verdant canvas bright orange and red. A veil of cloud cloaked the muted mauve mountaintops in the island’s center. Hand-carved wooden signs indicated hiking trails that led off the road in all directions. Just beyond one of these, Pat pulled off at a scenic outlook and halted the Jeep. Opening the passenger door, she cast an indulgent look at Lauren. “A photo op.” “It’s like Shangri La,” Lauren breathed, absorbing the timeless surroundings. She bailed out of the Jeep and found the perfect angle for her snaps. They stood in silence for a few minutes. Propped against the Jeep, Pat surveyed the surroundings like a watchful predator. Between photos, Lauren covertly observed her. Today the bodyguard was in loose-fitting khakis and a muted floral shirt—her passing-for-atourist attire—over a black sleeveless vest. The fluid lines of her clothing could not quite disguise her muscular build. To anyone who paid attention, her coiled demeanor spoke of controlled power and absolute physical self-awareness. Lauren wondered how it must feel to have the kind of confidence Pat radiated. Pat would never have

allowed herself to be shot by a crazy fan in a parking building. She would have noticed something was wrong as soon as she stepped out of the elevator. Somehow she would have turned the tables on the would-be killer, chased him through the parking building…wrestled him down in front of gawping spectators. Lowering the camera, Lauren asked impulsively, “Pat, have you ever been really afraid?” Pat’s voice registered faint surprise. “Of what?” “Of anything. I mean real fear. Feeling powerless?” Pat removed her sunglasses, took a cloth from her breast pocket, and polished them. “My mother’s accident terrified me,” she said. “I had a gut feeling something wasn’t right after her surgery. I talked to the doctors, but they insisted she was making a good recovery. All the same I had this feeling she wasn’t going to make it. I was desperate…completely helpless. I’ve always wondered if there was anything I could have done differently.” Lauren guessed that this was not a conversation Pat had with many people, perhaps no one. Tentatively, she touched her arm. “You did everything you could. I’m sure your mom felt truly safe and happy in her final days, being with you.”

“We were very close. The loss of her changed me.” Pat’s face grew shuttered, as if she had said too much. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up for you.” “Everyone has something that makes them fearful,” Pat said. “It’s by confronting our fears and moving through them that we gain more confidence.” “In other words, I should hunt this guy down?” Lauren translated dryly. Pat raised an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” “But that’s what you would do, isn’t it?” “I hunt for a living,” Pat said. “You, however, attract.” Her eyes met Lauren’s. “That in itself is powerful. The question is, how can it serve you?” “You’re talking about trapping him?” Lauren felt a rush of nausea. The very idea of seeing that brooding face again made her sick to her stomach. Pat was running with the idea, her mind obviously engaged. “Only hypothetically.” “So I’m bait,” Lauren concluded. “Perfect. What if it goes wrong?” “There’s always that risk. But the point about taking charge is that you would be writing the rules of the game, instead of him. It’s not as crazy as it sounds.” “What are you suggesting?”

Pat stroked her shoulder holster absently. “I’m not suggesting anything—I’m just thinking out loud. There’s always more than one way to look at situation like this.” “You don’t think it was the right thing to do, to come here?” “I didn’t say that. You’re recovering from two bullet wounds and this is a safe location. I’m looking ahead, that’s all.” Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Lauren. This is just speculation. If I have any ideas about catching that creep, I should be discussing them with your father, not upsetting you.” “It’s not my father he came after,” Lauren objected. “I’m not a child, so don’t patronize me.” “That wasn’t my intention.” Pat’s tone changed to one of polite deference. Once more she was the distant, unflappable professional. Glancing at her wristwatch, she said, “We should get going if we want to see any more of the island.” Feeling dismissed, Lauren climbed into the Jeep, trying to think what to say. “I like it much better when you talk to me like I’m a responsible adult,” she managed. Pat lifted her eyes. In the brilliant light her pupils were small, intensifying her gaze to dark emerald. Lauren was certain she detected a flash of heat,

before Pat’s expression was closed to her once more. She slid her sunglasses back on and, in a tone of infuriating benevolence, said, “Now that you’ve got that off your chest, shall we go find the Internet?” Lauren had to suppress a juvenile urge to reach across and give Pat a shove. “Sure. Why not?” she muttered. They drove in silence for a time, Lauren staring out her window pondering ways she could tell her father that it just wasn’t working out with the bodyguard he had chosen. She would e-mail him and explain that although Pat was very good at her job, there was a personality clash and Lauren needed a bodyguard she could relate to as a woman. Fat chance, she thought cynically. There was no way her father was going to recall his handpicked watchdog and replace her with someone who scored an A in girl-talk. Resentfully, Lauren cast a sideways look at the woman driving the Jeep. What was it about Pat that got under her skin? On some level Lauren was aware that her reactions were irrational. Pat had done nothing but behave with absolute professionalism. She had also, with good grace, carried out duties not included in her job description, like doubling as a nurse whenever Lauren needed a shower or a change of

dressing. It was hardly fair to have her sacked because they hadn’t become pals. Chagrined, Lauren stared down at her hands. It dawned on her in a flash of self-awareness that it wasn’t a gal pal she wanted. She felt slighted because Pat had showed no interest in her as a woman. Lauren was not accustomed to being ignored. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that Pat Roussel was a lesbian. How could she not react at all to Lauren when they lived in such close quarters? Wasn’t propinquity supposed to trigger sexual attraction? Or did she find Lauren unappealing? A different theory presented itself. Pat’s lack of interest was so emphatic, maybe it was intentional. Perhaps underneath it all, she did notice Lauren but concealed her attraction because it was the right thing to do professionally. A small smile tugged at Lauren’s mouth and she bit her top lip softly to keep her expression bland. Why not find out? a wayward voice prompted her. If she had to be stuck on an island for the next eight weeks the least she could do was have some fun. Stretching indolently, she turned toward Pat and said, with a hint of playfulness, “I don’t know how you can do this. Drive on the wrong side of the road, I

mean.” “Cheap thrills,” Pat said, swerving a little to avoid two Mormon missionaries. Here was a sight Lauren had not expected to see —a couple of white-shirted cyclists from Utah, pedaling their way around paradise, trying to persuade those who lived there that a better place awaited them in the hereafter. “I wonder if they get much business,” Pat remarked, also struck by the anomaly, it appeared. “I think the English missionaries beat them to it by a couple of hundred years,” Lauren said. In the sweetest voice she could muster, she remarked, “You know, it’s really nice of you to drive me around. You didn’t have to.” Pat shot her a quick look. “It’s my pleasure.” Her tone was laced with irony. Lauren conjured a crestfallen expression. “Fed up with me, huh?” “On the contrary. You’re much easier than my day job.” “Then you won’t mind if we stay here overnight,” Lauren suggested ingenuously. “I feel like a change of scene and they have some good hotels here. We could have a decent meal and go see one of those island

shows. You know…with the traditional costumes and the dancing and everything.” Sounding as meek as she could, she added. “Only if you think it’s safe, of course.” Pat’s eyes remained on the road. Lauren could almost hear her brain working, no doubt manufacturing reasons why they couldn’t do any such thing. “We didn’t bring a change of clothes or fresh dressings,” she said eventually. Feeble, Lauren thought. “I can buy anything we need. And we could pick up extra dressings at the hospital.” “Everything’s probably booked up.” Pat continued with the wet blanket responses. Lauren shrugged. Trying not to sound wedded to her island overnighter idea, she said, “Then we’ll just go back to Moon Island.” They slowed to let a convoy of mopeds pass by in the opposite direction. Feeling Pat’s attention flick back and forth between the road and her, Lauren maintained an air of ditzy innocence. For good measure, once they were moving again, she remarked, “I’m bored to tears. Three weeks in the hospital followed by house arrest on a desert island. Bring on the nightlife!” This time Pat could not conceal a faint shudder. “It’s not exactly Vegas, here,” she warned.

Reading this as a yes, Lauren shook out her topknot and let the wind in her hair. “I hope you like dancing,” she said. * “Are you serious?” Cody took the co-pilot seat and fastened her seat belt, looking over her shoulder to check on Briar, who was already nodding off. Airplane noise made their daughter almost as happy as throwing food. “They’re spending the night at a hotel?” “I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Annabel said. “It seems Ms. Douglas wants to sample the local nightlife. Pat looked like she would rather eat glass.” “Yeah. I’ll bet she’s spewing.” Cody laughed out loud at the thought of the stern and serious Pat Roussel being dragged from one island hotspot to the next. Small spaces crammed with drunk tourists were probably any bodyguard’s worst nightmare. She was surprised Pat had agreed to it. But orders were orders, she supposed. No doubt their resident starlet needed more attention than she was getting on Moon Island. “Did you tell her about the Staircase?” “Of course. She said Ms. Douglas wants to take in an island show.”

“Jeez, I’d pay good money to see the locals drag Pat out of the audience and make her wiggle her hips.” “I get the impression you don’t like Pat,” Annabel remarked. “Oh, she’s okay,” Cody said. “I just don’t understand how any self-respecting dyke could do that job. They’d have to pay me a LOT. Oh, by the way. I found out something interesting.” “I’m all ears.” “Lauren Douglas didn’t injure herself in a fall from a horse. Those are bullet wounds.” “And you know this how?” “Atombomb Mariri at the harbor. His daughter works at the hospital.” “Isn’t she a cook?” “Yeah. In the hospital kitchens. Her boyfriend’s an orderly and he read Lauren Douglas’s patient file.” “God, this place.” Annabel groaned. “I wonder how she got shot.” “I guess someone didn’t think much of her show,” Cody suggested, deadpan. Annabel gave her a look. “I’m sure it was just an accident.” “Seems kind of careless to shoot someone twice by mistake.”

“Well, whatever happened, it’s none of our business. ” Cody nodded like she agreed. Sometimes Annabel took good manners too far. They had a guest who’d been shot twice and was now holed up on their island with hired muscle to protect her. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out that they thought whoever had shot her might show up to finish the job. It was probably an exhusband. Maybe she’d dumped the guy when she got famous and he didn’t take it too well. “I’m serious,” Annabel said. “She has a right to her privacy.” “I was thinking, we could look her up on the Internet —just for our own peace of mind. I mean, what say there’s a crazy ex-husband gunning for her. We have a right to know for our own safety.” Cody played her trump card. “We’ve got a child to protect.” Annabel hesitated. “I’m not going behind her back. I’ll speak with Pat.” Picturing Pat and Annabel in cozy conversation, Cody wished she’d never brought up the topic. “That’ll make her day,” she muttered. “You are so transparent.” “I’ve seen the way she looks at you.” Pat Roussel was one of those women who made a show of opening

doors and pulling out chairs for femmy types like Annabel. Cody thought that kind of thing was just plain ridiculous in the twenty-first century. Annabel had a faraway expression on her face. “You’re imagining things.” She slipped her sunglasses on. “And you ought to know by now that even if some handsome stud crawled across broken glass to give me flowers, I would still be yours.” So much for reassurance. Handsome stud. Was that how Annabel saw their gun-toting guest?

Chapter Ten Pat ushered Lauren into their hotel villa ahead of her, nudged the door shut, and dropped several bags of shopping onto an oversized cream armchair. “Want a Coke?” Lauren hit the fridge right away. “Sure.” Pat walked through the lower level, scanning the luxurious surroundings. She could almost hear Cicchetti waxing lyrical about the big favor he did her in setting up this cushy number. Returning to the lounge area, she said, “Nice place.” Lauren handed Pat a bottle of Coke. “It’s perfect.” The actress looked as smug as a cat as she uncapped a Pellegrino for herself. Crossing to a wall of glass, she said, “Let’s go out on the deck. It’ll be sunset soon.” Obligingly, Pat unlocked the sliding doors. Their vast wooden deck was directly opposite the kind of white sand beach she had always envisioned when she heard Hawaiian music. In the distance, she could see a few people scattered along the shoreline, but no one was nearby. This part of the private beach had gated access and was shared by just a few villas. There was seldom anyone around after dark, the receptionist had assured Pat. They didn’t call this a honeymoon villa for nothing.

They had been fortunate to get the reservation. The happy couple who were supposed to be here had been delayed for two days thanks to an airline strike in France. Pat supposed she should be thankful there were two bedrooms so she wouldn’t have to spend the night on a couch. Standing a few feet away, Lauren was as perky as Pat had ever seen her. “This is great,” she remarked. “It’s so fabulous having the beach right here instead of being stuck in the trees like we are on Moon Island.” “It’s very exposed,” Pat noted. “No one knows I’m here and, as you said, no one will identify me looking like this, anyway.” Lauren gave a dismissive shrug. “Let’s just relax and have a good time. Maybe we can catch that bus. The one that goes to all the nightclubs.” “I’ll drive us,” Pat demurred. “I should get changed. I wish you had let me buy you a set of clothes instead of just a fresh t-shirt.” “I’ll survive,” Pat said. “It’s only for one night.” “I wish I’d thought about this before today,” Lauren chattered as they moved indoors. “We could have packed some stuff and stayed longer. Maybe we’ll come back.” She gathered up her shopping and they went upstairs to the huge king bedroom.

Removing Lauren’s purchases from their tissue and laying them out on the bed, Pat made a noncommittal sound. “This one, I think.” Lauren lifted a sleeveless dress with a pattern of white hibiscus against a midnight background. “And this in my hair.” She handed Pat a decorative comb of carved bone inset with abalone. Pat stifled a groan. Babydoll wanted a hairstyle. And guess who would have to play hairdresser. It was even worse than she imagined. After helping Lauren shower and dress, Pat found herself trying to convert the usual topknot into a braided thing. The result hung distinctly to one side of dead center and when she tried to drag it into the right position, the hair loosened, making the problem even worse. “I guess they didn’t teach hair at the FBI school,” Lauren said, giggling. “You got that right.” Pat unpinned the braids and brushed the golden red hair out again. It looked pretty good loose, she thought. “How about this, instead?” She snapped off a white hibiscus from the bowl of flowers decorating the dressing table and secured it behind Lauren’s ear with a pin. Simple. Sexy. She glanced quickly away, her heart abruptly changing gear.

“You’re right. And it matches my dress.” With a big smile, Lauren slid her feet into a pair of strappy sandals and made a turn. “Very nice,” Pat said. Her breathing was constrained, as if something had caught in her chest. “Is something wrong?” Lauren’s dark blue eyes were innocently questioning. Pat carefully schooled her features. “Everything’s fine. I’ll change my shirt and we can go.” “Okay.” Lauren studied her for a long moment. Her smile, so delicately contained, broadened. “Pat, I really appreciate this,” she said softly. “I mean, I know you don’t want to take me out clubbing. It’s nice of you to do it anyway.” “You’re the boss.” Lauren’s smile faded and her face registered slight hurt. Turning away, she picked up her purse and headed for the door, saying tightly, “I’ll see you downstairs.” Feeling like a cad, Pat removed her gun and swapped her t-shirt, damp from the shower, for the new one Lauren had insisted on buying that afternoon. Was it really necessary for her to be so tactless? Lauren was trying to have some kind of happy adventure in which Pat was cast in the role of accomplice. What

harm would it do to indulge her? They both knew Pat was being dragged into it because she was an employee. Did she have to make a big deal of it? Refastening her shoulder holster, she checked herself out in the mirror. Already she was looking more tan than she had been in several years. She brushed her teeth and pulled a comb through her hair, noticing the few silver strands at her temples more than she usually did. Why couldn’t she be more good humored with Lauren? It was hardly fair to resent her as if she were somehow responsible for Pat not being on the job. Besides, her time with Lauren Douglas was time she could not spend obsessing over her case. Wasn’t that a good thing? Determined to stop taking her irritation out on her principal, she buttoned her loose rayon shirt to hide the gun and went downstairs. Lauren was standing out on the deck, a breeze playing with her hair. Facing the sea, she stood immobile, apparently lost in thought. For a few seconds, Pat lingered in the doorway, watching her. Then an odd thing happened. Her pulse raced, her stomach fell, and her mouth dried. It was so long since she’d felt this way, Pat had trouble interpreting the sensations. Anticipation. Taken by surprise, she waited a moment for the

reaction to pass. Shockingly, her feelings only intensified and she found herself unable to return to her normal state of mind. Forcing indifference into her voice, she said, “Let’s go dancing.” Lauren looked across her shoulder. Her eyes were wet. She did not reply. Was this because of Pat’s offhand remark? Mortified, Pat crossed the wooden boards to stand beside her. “Why are you crying?” “I’m not sure.” Lauren wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I was just standing here looking out to the sea and I started thinking about what happened…the things he said to me. Why does he hate me so much? I don’t understand it.” Second-guessing her own responses, Pat resisted the urge to place a comforting arm around Lauren. Instead she fastened her gaze on the infinite expanse of the sea, violet in the fading light. “You’ll make yourself crazy if you look for a rational explanation. There isn’t one. It’s not about you or anything you’ve ever done. You got caught up in a stranger’s fantasies. He was writing his own story and including you in it. He believed his own fiction.” “Intellectually, I can understand that,” Lauren said. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“How could it? You’re powerless to change his script. And that’s frightening.” “I was nice to him,” Lauren said in a hurt tone. “At the cocktail party?” Pat called to mind the lengthy police statement she had read. “Yes. I think he must have dropped those snacks off his tray deliberately so he could talk to me.” “I’d bet money on it.” “He made me uncomfortable. He was really intense and kind of familiar, as if we knew each other. The way he talked and acted…he was…” “Possessive?” “Yes.” Lauren looked up. “It was creepy. I should have listened to my gut.” “What could you have done? No one can anticipate some-thing like this.” “I guess you must run into crazy people all the time in your job.” “I don’t know if I’d call them crazy,” Pat replied. “Evil, maybe.” Lauren shivered. “I couldn’t do what you do.” “And I couldn’t do what you do,” Pat said, intentionally changing the topic. “Trying to remember lines in front of a camera while convincing the audience that you’re someone else. I have no idea how

you manage it.” “Is that a compliment?” Lauren’s eyes sparkled. “I think it could be,” Pat said with a grin. Again she felt those butterflies. Lauren tucked her hand into the crook of Pat’s arm. “Come on. Let’s party.” * The village of Ngatangaiia was still and silent when they returned to the hotel many hours later. Dawdling along a winding pathway through lush, manicured gardens, both Lauren and Pat were heavily garlanded with fragrant ropes of frangipani pressed on them by the locals. No one here went without flowers, Lauren had noticed. Even the men in business suits she’d seen earlier, along the main street, wore woven flax wreaths around their heads as if this were as essential to male attire as a shirt and tie. Senses swimming from Mai Tais and the heady scent of the flowers at her throat, she propped herself against the doorjamb as Pat unlocked their villa. Pools of silvery light illuminated the gardens. The waxing moon hung over Rarotonga like a huge pearly button. Beyond the villa, the ocean caressed the shore, its

languid cadence tantalizing. “Let’s go for a swim,” Lauren said, following Pat from room to room as she checked the villa. “Take off your gun and come with me.” Pat’s face was hard to read. Lauren had the impression she was tempted, but, as usual, she was going to play the personal security card. Unwilling to have this used as an excuse, Lauren persisted. “It’s safe here and you know it. Apart from anything else, we’re the only people awake.” She marched into the bathroom, unzipped her dress, and wrapped herself in a towel. Ignoring Pat’s disapproving frown, she let herself onto the deck, and marched down the wooden steps to the pale sand. “Stop,” Pat said. “Lauren. Wait right there.” Exuding resigned discomfort, Pat removed her shoulder holster, pants, and shirt. Wearing only her black t-shirt and boxer style black briefs, she joined Lauren on the beach. It was almost perfect, except that she had the damned gun in her hand. “Give me your towel,” she instructed Lauren. Puzzled, Lauren handed it over. She wanted to say Get your own . But Pat was already wrapping the gun in its folds. She hadn’t even noticed that without the towel, Lauren was naked except for her skimpy lace panties.

Setting the towel down on the sand, and arranging the folds so her gun would be easy to grab, Pat said, “Just in case.” “Whatever,” Lauren muttered and headed for the tide. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she called, “Please. I’ll feel safer if you come in too.” I’ve won, Lauren thought. Pat had taken off the stupid gun and was doing exactly what Lauren wanted her to do. They were going swimming together. Pat had danced with her throughout the evening and kept opportunistic males at bay. She had been friendly, even charming. But Lauren felt peeved instead of gratified. She might as well be a child for all the interest Pat showed in her. Wading into the warm water, she tried to convince herself that sexual interest from Pat was the last thing she truly wanted. It would be completely irresponsible of her to flirt with an employee of her father’s. Yet Pat wasn’t just any employee. She had an impressive career of her own. The job of protecting Lauren was just a short-term distraction. Once her contract was over, she would return to her own world and there would be nothing to stop them being friends. Or more. Lauren heard a muted splash and realized her companion was already in the water. Irked that Pat

hadn’t waited for her, she observed that dark familiar form surge through the waves parallel to the shore. A short time later, she emerged from the tide a few yards away and stood dripping, head slick, her grin broad and white in the moonlight. She wasn’t even breathing hard after swimming the length of the beach and back. “It’s great,” she said, moving into the shallows so she could stroll through the water. For a long moment, Lauren could not drag her eyes from that muscular physique, outlined in stunning relief by her wet clothing. If Pat were shorter, she might have looked stocky. As it was, she was tall and broad boned, her arms and shoulders well-worked, her thighs powerful. Lauren’s stomach lurched. She felt weak. Breathless. She was aware that she was staring but couldn’t stop herself. She could not think of any time in her life when she had felt so conscious of another woman, in a purely animal sense. The knowledge shook her and she backed self-consciously toward the waterline until the tide was washing around her ankles. “Lauren?” Pat followed her, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?” Lauren extended her hand, connecting with Pat’s arm. “I’m feeling a bit light-headed.” Pat drew nearer still, and slid a supportive arm

around Lauren’s waist. “Let’s go back indoors.” A hot shock of awareness radiated from the place where their skin connected. “No,” Lauren whispered. “I’m okay. Just give me a moment.” “You’re shaking,” Pat said. “I can carry you if you feel faint.” Lauren stifled a nervous giggle. She did feel faint, as a matter of fact. But not for any of the reasons Pat might imagine. Succumbing to a wayward urge, she lifted her eyes, drawing Pat’s steady gaze. Mouth dry, she said, “Just hold me, please.” Something flashed across Pat’s face, dispelling the bland indulgence Lauren had seen there all evening. Clearly torn, she took Lauren in her arms and cautiously held her. As if comforting a frightened child, she said, “Everything’s okay. You’ll get through this. I know it’s difficult.” Lauren turned her head to one side, leaning into the solid wall of that body, listening to the steady thud of Pat’s heart. This was crazy, she thought, but allowed a hand to drift sensually along Pat’s spine. She detected a subtle alteration in the timbre of Pat’s embrace, a breath unevenly released. Turning so they were faceto-face, Lauren drew back just enough to link her hands behind Pat’s neck. Arching her body, she moved

seductively against Pat, inviting a response in kind. For a split second, Pat froze, then her arms tightened around Lauren, drawing her closer until their wet bodies were glued together. A wet ache blossomed between Lauren’s thighs. She touched Pat’s cheek, mutely communicating her desire. Pat stared at her for so long Lauren almost stopped breathing, then lowered her head. Just one kiss, Lauren told herself as Pat’s mouth descended on hers. What harm could it do? But no one had ever kissed her the way Pat Roussel did. At first her mouth was tender, sweetly teasing, coaxing Lauren’s lips apart, drawing a response that was shy and hesitant. As the kiss deepened, it was as if Pat were ruthlessly peeling back layer after layer to reveal Lauren’s most naked self, and it was to that self she spoke. Her kisses grew fierce, passionate, and profound, arousing a need so powerful Lauren could barely stay on her feet. She felt drugged, her pulse a languorous tattoo. Blood, thick and heavy, slithered through her veins. Pat’s hands came to rest flat against Lauren’s ass, propelling her firmly against a hard thigh. Gasping, she curled her arms tightly behind Pat’s back to brace herself. The pressure against her groin was

unbearable. Her nipples felt raw and exquisitely sensitive, grating against the thin cotton barrier of Pat’s shirt. When Pat’s mouth left hers, she released a sharp cry of dismay and pleading. Pat kissed her throat. Teeth sank slowly into the sinew that joined neck and shoulder, then moved downward. Pat’s mouth warmly patrolled the rise of Lauren’s breasts, spreading soft kisses across her goose-bumped flesh. Dazed with desire, Lauren watched as Pat took a nipple between her teeth, tugging it into her mouth and toying with it, barely sucking until Lauren made a small begging whisper. As the pressure on her nipple mercifully increased, Lauren reached for Pat’s head, cradling it close, at the same time working her hips, parting her legs wider so she could bear down on Pat’s thigh. Somewhere in the back of her mind a small voice reminded her that she’d had too much to drink and that maybe she would regret this in the morning, but Lauren could not bear to listen. When Pat sank to her knees, her kisses descending Lauren’s belly, it was all she could do to remain upright. Swaying, she caught hold of Pat’s shoulders, her fingers biting into the tautly knit flesh. In that moment, Pat looked up, eyes gleaming black

in the moonlight. Her question was unspoken. Hoarsely, Lauren answered. “Please. Don’t stop.” She could hardly keep from crying out as Pat hooked a finger in her panties and drew them down, exposing her. Stepping out of the lacy underwear, Lauren was suddenly conscious that they were in the middle of a beach where anyone could see them. As Pat slid an exploring finger along the slippery cleft and gently parted her, Lauren made a small sound of anxiety. Before she could even articulate her concern, Pat stood. “Let’s continue this somewhere more comfortable,” she murmured in Lauren’s ear and swung her off her feet. * Cradling Lauren effortlessly, Pat strode up the beach, and into the villa. In the downstairs bedroom, she adjusted the lighting to low and, with one hand, pulled back the bed covers. Instead of lowering Lauren onto the sheets, she held her close and sat down on the bed, Lauren in her lap. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, stroking the redgold hair away from Lauren’s flushed face.

Lauren blinked up at her, transparent in her desire. “I don’t care.” Conscious of those injuries all the same, Pat eased Lauren gently from her lap onto the bed. Stripping off her own wet t-shirt and boxers, she lay full length on her back and stretched out her arms, inviting, “Climb on top.” Even in the muted light, she could tell Lauren had blushed. But she slid a leg over Pat and sat on her belly, her wet core slippery against Pat’s flesh. Drawing Lauren down, until she could feel the brush of her nipples and smell the familiar musky floral scent of her skin, Pat cupped each side of her face. “Are you sure about this?” Lauren nodded. “Are you?” “No,” Pat said. “But since I spent most of this evening wanting to drag you off the dance floor and make love to you…” “Funny that,” Lauren said. “I kept hoping you would.” They laughed softly and Lauren slid a little further up Pat’s torso. Rocking back on her heels, she grasped Pat’s hands and lowered them to her beautiful breasts. Pat took the hint and softly squeezed, lost in the feel of her. Her skin was smooth and soft, her body supple and deliciously feminine, with its defined waist and

girlish belly. Pat had never been attracted to women with a similar built to her own. She loved softness and curves, the contrast of full breasts against her more muscular body—that seductive combination of strength and vulnerability. Moving her hands over Lauren’s flesh, she could barely believe they were making love and it felt so right. Perhaps in another time and place, she might have been able to choose a rigid professional ethic over this. Right now, she couldn’t and she had stopped trying. Changing position, she lowered Lauren onto her back, automatically arranging the pillows to relieve pressure on her wounds. She longed to feel Lauren’s legs wrapped around her waist, to cover her body and move deep within her. But, careful not to allow her full weight to descend, she propped herself on her hands, and rocked her body against Lauren’s. Their lips brushed. Eyes closed, they kissed deeply, drinking from one another. Lauren’s hips moved against her in a rhythmic plea Pat could not ignore. Shifting her weight, she slid a hand between those slender legs, finding her wet and open. A rush of arousal stifled her breathing. Heart speeding, she parted the yielding flesh and gained

sweet entry. In the same moment Lauren’s eyelids fluttered and she met Pat’s gaze. Her eyes blazed hot with anticipation. “Fuck me,” she whispered. It was not like any other first time Pat had experienced; their bodies were so in synch. Somehow Pat could sense what Lauren craved. Decoding her small soft sounds, responding to the insistent cues of body and senses, she adjusted angle and rhythm, and finally moved down the bed a little so she could use her mouth as well as her hands. Lauren’s flavor was sweet and salty, like mulled seawine. With lips and tongue, Pat rolled back the protective hood of flesh over her clit to expose the tiny rigid organ beneath. This, she delicately sucked and licked until she could feel her fingers drawn deeper. As Lauren’s arousal heightened, Pat maintained her relentless focus. Eventually, she felt Lauren flood and compress, heard her soft moans grow guttural. Sensing she needed no more direct stimulation, Pat lifted her head. Breathing hard, she gazed at Lauren, captivated by the fierce concentration on her face, the interplay of pleasure and yearning. In that moment Pat was consumed with a hunger so intense she broke into a

sweat. It was all she could do not to seize Lauren in a hard embrace, ram herself between her legs, possess her with bruising certainty. Shaking, she murmured, “Come for me, baby,” and watched with melting awe as Lauren finally capitulated to bliss. For a long while, Lauren clung to Pat, quivering. Face-to-face, they communed in passionate silence. Lauren touched Pat’s mouth. Pat cupped Lauren’s cheek. Each placed a hand to the other’s heart. Lulled by the hypnotic press of flesh and bone, and by the whispered harmony of waves breaking beyond their window, they drifted into sleep.

Chapter Eleven Lauren lay in contented reverie. She had slept late and awoken alone, but could hear the reassuring sounds of Pat moving around in the villa. Smiling, she rolled onto her stomach. Her body clamored with the memory of Pat’s touch. Every nerve ending seemed raw. The very thought of making love again made the blood rush in her ears. Consumed by wild joy, she pictured the two of them returning home, traveling back to St. Michael’s where Pat would be introduced to Lauren’s brothers, who would drone on about golf and the economy, like anyone was interested. Her mother would approve; Lauren could see she had warmed to Pat. Her father would decide Pat wasn’t good enough for his daughter, as if anyone ever could be. Pat would give up her depressing job and take a nominal position in the family business. Maybe she could be head of security or something. Lauren would return to her career in a blaze of glory, with Dr. Kate’s amazing survival story topping the weekly ratings. The weirdo who shot her would get twenty-five to life. She would be safe and everything would be perfect. “Lauren?” Pat stood next to the bed with coffee and

a plate of chopped fruit. Thrilled to see her, Lauren sat up and pushed sleeptumbled hair away from her face. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” Pat set the tray down on the lamp stand and opened the blinds. Instead of returning to kiss Lauren, she stared out the window, said, “Shit!” and bolted from the room. Startled, Lauren got out of bed and ran to the window. Two children were standing on the beach a few yards away. One of them, a flaxen-haired boy no older than six, was holding Pat’s gun. He had it pointed directly at a little girl who looked even younger. “Oh my God,” Lauren gasped. Frantically, she donned a bathrobe and slid her feet into her sandals. By the time she reached the beach, Pat was kneeling between the two children, blocking the little girl’s body with her own. The gun was just inches from her chest. Very calmly, she spoke to the boy. “Listen to me, sweetheart. That gun is dangerous because it has bullets inside.” As she spoke, she gestured to Lauren, who immediately grabbed the small girl and carried her away. “Will you be very brave and do something for me. See that flowery bush. Just throw the gun gently over there. Not hard. Just a little throw.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Lauren screwed up her eyes as the boy tossed the gun. Thankfully it did not go off. “Good boy.” Pat put her arm around the child’s shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. Did you think it was a toy?” He nodded, fighting back tears. Pat took his hand. “My name’s Pat and this lady is Lauren. What’s your name?” “Brendon.” He pointed at the little girl. “Her name’s Amber. She’s my sister.” “Okay, Brendon. Where are your mommy and daddy?” The little boy pointed vaguely toward several villas on the other side of the gardens. “Wonderful.” Pat hissed, eyes glittering with fury. Leading Brendon over to join his sister and Lauren, she said to their small visitors. “I have a good idea. What say you sit here on the beach with Lauren and I’ll get some milk and cookies? Then, we’ll go see your mommy and daddy.” “They could come back to the villa…” Lauren began. Pat shook her head swiftly. Frowning at Lauren, she said in a good-humored voice, “No tricking. Brendon, do you know why that was a trick?”

Brendon nodded uncertainly. “Don’t go with strangers?” “That’s right. And do you know what to do if a stranger tries to make you go with them?” “Say no.” Pat nodded. “Yes. And another thing is to yell very loud. Here’s what you say. Help!” Pat yelled. “He’s not my father!” Laughing, Brendon echoed the yell and Lauren clapped loudly. “Okay. I’m going to go get those cookies.” Her face drawn, Pat strolled over to the hibiscus, retrieved her gun, and went indoors. Shaken, Lauren spoke brightly to the children about any banal thing she could think of. Her skin was damp with sweat and she felt nauseous. The image of the little boy pointing the gun at his sister replayed over and over in her head. For some reason it disturbed her far more than the subsequent moment when Pat had knelt between the children, risking her life. Lauren had felt a brief sickening terror then. But it was instantly followed by a certainty that Pat would control the situation and no one would be hurt. She stared out at the ocean, trying to calm her racing heart. She could hardly breathe. A tearing

sensation in her chest filled her with fear. Was this a heart attack? Gasping, head spinning, she cast an imploring look toward the villa and was flooded with relief when she saw Pat emerge with the promised milk and cookies. Handing these to the children, Pat maintained eye contact with Lauren, her expression concerned. “You look very pale,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought I was having a heart attack. I almost fainted. Now my head is pounding.” Pat took her hand. “I think you might be having a panic attack. It’s quite normal after what you’ve been through.” “This is a panic attack?” “Sounds like it.” “I haven’t had this feeling before.” “Some people don’t have them until years after a traumatic event,” Pat said. “Try to relax. Think of a tune you know and hum it to yourself.” “Raindrops on roses?” Lauren said with wry humor. “Don’t worry, be happy?” Pat grinned. “Whatever rocks your boat. Now, I better take Brendon and Amber back to their parents. You know…before Mom and Dad start worrying and all,

being such conscientious parents that they sent two tiny kids out here alone where any damned thing could happen to them.” “You sound mad.” “It pushes a few buttons.” Pat changed the subject. “How do you feel now?” Lauren drew a deep, shaky breath. “I think it’s passing.” “Go indoors and lie down,” Pat suggested. “I’ll be back in a few.” Lauren waited until Pat and the children were out of sight, then retreated into the villa and locked the door. A panic attack? She had always imagined these were a simple case of mind over matter. That the people who claimed to have them were probably suffering from some imagined illness. The sheer physicality of the sensations astounded her. There was nothing imaginary about palpitations, sweat, and dizziness. The sensations were all too real. Lauren took some iced tea from the bar fridge and slowly sipped the sweet liquid, her eyes on the door. It had only been a few minutes, but already she felt like she would start sobbing if Pat didn’t return soon. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, she could not control a new onslaught of fear. Terrified, she closed the

blinds, hurried up the stairs to the king bedroom, and locked herself in the bathroom. For a moment she hung over the basin, splashing her face with cold water, then she began to retch. * “Lauren?” Pat strolled through the empty villa, taking in the half-finished glass of iced tea on the counter and the fact that all the blinds were now closed. Finding no trace of her principal, she sprinted up the stairs to the king bedroom, alarmed to hear audible groans coming from behind the bathroom door. “Lauren. It’s me,” she called, knocking. “Open the door, baby.” Almost before she had stopped speaking, Lauren stood ashen-faced and speechless in the doorway, a toothbrush in her hand. Knowing what she was going through and longing to give her the comfort she needed, Pat enfolded her in a warm embrace. “Everything’s okay. This will pass. I promise you.” Sobs racked Lauren’s body. Against Pat’s chest, she cried, “Why did this happen to me? Everything was perfect. Now it’s all such a mess. What am I going to

do?” Wordlessly, Pat led her to the bed and lay down with her, cradling her as close as her wounds would permit. Stroking her hair, she said, “I’m so sorry this happened. I know you’re feeling awful.” “I felt so good when I woke up. I just don’t understand how it can change to…this.” “Poor baby.” Pat had learned, after working with several people suffering from PTSD, that it was more important to empathize than to try and ‘talk sense’ into the person affected. It had struck her, after the loss of her mother, that in some ways mourning was a similar process. It simply had to take its course. Fighting it only made recovery more drawn out. As Lauren’s sobs subsided to hiccups, Pat took her hand and said, “If you want to talk, I’m listening.” Lauren was silent for a long while. “It’s all true,” she said, eventually. “The stuff in the newspapers. I’m a lesbian.” “I had a feeling…after last night,” Pat teased gently. Lauren responded with a watery smile. “I wanted to tell you before. I’m sorry.” “You have nothing to apologize for. I wanted to tell you that I’m gay, too. Guess I blew my cover now.” Lauren glanced up at her. “Did you guess about me?

Before last night, I mean.” “On some level, I must have,” Pat mused. “I was attracted to you and that usually doesn’t happen with straight women.” She was relieved by the shift in Lauren’s mood. One day Lauren would want to talk on a deeper level, but it would happen in its own time. “Attracted, hmn?” Lauren made a small huffy noise. “You managed to hide it well.” “Not for long,” Pat said with dry self-mockery. Lauren made a small contented sound and snuggled into her. “By the way.” A flirtatious note entered her voice. “Did I mention how good you were?” “No. But it’s not too late.” Lauren gave her a playful prod. “If we didn’t have to check out of here, I’d have my way with you again.” “Oh, really?” Pat grinned. “Admit it.” Lauren propped herself on her elbow and traced a finger across Pat’s lips. “You’re secretly begging for it.” “Uh-huh.” Lauren’s face grew serious all of a sudden. “Pat …thank you for…everything. And for taking care of me. I don’t know what I would do without you.” For some reason the comment jarred. Pat repeated the words mentally. She felt a vague disquiet. She had

intended to give Lauren a sense of security, not make her completely dependent. But Lauren was working through profound stress, she reminded herself. It was only natural that she would lean heavily on the nearest grown-up. As soon as she started to come to terms with what had happened, her attachment would loosen. Whatever happened between them in the end, Pat was content to take it one day at a time for now.

Chapter Twelve The Aroha Gift and Flower Shoppe was one of a sea of eclectic stores that lined Avarua’s main street. Crammed with everything from shell necklaces and postcards to funeral monuments and real estate listings, it was a just a few doors from the hospital. Chris had dragged herself out of the Blue Note Café in time to meet Cody and Annabel there. Now they were choosing gifts for the woman they were about to visit. “It sounds like she’s doing better,” Annabel remarked, hanging up the in-store pay phone. “She was lucky. It was a perforated appendix.” “I can’t believe those guys from the boat aren’t planning to visit her,” Chris said. Annabel made a small, disgusted noise. “That’s why I wanted us to make an appearance.” “Did you say there were some guests we have to pick up later?” Chris asked “Yeah, an actress and her hired muscle,” Cody chipped in. Not her favorite people, Chris surmised from the grimace that accompanied this statement. “They stayed over yesterday for the er…night life.” Annabel selected a cheery bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates, and handed these to her

companions. Already weighed down with parcels, and pushing Briar in a baby buggy, Cody shied away the additional burden, leaving Chris to juggle the bouquet and candy with her own shopping. “Have you found a card?” Annabel asked. Hands full, Chris nodded toward the counter. “I put a couple of contenders over there.” While Annabel studied the get-well cards, Cody sidled over to Chris. In her hands was a booklet called

The Blooming Bride: Signature Flowers For Your Big Day. Acting like she was reading this, Cody said in an undertone, “I was thinking. It’ll be kind of crowded with three of us at the hospital. There’s this game I want to take in, so here’s the story. I’ll tell Annabel I need some parts for the outboard. Briar will stay with you guys, and I’ll meet you back at the airport later on. Okay?” “Why don’t you just tell her?” Chris protested. She could not imagine Annabel insisting that her beloved miss a sports match just so she could tag along to stand at a stranger’s bedside for a few minutes. “She thinks I sneak off to rugby every time I’m over here with her.” Cody’s air was that of a woman misjudged. Chris could hardly keep her face straight. “Hey, this is between you and her. Leave me out of it.”

Annabel turned, and with a quizzical glance at Cody’s reading material, said, “Is there something you need to tell me, honey?” Cody’s face was the picture of guilt. “Uh…you won’t need me at the hospital, will you? Because there’s a couple of errands I need to run.” With an expression of bland forbearance, Annabel checked her watch. “If you go now, you can catch the entire second half.” Cody feigned innocence. “Oh, you mean the Samoa game? I forgot about that. Well, if you think it’s okay, and you don’t mind if Briar stays with you—” “Hey, Cody,” Chris cut her off before she dug herself into a bigger hole. “Quit while you’re ahead.” Trying not to display unseemly haste, Cody rearranged the shopping in the buggy’s storage rack, kissed Briar and Annabel, and lightly clapped Chris’s shoulder. Watching the coltish figure scarper out the door, Annabel slowly shook her head. “I don’t get it,” she said as the store assistant rang up the sale and wrapped the flowers in fancy tissue. “It’s not like she’s fooling anyone.” Chris grinned. She liked Annabel and Cody. They were so normal.

* Penny Mercer was surprised to see them. She was a lean woman with a boat deck tan and clear hazel eyes so expressive they registered her delight several seconds before the rest of her face caught up. It was worth waiting for that smile, Chris thought as Annabel made the introductions. Penny was the kind of woman who could light up a room. Not that she was beautiful. In fact, most people would probably find her ordinary. Her light brown hair was parted in the center and framed her angular face in short braids on either side. The ends were sunbleached to dark honey. Wispy bangs disguised a high forehead and just touched straight eyebrows the same honey color that tinted her hair. Pushing a stray wisp back from her eyes, she urged, “Please sit down. This is so nice of you.” “You look much better,” Annabel said, taking one of the empty vases from above the hand basin and arranging the flowers. “Other than a bunch of stitches and a bad case of jaundice, I feel almost human.” Penny’s hazel eyes settled on Chris. “Did she tell you I was at death’s door

when they brought me here?” “Actually she didn’t have to. You made the front page.” Chris produced the Cook Island Times for that day. “Explorer Escapes Jellyfish Death ,” Penny read the headline aloud. She looked astounded. “Jellyfish?” “Inventive,” Annabel commented. “Makes a change from shark.” “This is nonsense,” Penny scanned the page with disbelief. “It’s like someone just sat down and made up the whole story…The glamour-girl ocean expert from

Hollywood was allegedly diving in a provocative striped bikini. Warning ladies! Local fishermen think this could have agitated the jellyfish, causing their deadly attack. Oh my God.” “Well, they couldn’t interview you,” Annabel pointed out. “And everyone knew you were admitted to the hospital. I guess they had to come up with something.” Penny laughed with such unabashed mirth Chris felt light-hearted just watching her. “Ouch.” She winced, clutching her middle. “That really hurts.” “Are you saying all those shark stories are bullshit?” Chris asked Annabel. “Let’s face it, nothing gets the tourists opening their

wallets faster than a shark scare,” Annabel replied. “If you were told a couple of great whites were enjoying their annual feeding frenzy at a beach near you, wouldn’t you pay money for a scientifically proven shark repellent patch?” “Does it actually work?” Chris had lost count of the youths who’d accosted her on the main street, hawking anti-shark kits at twenty-five bucks apiece. Tomorrow it would be the jellyfish version, no doubt. “As a member of the Cook Islands Chamber of Commerce, I’m not sure I want to answer that.” Annabel lifted Briar from the stroller and sat her on the floor with a chunky jigsaw puzzle. “Look at it this way,” Penny suggested, wiping her eyes against the back of one hand. “Even if it only gives people the illusion of safety, it’s money well spent.” “How long are they going to keep you in here?” Chris asked, wondering if Penny had any other visitors. Like say, a jealous husband. “Another five days,” Penny said. She sounded dispirited all of a sudden. “Doug’s replacing me. It can’t be helped. We’ve only got so long before the money runs out.” Annabel nodded. “I’m supposed to be picking up

your new crew member at the airport today.” They had all agreed that it would only arouse suspicion if Annabel refused to transport Penny’s replacement. The Aspiration II was exploring deep water a couple of miles off the Sacred Shore. Doug seemed to think Penny would understand that they couldn’t afford to lose time standing vigil at her bedside. Chris was unimpressed with these priorities, but who was she to question naked avarice? She was a lawyer, after all. “I wonder how they’re doing.” Penny sounded wistful. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything.” Annabel smiled. “You think your boss would tell me?” “I’ll probably be the last to know,” Penny said dryly. “After all, I’m only the person who came up with the historical tide gauge algorithms and bathymetric change data set that led us to the search zone in the first place.” “Ooh, I want your job,” Chris said, making a face. Penny groaned. “I spend way too much time with nerds.” “We can fix that,” Chris immediately rejoined. “I’m going away from a few days, but when I get back we’ll bail you out of here. Come down to Trader Jacks and I can promise you, you won’t meet anyone with an IQ

over a hundred, myself included.” Again, that irresistible smile. “I can hardly wait.” “It’s a date, then.” Chris lowered her head so no one would see the color that suddenly warmed her face. Helping Briar put her final piece in the jigsaw, she said, “I guess we should be going.” “So soon?” Penny sounded genuinely disappointed. “Come on. Stay and help me eat these chocolates.” Ten minutes later, as they walked from the hospital, Annabel said, “Very slick.” “Even if she’s not on the boat, those guys will keep her in the loop,” Chris responded with confidence. “And when she gets the news, I’ll be there to hear all about it. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.” Deep in thought, Annabel did not respond right away. “What’s the other bird?” she asked eventually. Chris cleared her throat. Annabel shot a sideways glance at her. “I see. You think she’s gay?” Chris chewed the question over. She had no idea. All she knew was that she hadn’t felt a flicker of interest in a woman since Elaine. It was nice to feel alive for a change. “I guess I’ll find out,” she said. *

As soon as Pat met Cody Stanton’s eyes, she knew their laid-back Kiwi host had drawn the obvious conclusions from Lauren’s body language and vivacious chatter. “Did you get to see the island show?” Cody enquired, faking disinterest. At the same time, her gray eyes tracked Lauren’s limpet-like hand as it roamed from Pat’s arm to her nape. “It was great,” Lauren enthused. “The dancers are so erotic. And when they picked people from the audience. That was hysterical. You should have seen Pat out there with those guys gyrating around her.” “I wish I had,” Cody said with conviction. Keeping a tight rein on her expression, Pat changed the topic. “How’s the patient today?” “Um…she’s doing better. Annabel and Chris went to see her.” Cody looked inexplicably sheepish. “I had some errands to take care of.” “I was thinking,” Lauren declared. “We should organize a day when all the guests come over here and we go to one of those feasts where they cook the food in the ground.” Pat caught a flash of horror on Cody’s face before it was supplanted by polite interest. “I’ll suggest that to

Annabel.” Lauren tucked her arm into Pat’s, happily oblivious. “You can put us down for it.” This time Cody was unable to contain herself. With the lucid frankness Pat had found to be the bailiwick of folks Down Under, she observed, “Hey, if you two don’t need that extra bedroom anymore, I’ve got some guests who’d like to swap accommodations.” Unhelpfully, Lauren cast a flirtatious look at Pat. “Maybe we could do that.” Pat could almost hear Wendall Douglas. What the

hell have you done to my daughter? I’m calling your boss at the FBI. You’ll never be promoted again. Lauren was behaving like a teenager, she thought, stunned. Could this kittenish creature be the same woman who held down a television career and asserted herself with chilly self-confidence just a week ago in that hospital room? What in God’s name was she playing at? Not wanting to embarrass her in front of Cody, Pat said, “I think it’s better if we stay put.” “No worries.” Cody shrugged. “I’ll tell the others they’ll just have to work it out. It’s a bit late to sign up for a romantic getaway, then decide you want a divorce.”

Lauren heaved a sigh. “I feel really sorry for them. When I threw my ex out, I never wanted to see her again.” Why not take out an advertisement in the local papers, Pat thought. Lauren Douglas, TV star and

Congressman’s daughter, flaunts lesbian affair. Wendall Douglas wasn’t just going to destroy Pat’s career, he was going to kill her. Feeling like a deer in headlights, Pat informed Cody, joking but very serious, “You didn’t hear that.” Cody held Pat’s stare and lifted her eyebrows fractionally. It seemed to be dawning on her that Lauren’s behavior was odd. “We’re particular about our guests’ privacy,” she replied. “Thank you.” Pat glanced around at the sound of voices. Mercifully, the rest of the passengers were walking across the tarmac, led by Annabel. “Pat, maybe you could get Ms. Douglas settled into her seat so she’s comfortable, before we board everyone else,” Cody suggested. “Good idea,” Pat said. As she escorted Lauren to the plane, she demanded, “What are you doing? Do you want the whole world to know we’re…involved?” Lauren looked startled and hurt. “I don’t know what

you mean.” Impatiently, Pat hustled her onto the plane and showed her to a seat near the tail so they could speak without the rest of the passengers eavesdropping. Trying not to sound as angry as she felt, she said, “We need to talk about this, Lauren. This is not just about you and me. It’s about keeping you safe and making sure you are not vulnerable. Gossip has a way of spreading.” “But we’re miles away. Can’t we just be ourselves and enjoy what’s happening between us?” Pat took a deep breath, “What do you think is happening between us?” Lauren gazed at her, starry eyed. “Love at first sight.” Oh God. Pat grappled for a foothold on the slippery slopes of storybook romance. “Baby,” she said, carefully. “This could be something wonderful. But it’s early days. We don’t even know one another yet.” “Are you saying you don’t feel the same way about me?” “I don’t think I believe in love at first sight. I believe love grows over time between two people who are strongly attracted from the start.” “Was it just sex?” Lauren withdrew her hand. Pat touched her face. “It was much more than just

sex.” “Are you angry with me?” “No,” Pat said. “I’m concerned for you. I don’t want us to make a mistake that you might have to pay for. Do you understand?” Lauren’s head drooped. “I think so.” She ran a hand across her eyes. “Are you going to leave me?” “No, of course not.” Pat found herself reacting to the forlorn tone and defeated body language. Wrapping her arms around Lauren, she said, “Just slow down. I’m not going anywhere. We don’t have to make everything happen overnight.” Lauren clung to her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she choked. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.” Pat kissed the top of her head. She understood that Lauren’s extreme insecurity and neediness were symptomatic of her condition. It was almost as if she had regressed to a younger version of herself. Pat was furious with herself for not thinking this through properly before jumping into the sack. It had been a huge mistake. Making love had changed everything because it changed the boundaries their dynamic was built on. To Lauren, Pat was no longer the bodyguard paid to protect her; she was a lover—someone who could walk away just like that.

Pat should have seen this coming. Angry with herself, she stared unseeingly at the seat back in front of her. How could she have allowed herself to abandon one of the basic tenets of the job? Don’t get involved. With anyone—witness, colleague, and now…client. It was completely unlike her to lose her head this way. She was always the first person to condemn such conduct as weak-minded and selfish. What was her excuse? That she was horny? That her attraction to Lauren had temporarily overwhelmed her principles? That she just wanted to feel like a normal person on a romantic vacation for an hour or two? All of the above, she admitted inwardly. For once, she had not rationalized. She had not weighed consequences. Not only had her lapse in judgment made Lauren feel less secure, it had almost led to a tragedy. Two small children had found her loaded gun on the beach. Pat felt queasy. She had to get a grip on herself; she had to make this right somehow. What was she going to do?

Chapter Thirteen Passion Bay. Lauren imagined a couple so much in love they had named this perfect beach in honor of what they’d shared here. Who were they? On a wall at Annabel and Cody’s home, she had seen a photograph of two women and an ethereal blonde toddler, obviously Annabel as a child. Was she the daughter of lesbians? One of the women, dark-haired and overtly butch, wore elegant men’s clothing. Her riveting stare seemed a challenge across time, daring the world to deny her existence, the fact of her arm around the waist of the girlish woman next to her, and her hand on the head of the toddler standing between them. There was no mistaking her claim: Posterity also has a lesbian face. Something in the woman’s demeanor reminded Lauren of Pat. She decided both were the kind of women brave enough to be self-defining, to live their lives without social sanction or disguise, to risk being outsiders. How very different their choices were from Lauren’s. Personal honor meant something to such women. Their integrity was not up for grabs. They would never pass as heterosexual because it was expedient. Where did they find that courage?

Lulled by the drowsy motion of the incoming tide, half-swimming half-floating in the warmth of the salt water, Lauren peered across the silver gilt sands to a multi-hued beach blanket. Pat sat resting her elbows on her knees, the ubiquitous binoculars trained on the lagoon. She had finally ceased her insistence on wading with Lauren as she swam, instead sitting beneath the palms, intermittently reading the grim volumes she’d dragged along with her to paradise. Lauren raised her arm in a languid wave, and Pat waved back. Her calm presence was comforting, yet Lauren was troubled. It had been two days since their return from Raro and they had not made love again. Instead of moving into Lauren’s bedroom, Pat had remained in her own. They were together all the time, yet Lauren had an odd feeling that Pat was avoiding her. She’d even stopped the regular “be aware, be prepared” lessons. When Lauren asked what was wrong, Pat always said the same thing. Let’s take it slowly. Was that a euphemism for Let’s not go there again? Despondently, Lauren flipped onto her stomach and mooched along the shoreline in a mutant version of sidestroke. The memory of Pat’s touch brought with it

churning butterflies and a longing so desperate she was forced to redefine her entire sexual history as little more than a practice run for the real thing. When she thought about Sara, she felt humiliated. How could she have set the bar so low? How could she have read so much into Sara’s lukewarm attentions? Even if she never slept with Pat again, just one night in her arms had provided Lauren with a whole new frame of reference. Having felt so alive, so awakened to herself, with a virtual stranger, she could see that her relationship with Sara was at best sterile and at worst, a farce. She had spent three years in a hiatus of unconcern, because she knew no better. Recalling Sara’s forceful attempts to have her sign over half of her property, Lauren finally understood why she had balked. On some deep level, her spirit had resisted. Part of her knew something was not right and that she deserved better. Lauren’s eyes prickled. She thought about her father’s cynical words. The way he saw it, Lauren was little more than an apartment and an ATM card to Sara, a whistle stop on the road to the American Dream. Sara’s single-minded pursuit of the trappings of social success had seemed almost admirable to Lauren. Her lover had not been handed a gilt-edged future on a

plate, as Lauren had. What was wrong with her being ambitious? Wasn’t Sara’s way the American way? Even now, Lauren found herself justifying her ex. Who was she to judge a woman who had to tread on some toes to carve out the opportunities Lauren and her friends took for granted? Sara was no better or worse than any of that legion of women who chose their partners for cynical, self-serving reasons. All the same it hurt. Lauren hated to think that she did not exist for Sara but as a means to an end, that Sara hadn’t loved her; she had envied her. What stung Lauren most was not that she had loved this woman and been betrayed. It was that she’d been made a fool of. She had seen what she wanted to see —just like the maniac who’d shot her. Lauren supposed it was the human condition to deny reality when it flew in the face of fondly held beliefs. Her father and his politician friends counted on it. Lauren must have heard them discuss the ‘lemming factor’ a thousand times. Finally, she understood the expression. Well, she was not blindly running over any cliffs again in the near future. When she had her next long-term relationship, it would be with someone who had a very different set of values, someone who loved her for

herself. But how would she know? Lauren steered herself into shallow water and lowered her feet to the sea floor. Automatically, her eyes fastened once more on Pat. Every instinct she possessed told her Pat Roussel would never feign love where it did not exist. But perhaps she was deluding herself, yet again seeing what she wanted to see. Pat was dead right. They should slow down. If nothing else, Lauren needed time to process everything that had happened in the past two months and make some decisions about her life. A new relationship would be a tempting way to distract herself from all that was painful and difficult about the present. But it was time to grow up. It was time she took responsibility for herself. Out of the corner of her eye, Lauren caught a movement in the water a few yards away. Coming straight for her, a dorsal fin cut the gleaming blue surface. Shocked into a piercing scream, she splashed her way frantically out of the water and collapsed on dry sand, her heart pounding violently. A shark! At the airport, she had seen a front-page headline in the local newspaper about a great white sighting. Maybe the terrifying predator had smelled her wounds and come into shallow water looking for a

quick meal. She was shaking uncontrollably when Pat grabbed her and turned her over, urgently looking her up and down. “Baby, what happened? Are you okay?” “There’s a shark.” Lauren pointed at the tranquil lagoon. “Over there. I saw it. Just a few yards away.” Pat released her. “I believe you.” She got up and stalked into the water, scouring the bay. “Please don’t go in!” Lauren pleaded. “They can attack people in knee-deep water.” At that moment, the lagoon erupted and a silver form shot high in the air in a rolling somersault. Whistling and screeching, a dolphin crashed back into the sea and surfaced a moment later, staring at Pat and Lauren as if expecting something. “Oh my God.” Lauren’s fear subsided into astonished delight. Feeling foolish, she scrambled to her feet and hurried to Pat’s side. “I’m such an idiot.” “No, you’re not. Better safe than sorry.” Pat dropped her sunglasses into her front pocket and slipped her arm around Lauren. “I think it wants to meet us.” Slowly, they advanced toward the graceful visitor. As they drew near, the dolphin flipped onto its back and swam a few feet, waving its flippers and making soft clicks. Keeping pace, Pat and Lauren followed,

moving into deeper water. The dolphin circled them and swam so close, Lauren felt the cool, sandy brush of its skin. In disbelief, she extended her hand and the dolphin bunted it very gently with the top of its head then stood upright in the water, gazing at her. Propelled by a strange conviction that this was what the dolphin sought, Lauren moved toward the animal and embraced it. A strange joy flooded her and her eyes filled with tears. It was almost as if she could sense what the dolphin was thinking, yet there were no words to express the mystic content of its message. Lauren closed her eyes and made some clicking sounds, trying to imitate its language, wanting to say something back. She was aware of Pat staring at her, eyes bright with an emotion Lauren could not fathom. She released her hold on the dolphin and it glided away from them, flicking its tail just enough to propel it slowly through the water. Lauren stared after it, committing to memory the distinctive dorsal fin, pale silver with a dark, featherlike stripe. If she saw that fin again, she would recognize it. “You two seemed to hit it off,” Pat remarked with gentle humor. Lauren hesitated. “I felt like it was speaking to me.” “What did it say?” Pat sounded genuinely interested.

Lauren struggled to give shape to her thoughts. “This will sound silly. I felt love.” Detecting no trace of mockery, she continued, “It was like being wrapped in a blanket when you’re really cold—you know, kind of warm and peaceful and content.” Pat smiled. Taking Lauren’s hand, she steered them out of the water and back along the beach. “I guess it thought you needed that.” Lauren felt stunned. She had wondered how she was supposed to recognize love, how she could tell if someone truly loved her, and it was as if the dolphin had answered. A strange joy seeped through her. Blinking up the sun, she said, “Have you ever been in love, Pat?” Pat was quiet for a few seconds, then, in a neutral tone, she answered, “It’s hard to say. At the time I thought I was.” “I suppose we all do.” “Well, everyone wants it to happen.” Pat sounded philosophical. “You think we just convince ourselves?” “Sometimes, maybe. Hell, I’m no expert.” Pat shook the sand from their beach blanket and repositioned it, along with their cooler and Lauren’s bag and towel, in the shade of some coconut palms.

Lauren sat down and pulled a bottle of water from the cooler. She took a long swig, then passed the bottle to Pat, who had elected to share the blanket with her instead of returning to her deck chair and weighty reading matter. Relaxed but watchful as always, she leaned back, propped on her elbows, strong legs extended. Her tan was deepening by the day, Lauren observed, making her eyes seem greener. Her hair had grown. Thick and dark, it now fell slightly over her forehead. Lauren was reminded of a young Greek sailor who had once manned a yacht owned by friends of her parents’. He and Pat shared the same disturbing androgynous beauty. When Lauren was twelve, the two families had spent a summer holiday together, cruising the Aegean Sea. The sailor, Leonidas, had befriended her, eventually escorting her and her mother to a panigirias, or festival, at his village on the island of Sifnos as a guest of his family, who were hosting the event. Lauren remembered the evening festivities as one of the happiest times of her childhood. Leonidas’s four sisters, feminine versions of their striking brother, had dressed her in village costume and taught her local dances. They had urged her in broken English to come

back one day and bring her own children. In her mind’s eye, Lauren could see the terraced, scrub-dotted reddish slopes, with their ancient stone walls and whitewashed houses, the donkeys dozing under anything that passed for a shrub, the profound cobalt of sea and sky. She could hear goat bells and children laughing. Sifnos was timeless, the simple camaraderie of village life as remote and unreal as if it took place on Mars. By contrast, her life seemed cluttered and frantic, bereft of meaning. And it had almost been taken from her. Lauren confronted that simple, shocking truth squarely. Had she died there in a department store parking lot, what would she have lost? What would she have regretted not doing with her life? What would her death have meant to anyone other than her family? The answer was disturbing. Her life was essentially worthless. She was a woman playing the role of a doctor, tending imaginary injuries, faking emotions she did not have, making statements she did not believe, for an audience of people she would never know. And in order to live out this farce, she had to lie about who she really was. All for money she did not need, and socalled fame, increasingly the province of the professional attention-seeker.

Did she really want to spend the rest of her life competing for media-play with people whose contribution to humanity was inversely proportionate to their need for ego-pats? Lauren cast a sideways glance at Pat and wondered what this woman, who lived a life that was actually about making a difference, really thought of her. Impulsively, she asked, “Pat, am I the kind of person you would make friends with? You know…if we weren’t in this situation.” Pat was silent for a moment, then she said, “If you and I had just met somewhere, I doubt we’d have gotten to know one another enough for a friendship. We don’t have much in common.” Well, that was frankly spoken. “Do you like me?” Pat seemed cagey. “I care about you.” Lauren let that sink in. Pat was paid to take care of her. Was that all Lauren was to her—a job and onenight stand? Refusing to believe that, she said, “Why aren’t we sleeping together? Is it because you don’t like me as a person?” “No. It’s nothing like that. Damn…I wish our situation was different.” “What do you mean?” Pat took her hand. “Listen to me. I like you. I care for

you. But I’d rather things were on a professional footing between us from now on.” “You’re breaking up with me?” It was not as if they had a relationship, Lauren thought as soon as she had spoken. She wasn’t really sure what they had. Nothing, from the sounds of it. She withdrew her hand. Pat did not resist. “What I’m saying is that while we are here and while I’m your father’s employee, I would prefer that we don’t blur the boundaries.” “Then why did you sleep with me?” Lauren demanded, angry over Pat’s calm logic, her after-thefact misgivings. Pat’s face was shuttered. “I made the wrong choice —for both of us. Lauren…please,” she said as Lauren threw her things together and got to her feet. “Sit down. We need to talk.” “I’ve heard enough. You’ve made yourself quite clear. ” “I don’t think I have.” Pat scrambled to her feet and seized Lauren’s arm. “I’m trying to be sensible. Maybe too sensible. I would love to sleep with you again. But if we do, if we have this…interlude, I think it’s all we will have. And I’m not sure I could settle for that.” Lauren stood still, struck by the conviction in Pat’s

voice, the stark emotion in her face. “Why couldn’t we have more?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.” “You have to trust me on this,” Pat said, releasing her arm. “It’s the wrong time for either of us to get involved. Even if you feel ready, I know I’m not. There’s something I’m dealing with and until it’s over, I…” Pat broke off, as if she had said too much. Lauren could tell she was truly upset. How little she knew this woman, she reflected. Pat had taken time out of her job because she needed a break. Only now did Lauren understand what that must mean to someone like Pat. She wasn’t taking time out because she felt bored, or wanted a tan. Something profound must have happened and selfishly, Lauren had never even tried to guess what it might be. “Can you talk about it?” she asked carefully. “There’s no point.” Pat was her detached self again. “It’s something I have to resolve for myself.” Lauren bit back a frustrated protest. Clearly Pat found it difficult to discuss her feelings. Given her line of work, she had probably trained herself not to show vulnerability. At least she hadn’t said she wasn’t interested in a relationship at all. Lauren was willing to bide her time…to build some trust and see what happened. She slid her hand into Pat’s and tried to

rise above her own disappointment. “I understand. Thank you for telling me. Friends then? For now?” Pat squeezed her hand, relief visible in her face. “I’d like that.” * Cody sank down onto a crush of rotting vegetation and retrieved a water flask from her backpack. “This is hopeless,” she said, studying the photocopy they had taken off the original map Annabel kept in a bank deposit box. “X should be right over there, but there’s just that bloody great rock. We’re never going to find it. ” Chris’s eyes roamed the jagged formation Cody was glaring at. They had explored the area around it at length, using their hiking poles to probe the terrain for suspicious openings. “At least the views are good from up here,” she remarked. “I’m going to take some photos.” “Knock yourself out. I’m not moving.” Cody slumped against her pack and pulled her hat over her eyes, apparently planning a nap. Chris picked her way along the makatea toward the cliff edge and stared down at the Sacred Shore. One

hand strayed to the heavy gold locket she always wore. She drew a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. Is it okay? she cast her silent question to the winds. An odd sorrow had settled on her, since meeting Penny Mercer. Her attraction to the marine scientist rattled her. The thought of acting on it filled her with guilt. How could she be disloyal to Elaine’s memory? Chris had come to believe she would never feel anything for a woman again and in a way that was a relief. On an intellectual level, she knew her late lover would not have wanted her to spend the rest of her life alone. Last year, on the beach hundreds of feet below, Elaine had come to her in spirit and she had released Chris. She had told her to be happy, to live her life without regret. Chris had tried to convince herself that her inexplicable experiences on the Sacred Shore were merely hallucinations. She had certainly felt drugged by the bitter-tasting drink the island women passed around during the rituals dedicated to Hine te Ana, a goddess who protected the island. But, in her heart, she believed the impossible—that Elaine’s ghost had been present that night, that they had shared a final goodbye. Chris opened the locket and gazed down at Elaine’s

picture. Give me a sign that it’s okay . No answering gust of wind shook the palms. No shadow crossed the sun. The birds did not fall silent. With a sigh, Chris dropped the locket back inside her t-shirt and resumed her careful progress. The makatea on the southern face was the most dangerous on the island. Precipitous cliffs faced an ocean torn by rip currents and restlessly pounding the shore. From her vantage point, Chris could not imagine how anyone could swim in to the small beach below, yet according to legend, the goddess Hine te Ana had done just that. And last year, while Chris was holidaying on the island, so had one of the other guests —Olivia Pearce. Chris wondered how she was doing and hoped she and her lover Merris were happy. Last she’d heard, they were somewhere in Italy and Olivia had been hired to write songs for a movie. Once more Chris stood at the base of the rock formation and gazed up. If anybody had buried a treasure here, it would have to be in a fissure or cave. So far, she and Cody had uncovered nothing but a beehive and a shred of what looked like someone’s lacy underwear. Annabel’s theory was that the map Chris had found

when she was caving was not a buried treasure map at all. She was convinced the X on it marked the entrance to the cave of Hine te Ana, the island’s most sacred site. According to legend, there was a magic pool in the cave that could grant wishes, but anyone who looked into its waters uninvited would be cursed. After lengthy discussions, they had agreed Chris and Cody would dig up the spot and see whether Annabel was right. Based on their futile attempts so far, Chris felt sure there was no danger anyone would ever stumble across this sacred cave while they were hunting for treasure. It was time to turn back. Annabel had no need to worry. The island’s secrets were safe. Chris had an idea. She would take some photographs of the inaccessible terrain to prove her point and set Annabel’s mind at ease. Lifting her camera, she took a few steps back and framed a wide-angle shot of the rock formation and the dense jungle that skirted it. She snapped a couple of pictures then zoomed in, wanting a closer shot of the jagged, fissured wall. As she prepared to take the photograph, she froze, transfixed by the sight of a huge bird emerging from what looked like solid rock about thirty feet up. The bird stood surveying its domain from a

narrow ledge straight above the spot where they’d found the torn lace. They hadn’t climbed any higher. “Cody,” Chris yelled. After a few seconds of silence, she stumbled back to the reclining woman and shook her awake. “I’ve seen something.” Cody’s wide gray eyes blinked foggily at her. “Is it treasure?” “That’s what we’re going to find out.” Chris yanked her to her feet and handed her a pair of protective gloves. “Let’s go.” They scaled the sharp rise to the point at which they’d turned back last time and looked up. From where they were standing, it was impossible to see any kind of gap, certainly nothing a sea eagle could have nested in. “Let’s try the north side,” Chris said. Grunting and cursing, they scrambled over a boulder and up to a ledge that snaked behind the western face of the rock wall. The ledge broadened and channeled into a vertical seam that had been invisible from where they’d stood earlier. It was barely wide enough to admit a person. At the entrance to this was a substantial bird’s nest with two eggs in it. Just above eye level, several strings of white shells hung like markers from a small protrusion.

“Oh my God.” Cody touched the shells and stared into the dark opening. “We’ve found it.” They stood in awe, staring at one another. Hine te Ana’s cave was tapu—forbidden. “Let’s just conceal the entrance and go back,” Cody said, casting nervous glances toward the sky as if expecting to be struck by lightning at any moment. “No way,” Chris said. “This looks like just the place for someone to hide treasure. We’re going to check it out.” Besides, she wanted to see this legendary cave, tapu or not. Cody looked pained. “Okay,” she conceded. “But first…” She unclipped a pocket knife from her belt and calmly sliced into her forearm, just enough to draw blood. She painted a small triangle on the rock next to the shell marker and closed her eyes, mumbling something Chris could not make out. Then she passed the knife to Chris, instructing, “Ask permission from the goddess to enter and promise you won’t tell anyone where the cave is.” “Can’t I promise without the bloodletting?” “It’s an offering,” Cody said, deadly serious. “It symbolizes mauri…life force.” “If you think that’s going to stop us getting cursed, who am I to argue?” Chris took the knife and followed

suit, half in earnest, half astonished at herself for buying into absurd superstition. “Okay. That’s my O positive. What are we waiting for?” Cody dug around in her pack, produced a couple of flashlights and rappeling gear, and leaving most of their stuff outside, they squeezed warily along the narrow crevice for a few feet. Abruptly this fell away in a steep drop and they heard the sound of water gurgling. Training her flashlight down the entry shaft into the darkness below, Chris was astonished to see what looked like mats and quilts around a pool of water. “This is definitely the place. I can see the pool.” “Jesus. How far down is it?” “About thirty feet.” “Well, I’m not jumping. Let’s get roped to that boulder and we can rappel down.” Cody vanished back the way they came. A few minutes later, they descended into a cool, dark chamber unlike anything Chris had ever seen. A shaft of bright sunlight spilled from a chimney high above, bouncing off crystalline walls. Flowering creepers and fleshy plants trailed down from the cave entrance, scenting the air. Necklaces of shells hung from rock and crystal formations and water seeped from some source deep in the earth, spilling into a

glassy pool in the center. If there had been candles around the walls the grotto would have passed for a religious shrine. “This has to be the cave Olivia talked about,” Chris marveled. “I thought maybe it was just wishful thinking or something. You know…after everything she went though.” “Don’t look in the water,” Cody warned, averting her face as they approached the pool. “Man, I am so creeped out.” “We’re not going to be cursed.” Chris elected herself the voice of reason. “We donated blood and we haven’t done anything wrong. I guess we should search the pool in case that’s where the treasure is.” She felt distinctly uneasy about that prospect. “No fucking way,” Cody said. “I am not touching that water.” “Okay. We’ll leave it till last,” Chris said. “Let’s take a look over there.” They crossed to the other side of the cave, where there seemed to be another way out. Cody pulled herself over a ledge, aiming her flashlight ahead, “There’s a path.” She sounded excited. “And carvings. This must lead down to the beach.” Gripping the hand Cody extended, Chris hauled

herself up and over, wishing she were thirty pounds lighter. Since Elaine’s death, she had blimped in front of the television and comforted herself with junk food. Every super-sized burger meal seemed to have landed around her middle. It was time to stop. The path was a series of steep steps carved into solid rock, each about two feet tall. On either side, the walls were etched with a recurring motif. Chris’s fingers traced triangles and long curved feather-like shapes. She recalled the geometric tattoos she had seen on the priestess and some of the local women present at the rituals. The design was the same. “This is incredible,” she said, shining her flashlight around. “I wonder when they carved this out. It must be hundreds of years ago. Maybe thousands.” Cody paused on one of the huge steps, catching her breath. “Whoever they were, they had really long legs.” She sank down onto the step below Chris’s. “Want a drink?” “You bet.” Chris sat her flashlight on the step, leaving it turned on to provide them with some light. Cody passed Chris the water flask. “I don’t think there’s much point us going all the way down to the Sacred Shore.” “I agree. There’s nothing down here.” And frankly,

she could do without having to climb hundreds of feet if they could avoid it, Chris thought. “Maybe there’s no treasure after all.” Cody sounded a little deflated. “The dead guy with the map probably wasn’t a pirate at all,” Chris conjectured. “He was probably a navy deserter from this ship they’re talking about. He must have rowed ashore, climbed this cliff, and found his way in here. Maybe he left some stuff here and decided to explore. He made a map so he could find his way back.” “You think he went looking for signs of life on the island and fell into that cave where you found him?” Cody said. “Broke his ankle…couldn’t get out.” “It makes sense. There’s no way he could have climbed up here with thousands of gold coins. Imagine what they’d weigh. The ones I found in his boot were probably his wages.” Cody stood. “No one ever has to know you found that skeleton.” “That’s right. He’s not going anywhere.” Chris got to her feet and did a couple of stretches. She was so out of condition her legs were aching. “It would have been cool to find a real buried treasure.” Cody sighed.

“It’s all at the bottom of the sea,” Chris said, struggling up the first carved step. “God, I can’t believe we have to climb back up fifty of these suckers.” Cody shone her flashlight up past Chris, illuminating the carved relief of the walls. “Take it slowly,” she said. Chris laughed. “I don’t have much choice.” “Let’s cut the lights and save our batteries so we can have a really good look in that cave. Can you feel your way okay in the dark?” “Sure.” Chris flicked off her torch, closed her eyes for a moment to adjust, then opened them again. About twenty yards ahead a sliver of sunlight pierced the darkness, filtered from a gap high above. She hadn’t seen it so plainly on the way down, with both their flashlights illuminating the steps. Cody was climbing like a mountain goat, taking two steps for every one of Chris’s. Embarrassed over her own sluggish progress, Chris picked up her pace. This also had to change, she decided. With Elaine, she’d kept herself fit. She would never be thin—her build was naturally solid and besides, she didn’t feel right without some meat on her bones. But these days the meat was running to fat and she had almost no physical stamina. They had only hiked for a couple of hours and she was exhausted. A woman like Penny

Mercer would not be caught dead with a couch potato lover, Chris guessed. Not that they were necessarily going to be lovers. For all Chris knew, the woman was straight. She hoisted herself onto yet another step and halted, panting. She had a stitch and it felt like one of her hamstrings was about to pop. “Hey, Cody?” she called. “I need to stop a minute.” “You okay?” A disembodied voice floated down. It sounded like Cody was miles away. “I’m fine. Go on without me.” “No way, mate. Take it easy. I’ll wait here.” Chris took a few deep breaths. Normally she never felt claustrophobic, but right now she did. All she could think about was reaching the light of day. Trying to calm herself, she fixed her gaze on the shaft of sunlight and headed for it. Soon she would be out in the fresh air. They would go back and tell Annabel the good news. She would have some delicious snacks ready for them. Chris would take a long, warm bath. They would sit out in the shady verandah at Villa Luna and drink a little wine. Annabel had invited the other guests on the island to a barbecue. One of them was single and seemed really nice, she had breezily informed Chris that

morning. Chris had to smile. She had sensed Annabel had something up her sleeve when she’d asked Chris to come stay a few days. Apparently she fancied herself as a matchmaker. Chris reached the sunlit step and sat down to take a drink. “How are you doing?” Cody called, this time sounding closer. “I’ll survive.” Chris capped her flask and got to her feet. Something caught her eye—a bright glint to her right. She stared at the spot. The sunlight was playing off something that looked metallic. Curious, Chris moved sideways and almost lost her footing. The step fell away into a void. Lucky they’d been sticking to the opposite wall, where the carvings guided them, she thought, reaching for her flashlight. Standing near the edge of the step she trained a beam into the darkness. Round bright golden eyes stared up at her. “Cody!” Chris yelled. “Get down here.” * “You’re kidding me,” Annabel said as Chris and Cody sat on the verandah steps, removing their hiking

boots. To her horror, both women reached into their pockets and dumped a handful of large golden coins onto the wooden planks at her feet. “There are thousands of them,” Cody said. “We’re rich.” “I’m rich,” Chris corrected her, laughing. “I found them, remember.” “I was about to come down and help you,” Cody said. “I would have seen them.” “This is just perfect.” Annabel groaned. “Now they’ll find that damned wreck, discover the missing coins, and draw the obvious conclusions. They’ll be all over this place like a rash.” “What obvious conclusions?” Cody asked. “Couldn’t someone have found the wreck first and taken the money? Why would they assume it’s here?” “Because the ship sank off our shores. Think about it,” Annabel said patiently. “You’re the captain and you’re under attack by pirates. What do you do? You keep the enemy busy, load as much gold as you can onto a lifeboat, and row for the nearest shore.” Chris nodded. “You’re right. That’s exactly what those salvagers are going to think.” Annabel poured iced tea into two tall glasses and

handed these to her sweaty companions. “At least we didn’t have to search the pool,” Cody said, sinking into a cane chair. “And we made a blood offering before we went in the cave.” Chris pointed to a cut on her arm. “We have to get the treasure out of there,” Annabel said, thinking out loud. “Forget it,” Cody said. “Jeez. No one’s ever going to find that cave. Honestly, babe. We only found it by accident.” “If you could find it, so will someone else.” Annabel felt bad about sounding so discouraging when Cody and Chris were so thrilled by their discovery. But she could not get excited. The gold would have to be moved. She couldn’t risk having Hine te Ana’s cave exposed. “I know what we’ll do,” she said, an idea percolating. “Penny Mercer…she’ll be leaving the hospital in a few days and I think she should come here to recuperate.” Chris gave her an odd look. “You want the enemy staying on the island?” “Absolutely. And not just staying. I want her exploring.” Annabel sat on the chaise lounge and sipped her tea. “Picture this. There’s Penny in the Kopeka Cave. Chris, you’re her guide to the natural

wonders of the island. You both stumble across a few golden guineas.” “In the vicinity of that slippery slope down to the other little cave…” Chris caught on right away. “Where she finds Mr. Bones, our resident pirate, and a big swag of treasure.” “Imagine that,” Chris said dryly. Cody looked appalled. “You’re going to give the treasure to them?” “No. I’m going to give the treasure to Chris and them,” Annabel said. “It’s only fair. After all, if Chris hadn’t found Mr. Bones and the map in the first place, we’d never have found Hine te Ana’s cave.” Chris started to say something, then seemed to think the better of it. “Why don’t we just split the treasure with Chris.” Cody was indignant. “It’s on our land, after all. I can’t see why we have to give anything to Doug and his mates.” “Because we don’t need the money and I want the Aspiration people to leave happy and let the whole world know there’s nothing left on this island to be found,” Annabel said. “Anyway, it would be nice if Penny could be the hero of her crew.” She caught

another look from Chris and smiled innocently. It was the perfect solution, she thought. Chris gets to impress a woman she is obviously interested in, Doug and his pals won’t need to send out the search parties when they find a few thousand coins missing from their shipwreck, and any public interest will center on Mr. Bones and his cave. All they had to do was retrieve hundreds of pounds of solid gold from a cursed cave up a dangerous cliff, row it out across incredibly treacherous waters under cover of darkness, then transport it on their backs halfway across the island and conceal it deep within the Kopeka Cave. What could be simpler?

Chapter Fourteen “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry something? ” Lauren asked, guiltily watching her bodyguard approach. Pat was carrying all their gear in a substantial backpack. Not that the weight seemed to bother her. She had barely broken a sweat in almost two hours of hiking. The expedition had been Lauren’s idea …something friends would do…a scenic hike into the center of the island where, according to their hosts, there was a beautiful waterfall. As Pat made it to the crest of the ridge, she handed Lauren one of the spare water flasks she had dangling from her hip, as if this would lighten her load. “You can carry this,” she said. “It’s kind of annoying bouncing around.” Lauren wanted to point out that lugging a gun probably didn’t make Pat’s belt comfortable, but she held her tongue, having already made her opinion about hiking with a firearm perfectly clear. She tied the flask to her belt and briefly studied the hiking map Cody had provided. “I think we’re coming to the path,” she said, peering ahead and spotting a bright pink coconut shell wired to a tree. “The pink markers are for

the waterfall trail and the yellow ones lead to the bird cave.” As they descended from the sparsely treed ridge, the jungle air was once more thick and moist, the vegetation so dense that it seemed the creepers and shoots were engaged in a perpetual struggle to reclaim the pathway. Lauren could see the track to the waterfall had only been cut recently. The greenery on either side was littered with severed palm fronds and tangles of dead creeper. These would soon rot down and form part of the cycle of regeneration that was so apparent in this wild, natural place. Like Rarotonga, Moon Island’s interior seemed untouched by humanity. The route they had taken led them inland across the makatea, a fossilized coral reef that had once been under the sea. The formation was razor-sharp and slow to traverse, thanks to numerous small holes disguised by the fleshy creepers and ferns that covered the jungle floor. Cody had insisted they take steel climbing poles with them, to ensure safe footing, and Lauren quickly saw why. This was such a beautiful place, it would be all too easy to forget it was also dangerous. She wondered how many guests had broken an ankle trying to explore without the right equipment.

Lauren stopped for a moment, enchanted by several pretty little birds that were hopping from branch to branch as they proceeded along the trail. She was amazed at how tame the creatures of the island were. The mynahs and fruit doves that lived around the villa showed no signs of fear when she approached, and some would even sit on her shoulder. They had no reason to think ill of human beings, she supposed. And there were no predators on Moon Island; the place was a veritable Garden of Eden. She extended an arm and to her delight, a small apricot-breasted bird landed on her palm and studied her as if she were a curiosity. “It’s a kakarori,” Pat said, coming to a halt behind her. “They’re an endangered species that’s making a comeback here. I read about it in the visitor guide.” The gregarious little bird made a rapid twittering sound and flew off, joining several companions in a papaya tree a few yards away. “I wonder what other animals live here,” Lauren mused, sensing they were being watched, probably by countless tiny creatures invisible to the human eye. She just hoped none of them were giant jumping spiders. “Birds, lizards, bats, small mammals,” Pat said. “We’re the only dangerous species on the place.”

“It’s amazing.” Lauren picked her way carefully down a slippery gradient. “It feels so prehistoric. All you can hear is squishy noises and birdcalls. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere that there’s no cars.” Moon Island must be one of the few places in the world without a single road, she thought. And the only power supply came from generators. It was amazing that Cody and Annabel had been able to do so much with the place. Lauren was surprised she wasn’t missing the comforts of home more; who knew how quickly a person could adjust to lukewarm showers and no television? In this faraway place, the days seemed longer, the nights more restful. Except for the last few. Despite their agreement to be “just friends,” Lauren still lay awake yearning for Pat. Sometimes she even contemplated sneaking into bed with her in the small hours, just so that she could smell her and feel her. But that wouldn’t be enough. She would want to make love, and knowing that was not going to happen, it was easier to sleep alone. Lately Lauren had found herself wondering if Pat had only said she still wanted her sexually, just to soften the blow. If it were true, surely she must be just as frustrated as Lauren was. And wouldn’t a woman like Pat do something about that? In her darkest moments,

Lauren suspected that for Pat, the encounter on Rarotonga was just a hot one-nighter, no matter what she said about wishing they had met under different circumstances. Talk was cheap. If she really wanted Lauren, keeping her at a distance made no sense. Slowing down, Lauren mopped her face on her tshirt. The dull pain of her shoulder was starting to wear her down. She hoped they would reach this waterfall soon. “Tired?” Pat caught up with her. Lauren cast a quick look back over her shoulder. “I’m fine.” “As soon as we get there, I’ll find the painkillers.” Pat checked her watch. “It’s been more than four hours since your last dose and causalgia is no picnic.” “I feel like a junkie,” Lauren muttered. “Trust me. You’re not a junkie,” Pat said. “Let’s slow it down some. This isn’t a triathlon.” “I suppose you do those in your spare time.” “I used to.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Of course you did.” The woman was a chronic over-achiever. When did she have a life? Abruptly, Pat unclasped her pack and lowered it to the ground with a thud. “I’ll get those painkillers now.”

“No. I’m fine. I can wait.” “You’re grumpy as hell and you’re bracing that arm like every movement hurts.” Pat withdrew a first aid kit from a zipped compartment on top of the pack. She shook a couple of pills from a bottle and handed them to Lauren. S he was being grumpy, Lauren realized as she washed the tablets down with a swig of tepid water. Maybe it was her shoulder that was the main problem and not the celibate footing of their relationship. Pain could make everything harder to bear. She probably had things out of proportion. And after all, she had accepted Pat at her word and agreed to settle for friendship, hadn’t she? Avoiding Pat’s penetrating stare, she tightened the cap on her water flask and said, “Thank you. It has been bugging me.” “No problem.” For a moment it seemed Pat was going to say something else, then she shouldered the pack once more and they walked on. A short while later, Lauren heard the unmistakable sound of water against rocks. It sounded so inviting she could hardly wait to get there and cool off in the pool Cody had described. Increasing her pace, she all but slid down the final incline to a small clearing.

Someone had erected a hand-carved sign that said Te Wai o Aroha. Probably some kind of goddess reference, Lauren assumed the island was littered with them. She was only grateful the place was not marked tapu, which meant either sacred or forbidden, usually both. She hadn’t come all this way to miss out on a swim in cold, fresh spring water. A narrow pathway skirted the clearing and led through a stand of sweet-smelling frangipani trees to a secluded pool so beautiful it took Lauren’s breath away. Water cascaded down a dark rock face, over huge moss-clad boulders, into the tranquil waters below. Surrounded by overhanging mango trees and gleaming stone ledges, it was almost like a magical grotto. White hibiscus flowers drifted across the surface of the water, cast off by the many bushes that clung to the steep rock walls. Tiny birds hopped from branch to branch, their calls reverberating like dulcet wind chimes. Captivated, Lauren sank down on one of the overhanging ledges and set about removing her boots. Hearing Pat’s approach, she called, “I’m over here. Isn’t it incredible?” “Unreal.” Pat dropped the pack next to her and

stood, a thumb hooked over her belt, taking in the surroundings. Looking delighted, she crossed the boulders to stand nearer the falls and got down on her belly, hanging over a lip and running a hand through the water. “It’s pretty cold,” she said. “Fantastic.” Lauren rid herself of her shorts, t-shirt, and underwear. Her skin was sticky and the areas beneath the dressings itched. “I’m going in.” “Wait a second. I’ll help you as soon as I’m done.” Pat pulled towels and drinks from the pack and spread them out under the shade of a tree. “I can manage by myself,” Lauren said, knowing she sounded edgy. She clambered down to an overhang and peered into the water below. It looked deep and clear. Cody had said the pool was safe to dive into. Lauren started to lower her legs but did not have the strength in her injured shoulder to hold herself poised on the ledge for a controlled drop. Unwilling to risk injury, she drew back. “I have a better idea.” Pat now shared the overhang. Stripped down to her sleeveless t-shirt and boxer shorts, she stretched out her hand. Her face registered no response to Lauren’s nakedness. “Come with me.” Piqued by this indifference, but accepting she needed help into the water, Lauren allowed herself to

be led around the pool to a gap between two boulders. “Look.” Pat pointed to the right of the waterfall. “There’s a shelf of rock. If we go in here, we can swim over to it.” Before Lauren could speak, she’d dropped into the water, sinking out of sight. A few seconds later, she surfaced and kicked her way back to Lauren’s feet. Lauren swung her legs over the ledge and let go. She’d barely broken the surface when Pat caught her beneath the arms and drew her up. Spluttering slightly from the shock of cold water against hot skin, Lauren shook the hair from her face and automatically clasped her hands behind Pat’s neck, allowing herself to be half-carried, half-floated along. They had swum this way so often, it seemed instinctive. But Lauren hadn’t been in Pat’s arms for almost a week, and the feeling brought with it a stampede of sensation. She closed her eyes and breathed in Pat’s scent. If she turned her face slightly, her mouth would graze Pat’s skin, ostensibly by accident. Lauren gave in to the urge, imprinting Pat’s taste and smell. Memory toyed with her nerve endings. She opened her eyes and met a steady emerald gaze. Neither woman looked away. Languidly, they kicked their way around the perimeter of the pool, an unasked question drifting

between them. Lauren could feel every inch of the skin she occupied, from the prickle of her scalp to the slithering sensation of water between her toes. She tightened her grip around Pat’s neck, then her feet were no longer gliding and she was upright, standing on solid rock in the shimmering spray of the waterfall. Sunlight seeped through the tree canopy above and refracted in the cascading water, casting a myriad of tiny rainbows. Noise receded, supplanted by the drum of Lauren’s heart, the ebb and flow of blood in her veins. Between them, the air grew hazy with feeling. Something in Pat’s expression altered. She stroked the sensitive hollow at the base of Lauren’s spine, and Lauren tilted her head. Pat’s tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and Lauren’s lips yielded like lock to key. Still they stared at one another, anchored in the certainty of this beat in time, this kiss, this place; unburdened by what should be, by the dictates of sterile common sense. The kiss deepened. Pat’s hand slid between Lauren’s thighs, parting flesh. Opening to her, taking her in, Lauren felt like a witness to her own undoing. Contentment blended with fire. The soft sounds in Pat’s throat echoed her own. She was falling, and trusted implicitly that there was a net

waiting for her. Lauren wrapped her legs around Pat’s middle, taking her deeper inside. Sensation magnified, doubt receded, as they worked together in the primal embrace of lovers. Lauren had thought she knew her own body—the tides of her arousal, the familiar climb before release. But with Pat, she found herself in a landscape as foreign yet familiar as a dream. Her body spoke another language, a mother-tongue long known to her soul. It bared her from the inside out; she could pretend nothing, conceal nothing. I love you. Lauren tried to form the words, but all that broke across her lips was a cry from deep down, as her body contracted and flooded, and her eyes closed against the impossible brightness of what she now knew. “Baby?” Time had passed; Lauren had no idea how much time. She felt Pat’s fingers ease from the flesh that enfolded them, leaving their impression within. Her feet found substance and she stood, wobbly but safe in Pat’s embrace. Blinking, she focused on Pat’s face and took a mental photograph so she would always know the truth. It was there in the blinding green of her eyes. Shock and the recognition that it was too late

—an arrow had pierced her guarded heart. Lauren lifted a hand to her face. Wordlessly Pat transported her through the water, to the gap between the boulders, and had her wait there, gripping the overhang. After hoisting herself from the water and up over the rock, Pat got to her feet and bent to help Lauren up into the warm afternoon air. They lolled on their soft towels. Pat took Lauren’s hand and kissed the palm. She still didn’t speak. Lauren guessed she couldn’t.

Chapter Fifteen Lauren sat on the corner of Pat’s bed, her expression uncertain. “Can I sleep with you?” “Of course, baby.” Pat drew back the covers, accepting the inevitable with as much grace as she could. Neither of them could pretend this afternoon hadn’t happened, and that it hadn’t changed everything. Pat had spent the entire hike back to the villa trying to reason with herself that they were just two red-blooded women stranded together in an impossibly romantic environment. Who could be surprised that they could not keep to their agreement about boundaries? She should have known better than to bathe in a pool whose Maori name meant “the waters of love.” Pat took complete responsibility. She was older and wiser. She had a professional obligation to conduct herself in the appropriate manner. Now she had not only fucked the boss’s daughter, but seemed to be falling for her as well. How had this happened? It was one thing to be horny after months of celibacy and briefly lose the plot, quite another to break every rule in her own book. Emotional involvement was bad news. The bottom line was even if she wanted to see

Lauren Douglas after this assignment was over, she would be kidding herself if she thought it could work. What she was going back to was an investigation that left no room for anything but eating and sleeping, a case that had stripped her of emotional energy for anything else. If she tried to have a relationship, she would fail and they would both be hurt. That was a sure thing. Heavy with sadness, Pat flicked off the bedside lamp. “Come here,” she murmured, one arm extended. Lauren rolled onto her side, her head on Pat’s shoulder, a small hand curled contentedly over Pat’s heart. “Pat, can I ask you something…” Dreading the question, Pat said, “Yes.” “What are you thinking about? You’ve been so quiet. Ever since…this afternoon.” “I’m thinking about you.” Lauren lay very still. “You are?” The tension left her body and Pat could feel the muscles in her face move to form a smile. “You’ve been on my mind, too. I was thinking…when we get back, I could maybe come stay in Philadelphia for a while. I could commute for filming.” “You’re very sweet.” Pat kissed the top of her head. She could not bring herself to say anything that would cause pain. And part of her, against all rational thought,

insisted that maybe there was a possibility it could work out and she would be a fool to burn her bridges. Nestling closer, Lauren continued with her happy conjecturing. “I don’t have to stay at your place. I’ll look for an apartment near you. Would you like that?” “My place is on the small side,” Pat said, avoiding a direct answer. “This is amazing,” Lauren mused, her hand sliding to Pat’s breast, the fingertips rolling back and forth across her nipple. “I had no idea it could be like this.” Her hand trailed down Pat’s body to her belly, then to her thighs, caressing so delicately Pat’s skin erupted in goose-bumps. “That feels good,” Pat said, her voice husky. “But it’s late. Let’s sleep.” Lauren stiffened. The exploring hand stilled for a moment, then she slid her leg over Pat’s thigh, laughing softly. “You can sleep through it if you want.” Stealing between Pat’s thighs and nudging her legs apart, she stroked with teasing precision, just firmly enough to make Pat crave more. Despite the delicious sensations, Pat’s mind and body were at odds, voices in her head growing louder by the second, urging her not to give in to her own physical needs, reminding her that things were moving

too fast. Already Lauren was talking about something more permanent. It was a charming daydream, but it couldn’t happen. Pat had to nip these illusions in the bud, find some way to let Lauren down gently before they both got in so deep getting out would be ugly. Allowing their intimacy to become completely mutual was not the right signal to send. As Lauren continued her persistent caresses, Pat forced herself to detach. As she so often did in the field, she distanced herself emotionally and became clinical in her responses. She had allowed everything to get out of control this afternoon at the waterfall. Even now she was giving Lauren mixed messages. It was time to put the brakes on before this got any more serious. Lauren’s hand grew still. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice muffled against Pat’s breast. “You seem far away.” “I’m sorry,” Pat said. “I’m just kind of tired.” “Is there something else that would please you more?” “No, baby.” Pat drew Lauren’s hand to her mouth and kissed it tenderly. “Another time. Okay?” Lauren was quiet for a few beats. “Okay.” She sounded confused and hurt. “If that’s what you want.”

“It doesn’t always have to be turnabout, you know.” Pat injected a little humor into her tone and felt the tension seep from Lauren’s body. “I just don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of pillow princess.” “I don’t.” Pat kissed her cheek. “Relax. Everything’s fine.” She held Lauren close until she felt her breathing deepen and her limbs grow heavy. Then she eased her onto her back and slipped quietly out of bed. She had to talk with Lauren honestly, explain that they had no future and it would be best if they ended this fling before someone got hurt. Maybe the right moment would present itself tomorrow. * Lauren opened her eyes with a start and reached for Pat. But the other side of the bed was empty and the pillow was cold. She surmised Pat must have gone to the other room to sleep. Maybe Lauren had been hogging the bed, or tossing and turning. Pat had said she was tired. Being the practical person she was, she would have done the sensible, unromantic thing and slept alone.

Lauren turned onto her side and listened to the sounds of the island—wind rustling the palms, the steady pulse of waves against the reef, the unmistakable plop of mangoes falling to the ground. She closed her eyes and tried to return to sleep, but a pressing disquiet hummed like the chorus of a song she wanted to forget. Her mind drifted to Pat’s withdrawal during their love-making and she bit her lower lip. Lauren knew she had not imagined her sudden sense that Pat was no longer fully present in her own skin. She hadn’t seemed tired until Lauren started making love to her. What was really happening? Lauren tried to come up with some possibilities. Perhaps Pat was one of those women who preferred to make love to her partner, and did not enjoy reciprocation. Or maybe she had issues—perhaps the kind of work she did made it hard for her to relinquish control. Lauren wished she had pressed Pat for the truth instead of accepting her excuses about being tired. How would they be able to take their relationship to a deeper level if Pat felt she had to pretend in their intimate life? Lauren was an adult. She could have an adult discussion with her lover. It was time Pat trusted

her a little bit. Restless, she threw back the sheets and got out of bed. She hesitated at the adjoining door between their rooms, but decided three in the morning was not the time to have the deep and meaningful conversation she wanted. Instead she padded quietly into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of juice, and retreated to a sofa near the verandah doors. This was one of the few times since coming to the island that she really missed television. Right now, an episode of Seinfeld would be just the thing to take her mind off Pat. Lauren flicked on a lamp and tried to remember where she had left the paperback she was reading. Scanning the room, she caught sight of a stack of books and files that belonged to Pat. Curious, she wandered over and opened the file on top, expecting to see official looking papers. What greeted her was a color photograph of a child’s body in a makeshift grave. With a start of horror, she dropped the file cover over the shocking image and took a deep, steadying breath. Then she opened it again and leafed slowly through photographs too ghastly to take in, and page after page of explicit notes detailing crimes no ordinary person could bear to contemplate. She tried to

imagine how anyone could live a normal life seeing this every day of the week. Lauren carried the files over to a small table by the sofa and spent the next hour or so reading through them. From what she could piece together, Pat was investigating a string of murders by a fiend who chose child beauty queens as his victims. Lauren could remember seeing some of these cases on CNN. This was why Pat had needed time out, she reflected, and this was what she would be going back to after they left the island. No wonder Pat seemed remote so much of the time. This was what preoccupied her. These were the images that haunted her every waking hour, and perhaps her dreams as well. Lauren could not imagine how stressful it must be. She was filled with shame over her own self-pity and the petulant behavior she had indulged in when Pat first came on the scene. With a sense of shock, Lauren understood that Pat’s world was much larger and more complex than she had imagined. It was not as if she had bothered to find out. She had been perfectly content to know almost nothing about the woman she’d allowed inside her body. Suddenly, Lauren was aware as never before of her own narrow experience of life. Here she was, happily

fantasizing a relationship developing between them, yet what did she bring to the equation? She was attractive and owned an apartment…superficial attributes that were important to a woman like Sara. But Pat was a far cry from the likes of Sara; that much was apparent. Chewing her lip, Lauren returned the files to the stack on the sideboard and quietly opened the sliding doors. What would Pat seek in a partner? She knew Pat found her sexually attractive, but was that the extent of it? At the waterfall that afternoon, Lauren had been certain they were connecting on a deeper level. Now she wondered if the intense emotion she’d glimpsed in Pat’s eyes was merely a trick of the light. She strolled out onto the verandah and gazed into the darkness. A half moon glowed like a cat’s eye against the infinity of the night sky. Millions of years away, in a morse code of light, stars left their footprints in the history of the universe. Somewhere, on one of them, an intelligent creature was probably gazing up just as she was, wondering who was out there. A corrosive melancholy settled on her. Impulsively, she slipped into a pair of sandals, descended the steps, and took the path to the beach. She wished she could still feel the joyful certainty she’d experienced in

Pat’s arms just hours ago, or even the confidence she’d felt soon after they arrived on the island. Things had been so much simpler when they were on a strictly professional footing. Now, she didn’t know where she stood with Pat, Lauren realized. Well, that could change, she decided as she reached the water’s edge. They had plenty of time left on the island. She would make an effort to draw Pat out. She would find out who she really was. By the time they were ready to leave, she would be much more than a pleasant distraction; she would be part of Pat’s life. * Pat woke with a start. On the fringes of her consciousness, she was aware of having heard something—a sound that was wrong for three in the morning. Automatically she picked up her gun, flipped off the safety catch, and silently opened the door to the other bedroom. The bed was empty. She entered the room cautiously and slipped a hand under the covers. It was still warm. She opened the bathroom door a crack, and said, “Lauren?” Her next port of call was the refrigerator. Even before

she’d made it that far, she saw the open sliding doors and panic surged through her limbs. Hastily, she pulled on sneakers and loped down the ocean pathway toward the beach. She’d barely made it to level ground, when she spotted Lauren wandering along the waterline, heedless of the rules Pat had set in place to keep her safe. Angry, Pat skirted through the trees until she was well behind Lauren, then she removed her shoes and silently crossed the sand. As she came up behind Lauren, she caught her in a mock stranglehold and hissed in her ear, “It’s that easy. Now try and fight me off.” As Lauren struggled, Pat relaxed her hold and released her. “How could you! You gave me such a fright!” Lauren rounded on her. “How do you think I felt looking in your bedroom and finding the doors open? We have agreements in place so that I can keep you safe.” “I am safe,” Lauren yelled. “This is just stupid. No one is coming here to kill me.” She turned her back on Pat and flounced off along the waterline. “Oh no you don’t.” Pat caught her arm and steered her toward the cottage. “We are going back indoors

and you are going to promise me you will never do anything like this again.” “Or what?” Lauren tossed her head. Pat felt like throwing the pouting woman over her shoulder and carrying her back home. She also felt like kissing her. Neither was the appropriate response. In the coldest tone she could muster, she said, “Or we leave for home tomorrow and you don’t just have me on your tail; you have your father’s entire security detail. Round the clock. Because you were …uncooperative.” “You wouldn’t do that to me.” “Try me.” Lauren glared at her for a long moment then her body language changed. Head drooping, she touched Pat’s arm. “I’m sorry.” Her confrontational tone was supplanted by one of appeasement. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone out by myself.” She hesitated. “Please come back to bed with me. I don’t want to be by myself.” Pat vacillated. If she wanted to send Lauren a clear signal, here was the perfect opportunity. But the timing didn’t feel right. She sensed she had already hurt Lauren’s feelings in bed just hours ago, and now they’d had words. It would be better to wait until things were

less emotional. She would talk with Lauren tomorrow. Resigning herself to walking on eggshells until then, she slid her arm around Lauren’s waist and said, “Okay. Let’s go get some sleep.”

Chapter Sixteen “Wow, I’d love to spend some time on Moon Island.” Penny’s face lit up. “That’s so sweet of Annabel.” Chris made a noncommittal sound. She felt like a rat, knowing the real agenda. Today’s mission was to get Penny Mercer to Moon Island no matter what. The HMS Jaunt had been found and it was only a matter of time before the divers discovered there were several thousand missing golden guineas. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” Penny enthused, pushing her wispy bangs off her forehead. “I’m going nuts reading the same ten issues of the Women’s Weekly.” “We could leave today if they’re ready to discharge you,” Chris suggested. “I’ll discharge myself if they’re not.” Penny’s hazel eyes danced. “I’m serious. Enough is enough.” “Alrighty then.” Chris found her heart racing at the thought of having Penny all to herself for a few days. She allowed her gaze to dwell on Penny’s body outlined beneath the thin cotton nightshirt she was wearing. Lean and neatly muscled, she looked like a woman who had been lanky in her teens and had never quite lost her awkwardness. Pat could imagine an

eighth grader with the same honey-streaked brown braids and candid smile, only with braces on her teeth and a shyness in her manner. What was Penny’s story? Where was she from? What were her dreams? Chris had a feeling Penny was a lesbian, but wondered if this was just wishful thinking. It had to be pretty obvious to Penny that Chris was gay, although these days thinking people didn’t make assumptions based on short hair and genderneutral clothing. “So when are we leaving?” Penny asked, snapping Chris’s attention back to the matter at hand. “I told Annabel we’d be at the airport around three this afternoon,” Chris said. “Assuming you can get out of here.” Penny swung strong, sinewy legs over the side of the bed. “I’m going to go see the head nurse now. What say you meet me back here in a couple of hours?” “I don’t mind waiting,” Chris said, then realized she sounded like a moonstruck high-school kid. This time Penny’s smile was as sweetly coy as a note pressed into Chris’s hand. “I need to shower and see the doctor and stuff,” she said. “Sure. Of course. And I’ve got things to do in town.” Chris looked at her watch. The battery had run out a

few days ago, but Penny wouldn’t know that. “See you later, then.” Penny startled her by extending both arms. “Give me a hug.” Chris hesitated, then took Penny in a polite embrace. She had never been one of those touchyfeely people who engaged in air-kissing and needed to hug complete strangers. Elaine always used to tease her about not holding hands in public, but displays of affection made her uncomfortable. Releasing Penny, she cleared her throat and said, “You’re going to love it on the island.” “And we’ll get to spend some time together, too.” Penny held Chris’s stare with frank deliberation. “I’m looking forward to that.” “Me too,” Chris said, slightly unnerved. She could feel those hazel eyes boring into her back as she strolled from the room. Penny had just let her know she was interested. It was not her imagination. Chris took a couple of deep breaths as she exited the hospital. She was gratified but also surprised. Somewhere along the way, she had lost any sense that a woman might find her attractive. It was as if she had relegated that part of herself to a shelf a long time ago.

Well, it was time to dust off the old animal magnetism, she thought with self-mockery. She was still grinning when she reached Trader Jacks. * Annabel slammed the restroom door and shoved the bolt across. Leaning back against the peeling wood veneer, she caught her breath. She could hear her pursuers on the other side, testing microphones, yelling instructions at underlings, calling her name, and ignoring the pleas of Trader Jacks’ waitresses to leave the premises. Someone pounded on the door, almost dislodging it from the rickety frame. “Two thousand per night, cash,” a male voice bellowed. “I said no,” Annabel yelled back. “We have nothing available.” She sized up the tiny restroom window and pictured herself stuck halfway, a horde of television reporters and treasure hunters swarming in the alleyway below, demanding accommodation on Moon Island. Since Doug’s announcement yesterday morning about the discovery of the HMS Jaunt, foreign media, naval historians, coin dealers, and a gaggle of amateur

treasure hunters had descended on Rarotonga. The Aspiration II had already filed its legal claim and had hired round-the-clock security to guard the site. Annabel had agreed to provide meals and a limited amount of hospitality. So far, Doug and his team had shown respect for Moon Island’s women-only tradition. Crew members came ashore strictly at Annabel’s invitation. The Aspiration team was not the problem. The problem was publicity. Annabel knew Doug’s hands were tied. To attract the extra investment dollars he needed for the salvage operation, he’d had to make a big announcement to the press and talk about millions of dollars in sunken treasure. The National Geographic had promptly dispatched a team to record the discovery, and had requested rights to film on Moon Island. Uneasily, Annabel had granted these, figuring the staff of such a notable publication could be counted on to conduct themselves with sensitivity around sacred sites. Besides, if their treasure-in-the-cave ploy was going to work, it would probably be a good idea to have a prestigious media team nearby who could authenticate Penny’s “discovery.” She hoped Chris had been persuasive and that Penny wouldn’t want to rush

straight back to the Aspiration instead of recuperating on the island. Noticing that the noise outside the restrooms had abated, Annabel placed an ear to the door and listened carefully. Someone was talking in a low, authoritative voice. Then there was a knock. “Ms. Worth?” Recognizing Pat’s voice, Annabel released the bolt and gingerly cracked the door open. She’d never been so thankful to see a brawny butch packing a gun. “This way please.” Somehow Pat managed to clear a path through the crowd, her arm around Annabel, hustling her along like she was someone important. “You’re good at this,” Annabel murmured, thankful Lauren’s doctor appointment had made it necessary for Pat to come to Rarotonga today. “I watch Clint Eastwood movies,” Pat said with a tinge of amusement. She held open the door of a rental Jeep and Annabel climbed in. The vehicle was immediately surrounded by people thrusting their business cards at her. Chris and Lauren were in the back. Lauren was in deep cover—big sunhat, oversized dark glasses, and her distinctive copper-gold hair in a single braid at the back. Annabel didn’t know why she bothered. No one

on Rarotonga would recognize an American TV star, let alone pester her for autographs. Cody was probably right; it was an ego thing. “What in God’s name is going on?” Chris asked, fending off arms that kept straying into the Jeep. “Everybody and their dog wants to camp on the island,” Annabel said. Pat wasted no time. After a couple of warning revs, she stuck her hand on the horn and drove through the human tide, heading for the airport. “I figure you can hole up in the terminal while we go do what we have to do,” she told Annabel. “Sounds good. Thanks for getting me out of there.” Annabel shot a glance over her shoulder toward the back seat passengers. “I suppose you’re used to this kind of thing,” she remarked to Lauren, who was now minus the all-concealing sunhat. “No, I’m not that big of a deal,” Lauren said, exchanging her Miami-widow shades for less obtrusive eyewear. “Although, when I was outed in the papers, it was the pits.” “Oh my God. You’re Dr. Kate? I didn’t recognize you.” Chris stared, almost open-mouthed. “My sister is totally addicted to your show.” Pat’s discomfort with this topic was palpable.

“Lauren is here incognito,” she said. “I can still get your autograph, can’t I?” Chris waved a pen and notebook. She tapped Annabel on the shoulder as Lauren obliged. “By the way, Penny will be coming back with us if she can get discharged.” “That’s great.” Annabel was flooded with relief. All they had to do now was get the woman inside the Kopeka Cave. Hopefully, she wasn’t claustrophobic. “She looks so much better, doesn’t she?” Lauren chipped in. “We stopped by on our way to the doctor.” “She looks great. Really, good.” Chris colored slightly. Pat pulled into the airport drop-off zone and got out of the Jeep. “I’ll walk you in,” she said, opening Annabel’s door. “There’s no need.” Annabel swung a quick look around. “I think we lost them.” Pat took a long hard look down the road. “Seems that way.” “I’ll see you back here by three. I’ll be in the hangar.” Annabel exchanged a covert glance with Chris, who gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Heading for the entrance doors, Annabel smiled to herself at the prospect of killing two birds with one stone: set Chris up with a girlfriend and ensure no one

ever found Hine te Ana’s cave. She was a genius. * “Are you serious? You want to go down the drop shaft with all that camera gear?” Cody surveyed the National Geographic team with a show of disbelief. “It’s not so bad,” Penny remarked. “I slid down there on my ass. You just have to put the brakes on once you’re close to the bottom.” “No worries,” Doug said, upending his pack. He had enough climbing gear for an attempt on Annapurna. “Well, if you insist,” Cody said. “But remember, you’ve all signed disclaimers. If you break any bones, we’re not paying.” This only seemed to whet their appetites. Cody cast a quick look at Chris, who was wearing her unflappable lawyer’s face, then led the group into the Kopeka Cave. Penny and Chris had made their big discovery yesterday and Cody had promptly escorted Penny by boat to the salvage site to electrify Doug with the news. He and the National Geographic team had been chomping at the bit ever since. Cody had picked them up at daybreak. Now, entering the Kopeka Cave, they

were feverish with anticipation. How often did an explorer get to find a shipwreck and a buried treasure along with the skeleton of the poor bastard who took the loot, all in the same week! It was going to get them the cover photo. “Jesus! Look at this!” One of the photographers plucked something from the floor of the cave. Displaying a gold coin triumphantly in his palm, he asked Doug, “Hey, man, do I get to keep this?” “Legally…no. But since you guys are going to get us all kinds of publicity, and that means more investment dollars…we’ll see what we can do.” Chris could not quite conceal a smirk. It had been her idea to salt the cave with a few extra coins. Cody had grudgingly done the deed with several of the coins she and Annabel had kept as souvenirs after they’d transported the haul across the island using sleds Cody had rigged up. “The shaft is right here.” Penny shone her torch at a narrow opening. “There’s not much room down there, so one person at a time.” She gestured at Doug, inviting him to go first. The camera crew lowered him by rope and after a few minutes there was a shout and they pulled the unhitched rope back up, ready for the next guy. Already

they could hear yells echoing up. “Sounds like he’s hit the jackpot,” Penny said happily. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, it’s amazing no one found this chamber before. Most of your guests come here, don’t they?” She asked Cody. “Yeah, but I don’t think they go looking down dark holes,” Cody said. “You were just in the right place at the right time.” “I can’t take all the credit,” Penny said. “It was Chris who found the coin. She almost threw it away!” “I thought it was a bottle cap or something,” Chris said with slippery conviction. “Penny was the one who made the ID. Really, it was her discovery. I don’t think I did anything to earn twenty percent of the find.” “Of course you did,” Penny protested. “Anyway, Doug won’t hear of anything less. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have come here and the Aspiration II would be stuck searching the ocean floor for coins we’d never find.” Once Penny and the National Geographic guys had all descended below, Cody poked Chris in the ribs. “Ooohh…I don’t deserve my twenty percent,” she mimicked. Chris grinned. “Yep. I’m a disgrace to the legal profession.”

“Penny totally bought it. No one suspects a thing.” “Why would they?” Chris shrugged. “I just hope no one ever gets to hear that I actually found Mr. Bones last year and there was no treasure then.” “Who’s going to tell them? The only people that know are the guests who were here at the time. I guess we could drop them a line with the official version.” “Yeah. I can say I didn’t happen to notice several thousand gold coins crammed into a tiny space. Guess who’s not going to buy that? Guess who’s going to know the coins must have come from the sacred cave?” Cody grimaced. “Dr. Howick, I presume.” She could just imagine what the UCLA anthropologist would have to say. Glenn Howick was fixated on Hine te Ana’s cave and firmly believed Annabel and Cody had conspired to prevent her finding it during her research trip last year. Chris laughed. “She wasn’t real happy leaving the island without seeing it, tapu or not.” “My heart bleeds. If she’d had her way, Moon Island would be some kind of women’s spirituality theme park.” “Oh come on,” Chris objected. “She meant well.”

“The problem with these ivory tower types is they don’t live in the real world,” Cody shot back. “If she’d published a paper about the cave and the magic pool, do you really think everyone would have said: Hey, we better respect that this place is sacred. Hell no. We’d be invaded by hordes of people wanting wishes granted…the sick…the lame… Next thing someone would have a vision of the Virgin Mary and the Vatican would take us over.” “Our Lady of Moon Island.” Chris snickered. “I can see it now…the candles in jars…little statuettes with hibiscus around the base…” “You think I’m kidding?” “No. Not at all. Annabel was dead right about moving the treasure.” Cody sighed. “I still think we could have tossed it over the side of the cliff and made like it washed up on the beach, instead of lugging it all the way over here.” She had tried to convince Annabel that was a good alternative, but her lover was a stubborn woman. After six years, Cody knew that once Annabel made up her mind about something, arguing with her was more trouble than it was worth. Cody preferred to take the path of least resistance. “Well, it’s done now and everyone’s happy,” Chris

said diplomatically. “What’s your twenty percent worth, anyway?” Chris frowned and counted on her fingers. “A million plus.” “Jeez, mate.” Cody whistled. “Next time you’re buying the beer.” * “Isn’t it incredible about the buried treasure,” Lauren marveled as she and Pat strolled along Passion Bay. “Amazing,” Pat said. “How come Annabel and Cody are letting them have it? If it’s found on their land wouldn’t it belong to them?” “I’m not sure what the law is in this part of the world.” “Apparently it’s worth millions.” Lauren wished they could have gone to the cave that morning to see what was happening. But Cody and Annabel said the salvage team had to make their assessment and secure the site first. Guests who were interested would get the chance to see what was happening tomorrow, when the pirate skeleton and some of the treasure would be brought out of the cave. Pat stopped walking and squinted out to sea. “I need to get my binoculars.”

Lauren spotted a fleck on the horizon. “It’s probably one of those boats from the Aspiration,” she remarked. Whenever someone from the crew needed to see Annabel, they came around by outboard and anchored in Passion Bay. Pat looked doubtful. “Seems a long way out,” she said and turned her steps toward their sun umbrella. Lauren dawdled after her. Pat had finally started leaving her binoculars with their towels most of the time. Lauren had given up hoping she would do the same with her weaponry. She watched Pat focus the powerful lenses on the ocean and was lust-struck. It happened often. Pat would be doing something innocuous, like reading a book or removing a crawling insect from their villa, and Lauren would find herself dry-mouthed with yearning. She chewed her bottom lip, burdened with a creeping unease. Something was not right between them. Technically, they were lovers. Yet even in their most intense lovemaking, she sensed that Pat was somehow at arm’s length. She was attentive, passionate and intuitive…the perfect sexual partner. Yet she still did not invite Lauren to make love to her, and gently discouraged her careful overtures. Lauren hesitated to persist, not wanting to pressure her if

indeed there was some kind of issue. There were women who did not want to be made love to. Maybe Pat was one of them. It was time they had a real conversation about this, Lauren decided. Over dinner, she would ask Pat to be honest with her. The weeks were slipping by. They should be talking about their relationship…about their future. Yet it seemed they had both tacitly agreed to forgo discussion in favor of sex, and to pretend there was no tomorrow. “I think it’s a charter boat,” Pat said, lowering the binoculars. “Probably tourists hoping to get a look at the shipwreck.” Collecting her thoughts, Lauren said, “Well, I’m going to stay out here and read for a while.” The boat was drawing closer. They probably didn’t know which bay to look for, she surmised. “Fine.” Pat was already walking toward the water. “Stay where I can see you.” As if she needed to be told. Lauren rearranged their beach towels and stretched out on one of them. She shook out her topknot, removed her sunglasses, and covered her face with her hat. Maybe she would just sleep. The late morning heat was already building toward an afternoon high. Lauren scratched warily

below her ribs where the second bullet wound had closed properly at last. It was so itchy sometimes it almost made her crazy. The doctor at Rarotonga Hospital had said this meant her skin was growing and she needed to leave it alone. Refraining from more purposeful scratching, she rolled onto her stomach and opened her book. This week’s trashy reading was Kitty Kelley’s muchhyped exposé of the Bush clan. Lauren couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Why was anyone surprised that a powerful oil-rich family seemed more like the cast of that old TV show, Dallas, than a wholesome Rockwell calendar portrait? Being in the business of manipulating her own public image, she knew all about the difference between reality and propaganda. The only thing that ever surprised her was the public’s willingness to buy almost anything they were told by a celebrity. She’d bought this book at the airport after a woman tugged it from her hands and told her indignantly that it was unpatriotic. Apparently she thought it was just crazy-talk that a president might hide stuff about his past. Lauren had been too startled to remind her the guy was only human, and that no one got ahead in politics by being a boy scout. Her father had once told

her the most important rule in politics was Cover Your Ass, closely followed by Surround Yourself With People Willing to Lick It. Lauren sighed. In the past, she had judged her father harshly at times for peddling the party line even when his personal views differed. Yet was she any less a hypocrite? It took courage to be truthful when the truth might have negative consequences. For people in the public eye, those consequences could be extreme; Lauren had the bullet holes to prove it. Hearing the whine of a motor, she closed her book and peered down the beach. Just beyond the reef, an up-market cruiser had dropped anchor and a small outboard was barreling across the lagoon toward Pat. Lauren sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. There were several men in the boat. As they drew close to the shore, two of them started shooting with video cameras and telescopic lenses. Startled, Lauren lay down once more, her face turned away. Surely they weren’t shooting film of her. She didn’t think so. They seemed to be panning all around. Pat’s raised voice floated across the sand, someone wound the throttle and the motor noise

gradually retreated. Whoever the photographers were, Pat had gotten rid of them. A shadow fell across the sand in front of her and Lauren rolled over. “Who were they?” “Freelance photographers.” Lauren shuddered. “Paparazzi?” “Not the kind you’ve encountered. Just some guys looking to get wreck footage before the major agencies muscle in. I sent them to the site. Doug can handle them.” She moved her deck chair around for more shade and opened the chiller. “Drink?” “Yes, thank you.” “Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” Lauren took the bottle of Pellegrino she was offered. Pat had removed the cap. This was part of the problem, too, she thought. When they were not in bed, Pat treated her with polite formality. The connection palpable between lovers was missing. There were no warm looks…no oblique references to passion shared. Her body language was that of a stranger. Lauren felt disoriented. It was as if each day made a lie of the night that preceded it. On an impulse, she extended a hand and stroked Pat’s thigh. When her touch was ignored, she drew herself onto her knees and placed her head in Pat’s

lap. After a long moment, Pat absently stroked her hair. Lauren looked up at her, trying to read the face beneath those sunglasses. “You seem uncomfortable,” she said. “With this…with me being affectionate.” Pat gave a small shrug. “There’s a time and place.” “We’re all alone, and you’re my lover. What’s wrong with this time and place?” Pat was silent for a long moment. She removed her sunglasses and lowered her eyes to Lauren’s upturned face. “Having sex is something we do when it feels good. We’re two consenting adults.” “And your point is…” “When we’re not making love, I’m your bodyguard and I have a job to do. We’ve had this conversation, Lauren.” “Yes, and we’ve made agreements then broken them and now we’re lovers. Why can’t we just accept what’s happening between us and enjoy it like everyone else does? Why do we have to compartmentalize?” Pat released a weary sigh. “Lauren. I wasn’t lying when I said this is not the right time for me. I know you want more. You have every right.” “Yes. I do want more. I hate feeling like we’re strangers except when we’re in bed. Even then it’s not …mutual.”

Pat touched Lauren’s face. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you need.” Lauren knocked Pat’s hand away and scrambled to her feet. “I don’t believe that. I think this is all about control. No one can look into the future and predict what’s going to happen in any relationship. And you can’t handle that. So you have to control it. This way, you know what’s going to happen; we’re just going to go back home and never see one another again. And that suits you, doesn’t it? You can go back to your cozy little life chasing the bad guys and everything can stay just the same.” Turning on her heel, she strode off toward the villa. “Lauren, stop.” Pat came after her. “Please listen to me. If I thought I could offer you more, I would. I don’t want to hurt you.” “Too late!” Lauren threw her sunglasses onto the sand and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Don’t you get it? I’m falling in love with you. I don’t want to go back home and pick up where I left off. I want to be with you.” Pat looked pale beneath her tan, her facial muscles taut. “I’m sorry. Lauren, listen…” Shaking with anger, Lauren tried to process what she was hearing. She had just told a woman she was

falling in love with her and the response was: I’m sorry . “Fuck you!” she said. “I would never have taken you for a coward. But that’s what you are. I want to go home. And once we’re back, I don’t want to see you again.” * Pat stared after the limber figure retreating up the pathway and prevented herself giving chase. There was a dusty taste in her mouth, as if she’d swallowed ash. Here. Right in front of her, was the reason she didn’t get involved with women. What in God’s name had possessed her to forsake ethics and common sense? That Lauren would end up hurt was inevitable from the moment Pat had chosen to ignore her own unease and reach for the forbidden. It had been selfish. Unforgivably adolescent. She was not the helpless victim of seduction. It didn’t just happen. Pat chose it. She chose to escape from the horrible weight of her thoughts, from her fears, from her nightmares of a lifetime haunted by the ghosts of Destiny O’Connor, Shelby-Rose Dubois, and the countless victims of future cases unsolved. She had wanted time out and that’s what Lauren had offered her.

Her eyes stung. It was time to do the right thing. But Lauren was in no mood for words, and what would Pat say anyway? The truth was sordid. She had used the younger woman, knowing how vulnerable she was. It worked both ways, she rationalized. Lauren might think she was falling in love, but she was also escaping from reality. Once her attacker was caught and she could return to her life feeling safe and confident, there would be no need for the happy illusion and the feelings would pass. Lauren would not see it now, but one day she would understand that they’d both had their own private hells and both needed the respite they’d found in one another. Pat heard the villa door slam, and gathered the rest of their belongings. She would fly into Raro with Annabel tomorrow and make the necessary travel arrangements. Then she would call Wendall Douglas and tell him she’d decided to return to the Bureau ahead of time because she’d had a break in an important case. With any luck, they could be home within three days.

Chapter Seventeen “Forget it,” Lauren said. “I’m staying here.” “You know I can’t leave you here alone.” Pat sighed with frustration. “Annabel and I will be gone most of the afternoon. Get your stuff. You’re coming.” Lauren remained on the sofa as if Pat hadn’t spoken, shoulders rising and falling in the staccato rhythm of tightly coiled anger. White-knuckled, her hands gripped the paperback she was abstractedly reading. Pat plucked the book away and tossed it across the room. “This is getting old,” she said, injecting her voice with a calm she did not feel. “Your shitty temper is not going to get us out of here any faster.” Lauren’s eyes gleamed bright and cold. “My temper is my own business and you won’t have to put up with it much longer.” She slid her legs out from beneath her and stood. “I’m taking a swim.” Lauren was pushing her, Pat recognized; letting her know the time was fast approaching when they would have no more to do with one another, when Pat would no longer call the shots. In readiness for that happy day, she was making Pat irrelevant now. If Pat chose, she could make this ugly. It was almost

like Lauren was daring her to. Instead, she said placidly, “I’m not going to fight you. Let’s agree on something.” “I won’t say a word to Daddy.” Lauren anticipated her. Facetiously, she added, “About anything.” Ignoring the jibe, Pat said, “I’ll go to Raro without you, but I want you to spend the rest of the day up at Villa Luna.” For a moment it seemed Lauren would bicker over this too, then she turned her attention from Pat to the paperback splayed open on the floor. “Whatever it takes. Give me five minutes.” She swept by Pat with the air of a woman whose dignity was under siege, but who did not plan to yield an inch. As soon as she’d left the room, Pat sank into an armchair and considered the wall. How had this happened? One day Lauren was in her arms, the next she was gazing at Pat as if betrayed. Pat wished she could undo what was done, yet the wish had a hollow insincerity to it. Would she really, if she could go back, exchange that kiss on the beach for the bland satisfaction of sticking to the rules? Would she elect to surrender the memory of Lauren’s face, radiant in the throes of their passion? Pat felt discomforted. She understood that the

choices she’d made on this island had been fueled by a combination of lust and rebellion. Yet there was something else. For two days since their quarrel on the beach, she’d put off traveling to Rarotonga, because the thought of never seeing Lauren again make her stomach churn. Her heart knocked at her chest as Lauren returned. She had changed and now wore a floral wraparound mini-skirt over a black one-piece bathing suit that made her hair seem redder and her eyes almost tanzanite blue. They held traces of tears. “Ready when you are,” she said with wan bravado. For a few strained seconds they stared at one another then Pat rose and walked to the door, aware that she was caught in one of those moments—a moment of possibility. She could tell Lauren had not quite closed the door on her. There was still a chance to do this differently. She did not have to deny herself, and Lauren, what was patently possible. All she had to do was reach for it. She sensed Lauren was waiting for her to speak, to seize the moment for both their sakes. But knowing what she knew about herself, she couldn’t do it. “I’ll try and get us a flight for tomorrow,” she said.

* Lauren took Briar’s hand and wandered out onto the deep verandah that ran the length of Villa Luna. She felt numb, disbelieving. Even as Pat had walked off into the jungle, some part of Lauren had expected her to turn around. To come back. To insist they start again because there was something important between them. But she hadn’t. “Pick me up,” the little girl urged, and with some difficulty Lauren lifted her onto the broad wooden railing. “Better?” she asked, an arm wrapped around the child’s middle. Briar pushed her mop of black ringlets out of the way and lifted a small set of binoculars to her eyes. “Hine’s there!” she said excitedly. “She’s my dolphin.” “Ahhh. I’ve met her. I thought she was a shark.” Briar lowered the binoculars and regarded Lauren solemnly. “Sharks don’t smile.” Laughing, Lauren lifted the precocious child down and placed her on the wooden boards. “I want to go see her,” a small voice demanded. “Not today, honey,” Lauren said. “We have to stay here with Mrs. Marsters. I thought we could bake some

cookies and…” She had barely completed her sentence when the angelic face dissolved into tears. Briar took a huge gulping breath and wailed, “No. I want to go. Now!” “Hush. Shhhh.” Lauren cast a look over her shoulder expecting to see the wide-hipped housekeeper emerge at any moment to investigate what torture the American visitor was inflicting on the apple of her eye. As if Briar could read Lauren’s mind, she redoubled her efforts, this time collapsing in a sobbing heap and pounding the boards with her feet. Mortified, Lauren tried to pick the child up, but Briar slithered from her grip and shimmied along the verandah, howling. “Okay. Alright. We’ll go to the beach.” Lauren admitted defeat. The sobs immediately evaporated into small, shuddering sniffs. Briar got to her feet and smoothed her sundress with her hands as if nothing had transpired. Suckered, Lauren thought. Were all small children this Machiavellian? No wonder they needed wranglers to work with them on set. “This way. I’ll show you.” Briar sallied forth into the mango trees that screened the villa from the beach. After a few strides she looked back over her tiny shoulder and enquired, “Have you got sun block?”

“Um…no.” The child paused, deliberating. “Okay. Don’t forget next time.” “How old are you?” Lauren asked. Of the few small children she knew, none were as self-possessed as this little girl. “Two and a half,” Briar replied. “How old are you?” “Twenty-eight.” Briar looked her up and down dubiously. “You can still be my friend.” * Chris gazed one more time around the clearing she and Penny had hiked to, then began loading the remnants of their picnic into her backpack. “I guess we should be heading back to the Villa soon,” she said. “I told Annabel we’d cook dinner.” Standing on a boulder, hands on her hips, Penny stared out at the view across the jungle to the Pacific Ocean. “I can’t believe I’m going back to work tomorrow. It’s been…perfect.” “Are you excited?” Penny smiled in a way that made Chris feel weak. “I can’t wait,” she said, sliding down from her vantage

point and helping Chris finish tidying up. “We’re expecting to get divers into the hull this week. It’s not the money that excites me, it’s the artifacts…the stories they tell…it’s as if, through the ages, someone reaches out and touches you. I know it sounds silly…” “No, it doesn’t,” Chris said, enchanted by Penny’s candid wonder. Adulthood hadn’t stolen that from her. Elaine had been the same, her outlook on the wonders around her unclouded by cynicism. “It’s amazing to think of all that stuff sitting on the bottom of the ocean for hundreds of years,” she added, embarrassed by her own prosaic perspective. “Will you find skeletons?” Penny shook her head. “Bones dissolve in the sea after a few years. We find shoes instead. That’s all that’s left of human beings in most shipwrecks.” Impulsively, she took Chris’s hand. “You should come aboard one day and watch. I’ll speak to Doug.” “I’d like that,” Chris said. Her hand was sweating all of a sudden. She and Penny had spent most of the past five days together and it had been a pleasure to get to know her. They hadn’t moved beyond the boundaries of friendship in any way. After a few initial qualms, Chris had spoken frankly about Elaine and it seemed they’d reached an unspoken agreement to take things very

slowly. She stared down at her pack, her hand still in Penny’s. She wanted to say something but she couldn’t frame the words. “I had a nice time today.” Penny filled the silence. “Me too.” Chris figured her face was probably brick red because Penny let go of the hand and swung her small daypack onto her shoulders, thoughtfully giving Chris time to pull herself together. Something in her expression struck Chris. She knew that look. For years she had seen it in Elaine’s averted gaze—disappointment laced with forlorn acceptance. Eventually it had given way to a compassionate tolerance that Chris, in her most honest moments, recognized as Elaine’s way of excusing a failing in a loved one. Sensitive, romantic and idealistic, Elaine had found herself with a partner who avoided articulating her feelings and whose romantic vocabulary extended from A to B. After the accident that took Elaine’s life, Chris had looked back on this aspect of their relationship and felt stricken that she’d failed to meet her partner halfway. Their compromise had been one-sided. Chris had almost never stepped outside her emotional comfort zone, and Elaine had almost never been able to occupy hers.

Now, here she was, starting off on exactly the same footing, making a woman she was interested in do the emotional legwork. Frustrated with herself, Chris dropped the pack she was hoisting to her shoulders and said, “Penny. Wait.” Her companion turned, those warm hazel eyes bright with hope. “Yes?” Chris stumbled the few steps that brought them together. “I was trying to think how to say this and instead I didn’t say it at all. But I want to say it. I like you a lot. I think you’re smart and wonderful and sexy, and I’m very drawn to you. I love being with you and I hope I can see you again after… You know, once you’re back at work. I mean, see you personally.” Chris fell silent, almost giddy with relief. Suave it was not, but a woman had to start somewhere. She wanted to remember every detail of what happened then; the way Penny’s happiness bubbled up and spilled over, the hands that slid into hers, the soft wind that lifted strands of honey-tipped hair to tickle Chris’s cheek as Penny brushed a kiss there. “I wanted you to care enough to ask,” Penny said. “I do.” Chris kissed her in return, on the mouth. It felt strange and sweet and right. Against her lips, Penny murmured, “I’m so happy.”

Chris framed her face with hands that shook slightly. “Me too. I…” She struggled for the right words. “I didn’t think I would get a second chance.” The truth was, on some level, she didn’t feel she deserved one. Penny slid her arms around Chris and gathered her into a warm embrace. “I understand better than you think,” she said. “One day we’ll talk about this some more. There’s plenty of time.” Chris dropped her arms to Penny’s waist and allowed herself to be held. “I like the sound of that.” Penny drew back just enough to meet her eyes. “Promise me one thing.” “Okay.” This sounded important. Chris willed herself not to look as apprehensive as she felt. “Don’t ever tell Doug you planted those coins.” Chris gasped. “How did you…How could you …Jesus.” Penny’s smile verged on the seraphic. “If you’re very, very good, one day I might tell you. Meantime…it’s our little secret. Deal?” “Deal,” Chris hastily agreed. Penny hooked her arm into the backpack and helped lift it onto Chris’s shoulders. “I guess this is nothing compared with hefting that gold bullion around,” she remarked with wicked delight.

Chris groaned. “You have no idea.” * As the dolphin swam off, Lauren took Briar’s hand and said, “Your Mommy Annabel will be home soon.” She felt a heavy sorrow. She and Pat would soon be leaving the island. They would return to their different worlds, proverbial ships that had passed in the night. “Look!” Briar pointed at a distant speck on the vast Pacific sky. “There she is!” Lauren squinted into the brilliant sun and had no idea if she were looking at a bird, a plane, or superman. “We better hurry if we’re going to make those cookies before she gets home,” she said. Letting go of Lauren’s hand, Briar scampered up the beach and onto the shell path that snaked through the trees. “Chockie chip. That’s her favorite,” she prattled happily. “Mommy Cody’s favorite is Anzac biscuits.” She skipped a few more paces up the path then turned to face Lauren, giggling. “Want to race? Visitors first.” With a big smile, Lauren made a show of running ahead. Briar was a real pleasure when she wasn’t having a tantrum. And the little girl was strikingly beautiful, with her rosy red cheeks, huge dark eyes,

and shock of black ringlets. For a brief moment, Lauren indulged herself in a fantasy of having a child. They would live upstate, she decided, conjuring a domestic idyll: herself looking on while her partner, who happened to bear a startling resemblance to Pat Roussel, pushed their daughter on a swing. Lauren spun around at the sound of a sharp cry. Her heart jolted so violently, she could not draw breath. He was there, and he had Briar in his arms. The impossible had happened. He had found her. “I knew it was you right away,” the lank-haired fan said. “They don’t always have the best photos on Soapsite.com and half the time it’s not even the celebrity. But to someone who knows you like I do…I could tell right away the sighting was authentic.” He tightened his grip on Briar. Indignantly, the little girl beat her fists on the arm around her middle. “Please put her down,” Lauren said as evenly as she could. “She has nothing to do with me.” He wasn’t holding a gun, she noted. It was probably concealed. “I’ll let her go when you do exactly what I tell you.” Those watery blue eyes blinked double-time. He was sweating profusely. Nerves, Lauren figured, trying desperately to stay calm herself. “What do you want?” she asked.

For some reason this prompted a harsh bark of laughter. Briar renewed her struggles, this time adding loud wails. “Hush,” Lauren tried to reason with her. “Just be very quiet and he’ll put you down soon, honey.” Above them an engine whined and Annabel’s B-17 made a low pass over the villa. Praying there was some way they’d know her assailant was on the island, Lauren tried to buy time. “It upset me very much that a true fan like you would shoot me,” she said carefully. He flushed, adjusting his hold on Briar, who had fallen into the round-eyed silence of an animal sensing danger. “I felt real bad about those newspaper stories,” he said. “After everything I did for you. I felt duped.” “You believed them?” His blinks were punctuated with a tic. “What was I supposed to think? When it’s in the newspaper, you think they wouldn’t report it if it wasn’t true. But then…I saw that notice from the editor saying they made a mistake. I tried to find you to say I was sorry. It wasn’t easy. The police are looking for me. I had to leave my job and move out of my apartment.” There was an accusatory ring to this statement, as if somehow it was Lauren’s fault he was in trouble. She

managed an understanding nod and said softly, “I think you and I should talk. It’s hard in front of a child. If you put her down and let her go home, we could spend some time together.” His eyes darted from Lauren to the surroundings. “Is that her house?” he asked. “Yes. The people who own this island are her parents.” He vacillated for a moment, then set Briar down, urging in the high-pitched voice adopted by adults uncomfortable with children, “Go home and play with your toys now.” Briar stared at him, then at Lauren. “I can’t come right now,” Lauren said. “I’m going to go for a walk with this man first. Tell Mommy we’ll make the cookies when I get back. Okay?” With another hard look at Lauren’s number one fan, Briar ran off toward the house leaving Lauren feeling like she was about to throw up. Sweat trickled down her spine. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she tried to gather her wits. Within fifteen minutes of landing, Annabel and Pat would arrive at the villa and realize something was wrong. Mrs. Marsters knew Lauren and Briar had gone down to Passion Bay together. Hopefully Briar would mention the man. If not, Pat

would come looking anyway, and this would be the path she’d take. Somehow, Lauren had to keep this creep talking right here. Calling on her acting talent, she said dulcetly, “Gosh, I don’t even know your name.” “Hayden,” he said. “Hayden Shaffer.” Lauren heard the B-17 coming in to land and lifted her hand to her face, flicking a wave of hair away. Covertly she peeped at the watch on her wrist and made mental calculations. She started improvising the script she needed to play out. Scene One, take one:

Lauren engages creepy Hayden in conversation to gain his confidence. “It gave me a terrible shock that day when you shot me,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice. “I guess you didn’t actually mean to hit me…maybe just to scare me…” Hayden licked his lips, evidently taken aback to be given the benefit of the doubt. “I was messed up,” he said, cashing in on this stroke of luck. “I would never hurt you deliberately.” “Everyone makes mistakes. I know that you’re a genuine person, Hayden. What you told me at that cocktail party at Mr. Garfield’s house…you were right.” His pale eyes lit up immediately. “I noticed you were

back to the old hairstyle in the last episode.” “And did you notice the line I improvised as a secret signal to you?” The wet mouth dropped open. “A signal for me? You really did that?” “Mmhmn…just my way of saying thanks.” Lauren sifted through memories of her script. But she needn’t have bothered. Her captive audience was engrossed in his own eager quest. “Wait…don’t tell me,” he begged. “Was it when that fat lady with the dog said she had a Swiss army knife and you said—” “—let’s make that our little secret,” Lauren completed. “Ha!” He drew himself up briefly, then lapsed into pained self-criticism. “I had no idea…I should have known.” “I kind of expected a letter from you after that,” Lauren said wistfully. “But nothing came…” His white short-sleeved shirt was limp with sweat, she observed, and his travel-soiled gray slacks hung from his frame like they were a couple of sizes too big. If he was concealing a gun it had to be in his boot, she decided, spotting no telltale lumps anywhere else. “You must be very disappointed in me,” he said.

Detecting a hint of challenge in his stare, she said, on eggshells, “I’m never disappointed when a fan takes a genuine interest in my career. To be honest, I feel like I’ve let everyone down.” “No. You mustn’t think that.” He advanced a few paces to stand in her personal space. “We can solve this. I have some good news.” He flipped his oily hair back for dramatic effect. “I taught him a lesson and he won’t be giving you any more trouble.” “Who?” “That cretin who tried to blackmail you. That’s the main reason I’m here. To let you know you can come back to the show now.” Lauren must have looked as bewildered as she felt, because he slowed right down and, as if he were announcing a lottery win, declared, “After I found out the truth, I went after that cokesnorting slacker. I let him know it was his fault I lost control that day and shot you…by accident. Then I let him have it. Right here.” He placed two fingers to his temple, his hand in a gun shape. Stunned, Lauren said, “You shot him.” “He didn’t deserve to live. When I get back I’ll take care of that bitch roommate of yours. The lawyer. I know where she lives.” “I don’t know what to say.” Lauren hid her shock

behind an expression of awe. Scene Two, take one:

having obtained a confession of murder from a crazy man, Lauren must now keep him sweet and get the hell out of Dodge. “It was for both of us,” Hayden pronounced with heroic gravity. “You have a brilliant career ahead of you and I’m going to be there to make sure no one will ever pull a stunt like this again. What I’m thinking is I should become your manager. I know I’m not fully qualified yet, but I’m willing to finish college if I have to. I could do that part time…” He was on a roll, pouring out his fantasies of the future they would have together: the star and the man who knew her best. Lauren’s flesh crawled. How many nights had this maniac lain alone in his apartment, gazing up at peeling walls, picturing the life he thought he could manufacture with or without her buy-in? And he had killed a man. That’s how serious he was. Lauren tried to look at her watch without being seen to do so. Surely it had been ten minutes by now. Annabel and Pat would be nearing the villa. Pat would start looking the moment she saw Lauren wasn’t there. “So, the boat’s waiting,” her insane companion concluded. “All we need to do is pick up your stuff. I

didn’t have enough cash to buy an extra airfare for you but I figured you can change your ticket.” This was not the time to say no, Lauren decided. Weighing her words, she said, “I can see you’ve really thought this through, Hayden. I’ll need a little time to make arrangements. Are you staying on Rarotonga?” “I have a hotel package. There’s two days left.” “Great. That’s plenty of time.” Trying to sound impressed, she said, “You know, I’m amazed you found this place. You’re quite the detective.” “It was easy. I got most of the information off Soapsite and when I landed in Rarotonga I told one of those charter boats I wanted to see where the shipwreck is at. We cruised around looking for the beach in the picture.” From his pocket, he pulled a page obviously printed off a Web site and showed it to her. Lauren recognized herself on the beach the day she and Pat quarreled, the day those guys in the speedboat came by looking for the Aspiration. They must have hawked their footage to the usual media and someone had identified her. She was stunned. Her stalker must have bought his air ticket the moment he saw the picture. Wondering what to do next, she cast a nervy glance up at the villa.

Her brief inattention wasn’t lost on him. “Who are you looking for?” he demanded, eyes narrow with suspicion. Playing it cool, Lauren said, “The little girl. I wouldn’t normally let her walk home alone.” His eyes darted left and right. “Where are the parents?” “I’m not really sure,” Lauren said vaguely. “This place takes a lot of work. I guess they could be anywhere.” “We better get moving,” he said, as if they were in this together. “The boat’s going to meet us in the next bay pretty soon.” Lauren hesitated. Scene Three, take one: Lauren

goes with the crazy man and waits for a chance to escape. “I’ll need to collect my things first, Hayden. I can’t go anywhere without my passport.” “Okay. Where is it?” His tone became shrill. Lauren pointed through the mango trees. “There’s another villa over there. That’s where I’m staying. It’s not far.” He dragged a forearm across his face then transferred the sweat to his pants. His tic was more pronounced. “I’ll take care of that later. We gotta get going.” The words spilled out in a breathless rush.

Looking hunted, he grabbed Lauren’s arm and hustled her down through the trees toward the beach. Banking on the likelihood that by now Pat and Lauren must be close to the villa, Lauren broke free and bolted up the slope. “Oh no you don’t!” He came after her, grabbing at her clothing and finally her hair. Wrenching her head back, he hissed in her ear, “I was hoping you would be reasonable after what you’ve put me through. But you don’t care how I feel, do you?” He got her into a headlock and dragged her along with him, tightening his choking grip as she struggled. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he burbled and flashed something in front of her face with his free hand. A switchblade. Lauren stopped fighting him and the arm loosened enough for her to pull a frantic breath. “See,” he said. “If you’re good, I’ll treat you like a princess.”

Chapter Eighteen “Where’s Lauren?” Pat asked Mrs. Marsters. The housekeeper pointed toward Passion Bay. “They went to see the dolphin.” Flicking a glance at Annabel, who was busy unloading supplies onto the kitchen counter, Pat said, “I’ll go get them.” She exited the living room and strolled across the verandah, squinting out to sea. She hadn’t seen anyone down there when they flew over, but the trees obscured much of the beach from view. For a moment Pat hesitated. She had left both her guns on a closet shelf in Cody and Annabel’s room when she went to Rarotonga—there was no reason to carry if Lauren wasn’t with her. They could stay there, she decided. Lauren and Briar were only minutes away and this was just another sleepy day on paradise. She descended the steps and was on the narrow shell beach path, when an odd noise made her spin on her heels. A small whimper came from beneath the verandah steps. There, curled in a ball, her thumb in her mouth, was Annabel’s daughter. Panic crushed the breath from Pat’s lungs. Yelling, “Annabel!” she dropped to her hands and knees and slid an arm

beneath the little girl, easing her from her hideaway just as Annabel’s feet hit the bottom step. “Oh my God,” Annabel gasped, arms extended. Immediately she bundled her child close. “Sweetheart, what were you doing under there?” At that, Briar dissolved into tears. “I’m scared,” she hiccupped. Pat’s first impulse was to run frantically into the belt of trees and scream Lauren’s name, but her training had brought with it the ability to close down emotion and focus on crucial detail. Until she knew why Briar was hiding, it was too soon to jump to conclusions. Over a mop of black ringlets, she met Annabel’s startled amethyst eyes and mouthed in an undertone, “Where’s Lauren?” Annabel carried Briar up the steps and sat on the cane chaise lounge at one end of the verandah, rocking her gently. “Sweetie, where’s the lady who took you to see Hine…where’s Lauren?” Briar pointed into the trees. “I want to make cookies,” she stammered. “But the bad man hurt me.” Pat’s gut constricted. Forcing herself to stay calm and listen, she sat on the edge of a chair and tried to convince herself Lauren wasn’t dead. “A man hurt you?” Annabel lost all her color. Hands

shaking, she said, “Show Mommy where he hurt you.” Briar lifted her t-shirt. Across her midriff the impression of an arm was unmistakable. Annabel’s response was panicky. “Oh my God. He must have punched her.” “I don’t think so.” Pat cut across her. To Briar, she said, “Honey, did the bad man pick you up and hold you real tight?” Briar nodded. “It hurt.” “Where else did he hurt you?” Pat asked, keeping her tone as level as she could. Briar pointed at her left wrist, which was mottled purple. “He grabbed her hand, then lifted her and held her around the ribs facing away from him,” Pat surmised out loud. “Was Lauren there?” she asked Briar. Briar nodded, mouth trembling anew. “When she comes we can make cookies.” Pat placed a hand on Annabel’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to go,” she said urgently. “I think he has Lauren.” “Who is he?” Annabel rose, hugging Briar to her tightly. Pat could almost read the indictment in her expression. What evil did you draw to my home? “Lauren was shot by a fan who was stalking her. I didn’t think he’d ever find her out here, but…”

“Mrs. Marsters!” Annabel stuck her head in the door and the wide Rarotongan woman hurried across the living room. “Please radio the Aspiration and tell Cody she has to come home. Now! And take Briar.” After passing the little girl over with promises of cookies very soon, she turned to Pat, and said unsteadily, “Let’s go.” “No. Stay out of this, please,” Pat urged. “Go inside and lock the doors. For your own safety.” Annabel looked like she was a millisecond away from punching Pat in the mouth. “Are you kidding? My child could have been killed by this asshole. Now where the fuck are those guns of yours?” * “He dragged her this way,” Pat said, studying twin furrows left in the shell path. Clearly Lauren had dug her feet in. The fact that she was alive suggested the lunatic fan had plans for her, otherwise they would have found a body already. The thought made Pat sick to her stomach. How could she have allowed this to happen? “He’s headed for Marama Bay,” Annabel deduced and broke into a jog.

Following her closely, Pat swallowed the bile in her throat and willed her mind to clear. She needed to come up with a plan that would get Annabel out of harm’s way. No way was she taking care of business with an irate mother tagging along looking for revenge. Annabel slowed as they reached a dense stand of banana palms. In a low voice, she said, “The moorings are down there. Maybe he’s got a boat waiting.” Holding a finger to her own lips to signal silence, Pat peered through the foliage and spotted Lauren lying on a wooden platform, ankles tied, hands bound behind her. A few yards away a man was pacing back and forth apparently in conversation with himself. He was brandishing something in his right hand. Pat couldn’t tell if it was a gun. “Here’s the plan.” She handed the .38 to Annabel and kept the Glock for herself. “I want you to stay here and cover me.” Annabel looked uncertain. No doubt she was trying to remember what she had seen on TV cop shows, Pat concluded. “I’m going down,” she continued as if these instructions were as clear as day. “And when I give this signal,” she flapped her left hand over her head to illustrate, “fire a couple of shots in the air.”

“Got it,” Annabel said. “Stay up here,” Pat reiterated, slicing fleshy palm leaves into a pile she bundled under one arm. “When the time’s right, I want him to think he’s surrounded.” “Okay. I can do this.” Annabel drew herself up. “Good luck.” “I’m so sorry this is happening,” Pat murmured, and leaving Annabel in the relative safety of the jungle, she began a rapid, stealthy descent. As she drew within sight of the moorings, she slowed down and dropped the banana leaves on the ground one at a time to mask the sound of her feet crushing twigs. She was almost parallel to her target and could hear most of what he was saying. Abruptly he stalked over to Lauren and yelled, “I risked everything for you and you can’t even remember where you put your passport! I thought you were better than that. I thought you were something special. But you’re just like all the others. Stupid.” He was carrying a knife not a gun, Pat noted with relief. It looked like a switchblade. He would have to get close and even then he’d have to be very good to be any threat to Pat. She looked him up and down for any sign of a gun. If he had tried to bring one into this tiny island kingdom, it had probably been impounded.

Pat had only got hers through thanks to a special permit. It was time, she thought calmly, and stepped from the trees. He had his back to her, his gaze fixed on Lauren. Placing her feet with precision, Pat took several paces. “It’s in the blue bag inside the bedroom closet,” Lauren said in a rasping voice. “It better be!” As he started to turn, Pat yelled. “FBI! Freeze! Drop your weapon.” His head jerked around, wishy-washy blue eyes wild. Releasing a noise oddly like a giggle, he took a small step toward her. “Freeze! Or I’ll blow your head off,” Pat warned, full force. Beyond him, Lauren’s familiar form corkscrewed around and from the corner of her eye Pat could see her terrified face. She advanced a pace closer. He was actually contemplating running, she sensed with amazement. “Don’t run,” she warned with quiet authority. “If you run I’ll have to shoot you. Now drop the knife. Keep your hands where I can see them.” As she continued to speak, she moved steadily closer. “Get back!” He choked on a sob.

“Hayden, please do what she says,” Lauren pleaded with convincing concern. “Shut up. This is all your fault.” A long, wet sniff. “You’re surrounded.” Pat adopted in a more gentle tone. “It’s over. Drop the knife.” For a split second he blinked, then it was almost like a flip switched inside, transforming the sobbing loser to something much more dangerous. In that split second he made a desperate leaping dive for the wooden platform and Pat fired twice at lightning speed. He fell short of Lauren by inches, the knife dropping from his hand, his eyes dilating with shock. Hit in the shoulder and the leg, he squirmed in the sand, turning the white grains red. Pat had longed to kill him. It could have passed for a clean shooting. But it would have been dishonorable. She patted him down for any other weapons, picked up the knife, and quickly cut Lauren free. “Forgive me,” she said, taking Lauren into her arms. Lauren shook her head numbly. Leaning into Pat’s chest, she wept with abandon. A moment later, Annabel’s chagrined voice intruded. “You didn’t signal me.” Crouching over the groaning man, she said, “Want me to finish him off?” “He’s not worth serving time for,” Pat said, stroking

Lauren’s hair. “I need a doctor,” the victim moaned. At the sound of an outboard, Lauren lifted her head from Pat’s chest and all three women watched as Cody raced across Marama Bay toward them. She cut the motor and neatly came about, tossing Annabel a rope. The two of them had obviously done this a thousand times, Pat thought, as Annabel looped the rope around a mooring and Cody climbed the steps onto the platform. Hands on hips, the lithe Kiwi surveyed the scene with a long-suffering air. “Jeez, mate,” she complained to Pat. “He’s bleeding all over my beach.”

Chapter Nineteen “I don’t understand.” Lauren stared at her father. “What do you mean she’s gone?” Wendall Douglas held his cigar trimmer poised. “She’s accompanying the prisoner back home. This is a matter for the authorities now and obviously there’ll be questions. So I released her from her contract.” As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t worry. She gets to keep her salary for the whole two months, plus I gave her a bonus.” That was it? Pat had pocketed the cash and left without so much as a goodbye. Did Lauren need it spelled out any more clearly that all she’d ever signified to the FBI agent was a pay check and some sexual recreation? “Yep. All’s well that ends well.” Her father lit up and puffed contentedly. Lauren gazed around the hotel lobby, barely able to take in the blur of the past two days. After the shooting, Annabel and Pat had flown Hayden Shaffer to Rarotonga for hospital treatment. Pat had packed her stuff and told Lauren their flight home was booked for three days’ time. She’d said she would have to stay in Rarotonga until then to help the police and get the ball

rolling for extradition. They’d barely had five minutes to talk alone. Two days later, Lauren had left Moon Island, expecting to find Pat waiting at the airport when she arrived. But instead her father had sent a driver for her. Now here she was, sitting in a bar at the Rarotongan Resort hotel sipping a Mai Tai and listening to her father congratulate himself on hiring a bodyguard who had saved his babydoll’s life. “She told me to tell you goodbye,” he said. “I think she was genuinely sorry not to get to say it in person.” “Lovely.” With a jerky movement Lauren deposited her Mai Tai glass on the nearest table. This was not the time for fru-fru cocktails, she decided. She waved for the waiter and requested a vodka. As the chubby young man cleared the unwanted Mai Tai away, Lauren caught her father’s eye and lifted her chin slightly. “Everything okay, babydoll?” Wendall appeared slightly shocked by her abrupt transition to hard liquor. “Everything’s just peachy,” she replied, picturing Pat’s face in front of her where she could slap it hard. Unconvinced, her father cleared his throat and tried for diplomacy, never his strong suit. “You can’t stay angry forever.” “About…?”

“I know you didn’t want to come here. Your mother wasn’t crazy about it, either. She thought we should keep you home at St. Michael’s and use a couple of my security guys.” “I didn’t know that.” Lauren’s curiosity was piqued. “What did she say?” “That the whole idea sounded like trouble.” He consulted his scotch dourly. “Turns out she was right.” “It was just plain bad luck that creep found out where I was,” Lauren said, not wanting him to blame himself. “And good luck I hired the right person to take care of that,” he said, satisfied once more. Lauren could only nod. She wanted to throw her vodka across the room. * A few hours and several double shots later, she retreated to her room and lay on her bed staring up at the ceiling, a prisoner of blazing anger and pathetic yearning. In her adult life, no one had ever made her feel as Pat did. Until Pat, Lauren felt as if she had existed in a mirage, accepting the shallow rites of sentiment and sex as standard currency in the land of veneer she

occupied. There were times when she had wondered if this was really It, but she had dismissed her sense of emptiness as a character flaw. Other people were perfectly happy. Hers was an enviable lifestyle. What was the matter with her, feeling let down? With Pat, she had stepped into a new reality. She barely recognized her own emotional landscape now. Everything had taken on a different hue. There were no familiar paths to take. Gone was the prospect of simple chocolate box happiness served up by the convenient vending machines of dating and friendship. Pat had invited her into a foreign and wondrous interior and discarded her there. How would she ever find her way back to what she knew? Lauren rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. She had lost the woman who had awakened her deeper self. Grief, humiliation, and disbelief clawed at her. Tears poured down her face and soaked her pillow. More than anything, more than she could bear, she craved Pat. She craved the comfort of her presence, the bliss of being held by her, the intensity of their lovemaking. She craved the surrender and release that was Pat’s gift to her, those moments of ripe, bursting happiness so pure they blinded her with joy.

How could she have found this only to lose it so quickly? Helpless fury overtook her and she hated herself for whatever it was she had failed to be for Pat. There must have been something Pat needed that Lauren hadn’t provided. If she only knew what that was. If only she could have their time again and be Pat’s ideal mate. Lauren was overwhelmed with despair. She’d had that chance, and now it was gone. Pat was gone. Lifting her hands to her chest, she wept anew. She could almost feel her heart breaking. * Pat studied the tattooed wrist handcuffed to hers. The name “Gillian” had been crossed out and replaced with “Lauren.” “Champagne? Juice? Water?” a flight attendant enquired, pretending not to notice Pat was attached to a groggy insect of a man who had already thrown up once and occasionally lapsed into slurred ramblings about various television heroines, in particular Dana Scully. The prisoner had been sedated for the trip, and they were sitting right at the back of business class where

they wouldn’t scare a coach cabin full of families homeward bound after their happy holidays. Thankfully he was asleep now. Hoping he would stay that way, Pat took a glass of water and requested a snack. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Rarotonga was four hours behind them. Pat could have waited another day or two to make the trip, so that she and Lauren could have shared one of those awkward goodbyes. But what was the point? They had said all that needed to be said the day those photographers took the fateful pictures that drew Hayden Shaffer from his hiding place. Lauren had said then she never wanted to see Pat again and Pat had given her good reason. Subsequent events didn’t change that. Pat reviewed her conduct and felt disgusted with herself. Not only had she set her personal and professional ethics aside in getting involved with a client, she had made misjudgments that could have led to Lauren’s death. It was only by sheer good luck that she and Annabel had arrived back on Moon Island in time for Pat to do her job. She had broken every rule in the book and she had walked away with a fat paycheck at the end of it all. Wendall Douglas had been so grateful, he had rounded her total up to 100k. Pat

intended to return the payment as soon as she got home. The flight attendant placed a club sandwich on Pat’s tray table, and she consumed it barely tasting the contents. She could not shake the sense that she had made a terrible mistake. Lauren was different from any other short fling she had ever had; in fact, to class her as a fling was a denial. Their connection was so much more than that. Being with Lauren had invited Pat to dwell in the realm of possibility, to conceive of a life where her work came second. In a few short weeks, she had slid into a state of mind so foreign, it was scary. The truth was, the more time she spent with Lauren, the more emotionally naked she became, and Pat didn’t like feeling vulnerable. It struck her that this was the real reason she had left, no matter how she might choose to rationalize it. She was falling in love with Lauren and had pushed her away; it was that simple. Years ago, she had made the choice to live without a mate and she had dressed it up as noble self-sacrifice. Lauren had challenged that. She had forced Pat to choose again, this time with very different stakes. Pat stared down at her half-eaten sandwich and tried to fathom the choice she had made, the choice to

deny her heart’s desire. How had it come to this? When had she carved away the most tender part of herself and replaced it with armor? What exactly was she guarding against? A boundless hunger bloomed within, displacing all in its path. It was as if a giant hand had evicted the breath from her lungs and grasped her heart in a vise-like grip. Pat gazed sightlessly ahead. Leaving Lauren was more than a mistake, she recognized, it was an act of self-punishment. She had dared to love another, and the Pat Roussel she had become found that unacceptable.

Chapter Twenty One Year Later Through a pall of dust thrown up by the wheels of her Jeep, Lauren could make out two figures at the side of the road, a man and his daughter. Flies hovered around the girl in a swirling mass. “Tadias,” Lauren greeted them in their language. “Mr. Debaba?” The wiry man nodded and wiped his hand on his robe before shaking hers. His smile of relief was the one Lauren had grown accustomed to during her year in Ethiopia. Finally his daughter, Maiza, would be helped. Discarded by her husband, shunned by her village, deprived of her child, she was a pariah. She could not work, for no one wanted to work with her. If she tried to catch a bus she was refused entry. She lived in a makeshift tent her father had rigged up outside the family dwelling. Like most Ethiopian girls, she had been married off at fourteen to a man her parents chose, and had fallen pregnant immediately. Birth control was not an option in her world. The few health agencies that had provided condoms and education had closed their

doors after President Bush withdrew American financial support from the UN Population Fund and imposed the Global Gag Rule. These two measures had successfully ended family planning services in most third-world agencies. As a consequence, the situation for the girls of Maiza’s region was now worse than it had ever been. Maiza’s body was not ready for the ardors of childbirth and after several days of labor without medical care, the damage had been extensive. Most girls in her situation simply died in squalor, a forgotten statistic, so easily preventable if anyone gave a damn. But Maiza had survived with holes in her bladder and bowel, leaking a steady discharge down her legs that dried on the one dress she owned, causing the stench that offended all those around her. When Lauren had first arrived in Ethiopia, she could not come to terms with the plight of these girls and women, torn between disgust at their condition, outrage over their treatment, and impotent fury at the men they had married. She could not forgive the Ethiopian government that did so little to help them, or her own president for scoring moralistic points at the expense of the world’s most vulnerable people. Her reaction was perfectly normal, her mother had

said. But they had work to do. The surgery performed at the fistula hospital was life-changing. A woman who had been healed could return to her family and lead the best life possible for a woman denied the choices her sisters in the West took for granted. Lauren opened the Jeep’s door and Maiza climbed in, her eyes downcast. Her father apologized to Lauren for his daughter and offered her a freshly baked injera and a piece of cloth with some coins wrapped in it. Because the operations were funded by overseas donations, Lauren wanted to turn down the hard-won money, but that would be an insult. Here at least was a father who cared enough for his daughter that he had probably sold some of the family’s few possessions to make the trip. The precious sum symbolized dignity and a future for his child. Lauren thanked him and placed the money in the pouch at her waist. “Twenty-one days from now,” she said in Amharic, counting off fingers. “I’ll bring her back to this place. Three weeks.” “Yes, Doctor Miss Lauren. I’ll wait here.” Again Mr. Debaba smiled. His eyes were tearful. “Don’t worry,” Lauren said. “We’ll take good care of her.” As she turned the Jeep and headed back along the

road toward Bahr Dar, he walked after them, waving. His daughter waved back, her arm only falling when her father was finally out of sight. Then she sat hunched in the corner of her seat, her head bent in shame. This was another thing Lauren had grown accustomed to. The women who had Maiza’s condition could not make eye contact. Their humiliation was too great. Lauren did not press her for conversation. That would come later, when she had clean garments and hope. * In the late evening, Lauren and her mother took tea beneath the awning in front of their tiny house on the shores of Lake Tana and watched the fishermen dragging their papyrus boats ashore. The temperature dropped sharply after the sun went down, and the cool was like a miracle. There was no air conditioning; in fact, there was no electricity. A kerosene lamp lit their cottage. It stood on a small table near them, radiating golden light. Beneath it, one of the trainee nurses sat with a textbook, making the most of this precious resource. Sisay was a protégé of Helen Douglas. Only seventeen years old, she had been discarded by her

family and there was no home for her to return to. Having taught the girl to read and write in her own language, Helen was now teaching her to speak English. She had high hopes for Sisay, who was brilliantly clever. “Doctor Miss Lauren?” The girl handed Lauren her notebook and pencil. “Will you please check?” Lauren had long ago given up trying to tell the women at the hospital and the people in the wider community that she was just plain “Lauren.” It was apparently inconceivable to them that the daughter did not follow in her mother’s footsteps. Doctor Mrs. Douglas was known to them from her previous visits. This time she’d brought her daughter to work with her. Enough said. Lauren read Sisay’s work. “This is very good. No mistakes.” A tiny smile tugged at the edges of Sisay’s serious mouth. Lauren had never seen the girl laugh. Her baby had been stillborn and her husband’s family had thrown her out on the street to beg when they realized she could bear no more children. Helen and Lauren had found her several miles from the hospital. She had walked for three days to reach Bar Dahr, and had asked to work in exchange for her operation.

Dr. Hamlin, the founder of the Fistula Hospital, never turned a woman away and after a month of decent food and treatment, Sisay had had her surgery. She had worked for several months, cleaning and doing laundry, and had begged to remain. Now she was about to sit the exam for entry to nursing school, with Helen sponsoring her place. It was a small triumph, but these made the daily tragedies bearable. Lauren passed the notebook to her mother, who read it and told Sisay, “Your praise will make me vain.” Sisay’s short essay about her reasons for wanting to be a nurse was poignant in its simplicity, and compared her sponsor favorably with a legendary tribal queen and Mary, the Mother of God. “Not feeling holy today?” Lauren murmured, lighting a new citronella coil to ward off the mosquitoes. Malaria was a problem in Bar Dahr. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” her mother replied. That morning, she had sent a man running from the clinic after shouting at him over the state of his wife. Sisay spoke up. “That man makes anger for me. I want to shoot him with many guns.” “He made me angry, too,” Lauren said. “Ignorant, stupid man.” “He doesn’t know any better,” Helen said. “At least

he brought his wife to us.” “Seven months pregnant, and with a fistula condition already.” Lauren could not contain her disgust. “What if she’d tried to give birth?” “We can only be thankful she didn’t. Now we can do a caesarian and eventually she’ll have her surgery.” “Some days I really don’t know how you do it.” Her mother spent a moment in silent reflection. “It’s going to be strange being home again.” “No kidding. Refrigeration. Hot showers. Salad.” “You could have gone back any time.” “I know.” At first, going home had been all Lauren could think about. But she’d promised her mother she would remain for a month, and besides, she’d had nothing to go home to. The network had killed off Dr. Kate and the only offers Lauren was getting were for walk-on roles in B grade mini-series. As the weeks had passed in this far-off land, there was always another Maiza or Sisay she wanted to stay for, and see recover. She and her mother had been assigned to the main hospital in Addis Ababa at first, then they’d moved to one of several newly built regional treatment centers, a small facility in the grounds of the Bar Dahr regional hospital in the northwest.

The area was beautiful, secluded in the purple and red highlands just a few miles from the Tiss-Issat Falls. Lauren loved its lushness and tranquility, the misty rainforests and curious monkeys, the shy but friendly Woyto people. This was the land where humankind originated, where the Queen of Sheba had ruled, a jewel of a place occupying Africa’s highest plateau and surrounded by a hellish confederacy of neighbors including Somalia, Sudan, and Eritrea. History had left its imprint here in the hominid fossils of the Rift Valley, the tombs and fortresses of Axum, and in some of the oldest shrines in Christianity. Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile, seemed a world apart, a giant inland sea dotted with islands. Lauren loved to stand on the shore at first light and watch the birds rise through the mist and hang as if inked against the pale morning sky. Out on the lake, medieval churches and monasteries still stood on many islands, somehow having weathered centuries of political turmoil. Occasionally she and her mother took a woman who wanted to give thanks for her surgery to Ura Kidane Mihret, the only monastery open to both genders. Lauren lived for the moment when these women emerged from the clinic wearing their brand new dress

—a gift from the hospital—huge smiles on their faces, their heads held high. She loved being able to look into their eyes for the first time and see what words could not express. “I can see why you always stay over here longer, Mom,” she remarked. Helen Douglas gave a small, rueful smile. “I wish your father was so understanding.” When their six months had started looking more like a year, Wendall Douglas had grudgingly flown out to see them. It was the first time he’d ever seen the hospital and he had been appalled. After writing a big check for the Jeep Lauren now drove and making a donation to the operating fund, he had gone back home promising he would speak out against the withdrawal of U.S. family planning funds to third-world initiatives. His own race for the Republican nomination had grown ugly, he’d told them. His rival, a man to the right of Joe McCarthy, was running a smear campaign. A Rambo patriot who had taken a pass when it was his turn to die for his country, he had accused Wendall Douglas of deliberately stepping on a mine to get out of Vietnam, and described him as “a relic of yesterday’s GOP.”

Helen Douglas had suggested her husband take this as a compliment, but Lauren could see her father was shaken by the vicious attacks. He still clung to the belief that if people like him remained true to the original ideals of the GOP, they could turn back the tide of extremism that had swept their party. Lauren thought he was kidding himself, but kept that opinion to herself. “So, how do you feel?” Helen asked. “About what?” Lauren guessed her mother had asked her something and she had not heard it first time ’round. “Sorry. I was miles away.” Helen smiled. “I was asking how you feel about going home…other than looking forward to ice in your drinks?” “I feel different…in myself,” Lauren said. “I can’t explain it. I feel older.” Some things would never be the same, she thought. For a start, she would never take clean drinking water for granted. And flush toilets. Never again would she feel sorry for herself for more than a few seconds. Witnessing real misery and deprivation had put her own problems into perspective in a big hurry. Lauren grinned. “I’m not sure how I’ll cope, listening to my friends bitching about bad hair days.” Her mother laughed. “Worried you might find it hard

to sympathize?” “Luckily, I can act,” Lauren responded dryly. “I’m amazed at how little it takes for a person to be happy here. I mean, these people have nothing.” “Happiness is relative to expectation. In the world we know, people grow up feeling entitled to a great deal. Unless we have it all, we’re not content.” “I get embarrassed every time I think about how spoiled I was,” Lauren said. “You told me this was going to be tough, but I had no idea.” “Are you sorry you came?” “God no. It’s the first really good thing I’ve done in my life. I’m so glad I’m not Dr. Kate anymore.” “It’s funny you should say that,” Helen mused. “I think you are more like Dr. Kate now than you ever were acting the role.” “Is that a compliment?” “Yes, Doctor Miss Lauren, it is.” At that, Sisay lifted her head and laughed shyly, a hand across her mouth. “One day I am Nurse Miss Sisay.” “Yes. And maybe one day, a long time from now, you will be Doctor Miss Sisay,” Helen replied softly. Lauren allowed her eyes to rest on the young woman. Her mother had said that if Sisay graduated

nursing, she would pay for the girl to attend medical school at Addis Ababa University. The boldness of this dream struck Lauren forcibly. Here was a young woman who could not even read a year ago, and who was brought up to feel worthless unless she married, had many children, and raised a few head of cattle. The women of her village spent half of every day carrying water and firewood so their families could survive. Yet here she was, against all the odds, aiming for the unimaginable—education and a profession. “I was thinking,” Lauren said, feeling oddly selfconscious. “When we get home, I’m going to apply for medical school.” Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Really?” “Maybe I won’t be good enough,” Lauren said. “I’m not as brainy as you.” And I never had your noble instincts, she added mentally. “But I’m going to try.” “You have plenty of brains,” Helen said indignantly. “You just hadn’t decided how you were going to use them, that’s all.” Lauren gazed out at the shimmering lake and sipped her tea in silence. Today her shoulder ached where the bullet had smashed flesh and bone. Although she no longer had panic attacks or nightmares, the

pain reminded her that God had seen fit to spare her. She had been given a second chance, and she was not going to waste it. One day, she would come back here as a doctor. Like her mother, she would make a difference in the world. Her life would have some meaning.

Chapter Twenty-One Lizzy Dubois kept a tidy home in the town of Hinten, West Virginia. The walls of her lounge were freshly painted in a pale rose shade and boasted a collection of religious-themed art. She showed Pat to a plasticcovered sofa, also pale rose, and enquired in her stiffjawed Appalachian manner, “Can I fetch you’n something to drink, Agent Roussel? Sweet milk, pop, coffee…” “I’m fine, thanks.” Lizzy took this for a yes. “I’ll fix some coffee.” Pat fell into line. “Black for me, please.” She unzipped her satchel and removed a tape recorder and notepad. Her pulse was racing. She had driven down from Philly at breakneck speed, making the seven-hour trip in less than six. That wasn’t the only reason her nerves were jangling. On a gut instinct, she had phoned Lizzy a few months ago, deciding to press her one last time over Caleb Dubois’ alibi for the day Shelby-Rose Dubois disappeared. Lizzy had repeated the same story she’d told several years earlier, but this time there was a distinct lack of conviction in her tone. Wondering what had accounted for the change, Pat had called her periodically ever

since, working on gaining her trust. On each occasion, usually over the sounds of screaming children, they’d talked about the case and the other victims. Yesterday, as if in passing, Pat had mentioned the lipstick missing from Shelby-Rose’s backpack. Lizzy’s reaction had been telling; she dropped the phone. When she started talking again, Pat had the distinct impression there was something she needed to get off her chest. Lizzy handed her a mug of weak coffee and sat stiffly in an armchair. “It’s rainin’ like a big dog out there,” she remarked, patting her rigid blonde waves. Like any mountain-raised woman, she would have mixed feelings about discussing kin with an outsider, Pat gleaned—worse still, the FBI. Giving her some time, she said, “This room looks great.” A quick smile. “Oh yeah. Last time you was here, it was that hideous yaller, weren’t it?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I always did like pink.” Lizzy lapsed into thought then set her coffee on the table with an air of determination. As if measuring her words, she said, “I sure appreciate you comin’ all this way. Hope it don’t turn out to be a waste.” “Anything you can tell me will help.” Pat indicated the

tape recorder. “Do you mind?” Lizzy shrugged a thin shoulder. “It’s okay.” “We’ve talked a few times about Duke…how he was with your husband that day. I was wondering if maybe you’ve remembered something else…” “Well, it’s proba’ly nothing. Folks would expect me to axe my husband afores I talk at the likes of you’n. But Jimmy don’t have a lick of sense when it comes to that brother of his.” Pat sipped her coffee, allowing Lizzy to get to the point in her own way. “I have this girlfriend, Dreema. She was my bridesmaid when I married Jimmy. Anyways, she’s single and time don’t stand still, iffen you know what I mean.” Pat gave an empathetic nod. “Well, she was seeing this guy…smelled like some’it the cat drug in, ig’nernt and lickered up day and night. So I gets to thinking, how’s about I fix her up with Duke. You know…seeing as he’s a wife short and she could sure use a husband.” “You fixed your girlfriend up with Duke? This was recent?” “Yuh-huh. They stepped out a few times.” Lizzy studied her coffee for a moment. “It didn’t go real well.”

“In what way?” “I don’t rightly know what Duke was expecting. He’s had some schooling and he gets above his raisin’ …iffen you know what I mean. Anyhows, Jimmy axes him what went wrong and he says Dreema’s plumb stupid. Well, that just chaps my ass. She’s smart enough to have her own flower shop.” “Sounds like your girlfriend dumped him, maybe.” Pat deduced the obvious. “Yuh-huh.” Lizzy lowered her voice a fraction. “Duke, he’s got money, so he took her to fine restaurants an’ all. Then he just drives her home. And Dreema’s real fetchin’.” A wave of disappointment engulfed Pat. Had she just driven four hundred miles to hear that Caleb Dubois didn’t kiss his date? “Dreema was surprised he didn’t make a move on her?” “At first she reckons he’s being perlite. Next thing she’s asking me iffen Duke is one of them…um…” “Homosexuals?” “Nuh-huh. When a man is lookin’ to dress in women’s clothing—what do they call that?” “Transvestite—men who cross-dress?” Lizzy nodded, eyes darting anxiously to the picture above her fireplace. From what Pat could make out, it

was someone’s idea of God casting sinners into a fiery pit. Pat asked, “Why would she think Duke is a crossdresser?” “Their last date, they goes back to his place for coffee. She figures he’s got a mind for getting’ to it, so she goes potty.” She fell silent, then continued in a tone of bashful apology. “And while she’s in there, she takes a gander in the medicine cabinet.” Pat’s heart accelerated. She and Cicchetti had interviewed Duke several times, but they’d never gotten any further than his living room. When Cicchetti had asked to use the facilities, this had resulted in the cheerful suggestion that they all adjourn to the nearest burger restaurant in Duke’s chain. Lizzy lifted her eyes to Pat’s face. “Now sumpin you should know is Jimmy and me, we usta visit with Duke er’ so often and I swear, he ain’t never had female company in that place.” “A real bachelor pad, huh?” Pat had formed a similar impression. Wade Dubois employed a cleaning woman to keep his place immaculate. The guy was a real neatnik, from what she had seen. And Lizzy was right; the house was devoid of female energy. Even Cicchetti had noticed.

“So it really throwed me when Dreema says she seed a lipstick in that cabinet. A real fancy-looking ’un. Far’n.” Pat’s breath caught in her throat. “How could she tell it was foreign?” Lizzy gave her a quizzical look. “Cause it said made in Paris. I know it sounds bad, her messing with his things, but she was curious.” Pat smiled. “I look in people’s bathroom cabinets all the time.” “You’n the law.” “You know, just because Duke has a lipstick in his bathroom doesn’t mean he’s a cross-dresser,” Pat said, digging a little more. “According to your husband, he has a lot of women friends. Maybe one of them left it there.” Lizzy shook her head and her speech became more excited. “Thing is. It was wrapped up real purty in a big white ribbon. That got her thinkin’. What’s a man doin’ with lipstick and a bride ribbon? So when we was atalkin’ last night, I got chill-bumps atter you said ’bout that lipstick missing.” “How big was the ribbon?” Pat wanted to run to her car, drive to Charleston, and tear Caleb Dubois’ place apart.

Lizzy demonstrated with her hands. “I’d like to talk with Dreema,” Pat said. Lizzy stood. “She’s a ways from here. I’ll fetch the address for her flower shop.” Knotting her fingers, she blurted, “Duke don’t have to know we’ve been talking, right?” “This is just between you and me,” Pat assured her. “You did the right thing in telling me.” A wistful expression softened Lizzy’s bony features. “I loved that young’en. An’ I don’t owe Duke nothin’.” The brown eyes narrowed. “Come to that…happin’ I know Jimmy’s been coverin’ up for him. That alibi. I reckon it’s a lie.”

Chapter Twenty-Two Pat closed her front door for about the tenth time that evening and carried yet another small gift to her kitchen table. Caleb Dubois’ arrest a week ago had brought with it a flood of attention from her neighbors and countless phone calls from smooth-talking agents who told her she stood to make millions. One had a book deal on the table. He’d even dreamed up a nauseating title: Torn Petals, billed as “the gutwrenching story of the Kiddy Pageant Killer by the female FBI Agent who caught him.” Pat had said she would think about it. She and Cicchetti had already discussed doing something together, so he could earn enough money to buy a decent apartment. His divorce had left him broke and bitter, and now his ex was making it next to impossible for him to see his kids. Pat wanted to think Cicchetti was probably to blame for his own misfortunes, and maybe he was. But her impression of Natalia Cicchetti was that the woman was a Class A bitch. She was already shacked up with another guy, and these days she had a Mexican housekeeper and a house with a pool. Not only had she traded up, she had moved to Miami, where her new man owned a chain of Italian

restaurants. If it was at all possible, her hair was even bigger, and her fake nails even faker when Pat saw her at the custody hearing a month ago. Pat was there to vouch for Cicchetti’s credentials as a dad. A lot of good it did. Natalia had trotted out the whole Catholic-mother routine, painting her ex-husband as a callous detective too busy with the job and his buddies to remember his own son’s birthday. Pat shoved a couple of pepperoni Hot Pockets in the micro-wave and took a beer from the fridge. She opened the newspaper and found her face plastered alongside another salacious headline. The case was still big news and she had even been interviewed for a 60 Minutes segment that was airing tonight. She should feel more jubilant than she did. Her colleagues had been generous in their praise. Even the homophobic Dr. Stephanie Carmichael had actually managed to look Pat in the eye and congratulate her the last time they met. But Pat felt drained. The banality of evil inevitably reduced her to helpless dismay. Maybe reading the newspapers was not such a good idea. The media and the public were obsessed with why? As if a rational explanation existed for the unspeakable, as if

the formula that created a killer could be undone if it were understood. People took comfort in the idea of a deranged individual driven by impulse, a misfit whose conduct was caused by some personal trauma. No one wanted to examine the awful probability that child murderers may be as much a product of their culture as corporate crooks like the Enron crowd. The ruthless pursuit of gratification was their stock in trade. They did what they did because they liked it. Being pathological narcissists, they felt entitled. Pat bit into the Hot Pocket and listlessly turned on the television. One of the most dangerous of the breed was now locked up, but she could not solve the problem. The thought depressed her. * The vast kitchen in the St. Michael’s home always made Lauren conscious that her own apartment was the size of a closet. She’d been thinking of selling, but felt odd about it because it was her parents’ graduation gift. All the same, since returning from Ethiopia, she’d had trouble settling there. It was like stepping back through time into the life she’d once led,

only nothing seemed to fit anymore. She didn’t like the décor. Every stick of furniture reminded her of Sara. Even her bed felt wrong. She’d grown so accustomed to a hard wooden base and a thin mattress that the enveloping softness of her bedding seemed smothering. Sometimes she abandoned it in the middle of the night, wrapped herself in a quilt, and slept on the floor. It was not just the apartment. She had returned to New York City, but not to the world she had known. Her two closest friends from college had moved to the West Coast while she’d been away. Old Mrs. Rosen next door had died, and her apartment was now occupied by her son and his wife. They were doing noisy renovations and spent most nights yelling at each other, sometimes in the hallway right outside her door. The janitor had left his job and the new guy smoked anywhere he liked in the building and wore a ball cap with embroidered ducks above a slogan that said “If it flies it dies.” Lauren got the creeps thinking about him poking around in her apartment while she wasn’t there. It should have been comforting to return to the familiar, but she felt like a displaced person. She could hardly wait to get to St. Michael’s on the weekends and always had to force herself to leave. It had only been a

month, she reasoned as she waited for the kettle to boil. Maybe it took more time to adjust. She had returned to civilization after twelve months of what most people would consider hell on earth. Was it any wonder she felt disoriented? Maybe she should move home to St. Michael’s for a while. There was nothing to stop her, she decided as she spooned ground coffee beans into the espresso machine. She could just pack up when she got back to the city tomorrow, list the apartment with a realtor, and stay in the Chesapeake while she waited to get into a medical school. Her parents had met at Harvard and they seemed to take for granted that she would be accepted at their alma mater. But Lauren was less confident. She would apply to several schools and see what happened. Certain she could hear her mother’s voice, she stuck her head out the door and called, “Is that you, Mom?” “Quick. Come and see this,” Helen Douglas responded from the TV room. Halfway through pouring the coffee, Lauren hastened down the hallway. What wonder of the natural kingdom did her mother want to share now? Expecting Gorillas In the Mist, Lauren entered the room just as Pat Roussel’s face filled the TV screen.

“Your bodyguard is on 60 Minutes!” her mother announced, cranking up the volume. “It’s all about that dreadful case of the child beauty queens. I had no idea she was the one who caught the killer.” She picked up the remote again. “I’m going to record this for your father. He’ll want to tell everyone he hired a famous FBI detective to look after you.” Lauren sat down because she felt like her legs wouldn’t hold her. Blocking out her mother’s chatter, she tried to focus on what Pat was actually saying. But she was strangely transfixed by the shape of her mouth moving, the structure of her jaw, the way her eyelids drooped slightly as she concentrated. For the interview, she was wearing a beige turtleneck tucked into black pants. She looked relaxed. Well rested. Incredibly, outrageously hot. Lauren lowered her eyes, waiting for a commercial break before she dared confront the screen again. Her blood rioted through her body, making her head pound. She was aware that she was breathing in short sharp gasps, but could not slow the rhythm. “Amazing,” she managed in a squeaky voice. Her mother gave her an odd look. “Are you okay?” Lauren tried to speak but her attention was riveted once more to the screen. Pat was talking about the

people she worked with, giving them most of the credit for the big arrest. Lauren followed her hand gestures with strange fascination, almost feeling her caress. A rush of longing consumed her. Helen Douglas muted the sound as a cheesy CocaCola ad played. Her eyes were glued to Lauren’s face. They narrowed a little, and she asked point-blank, “Are you in love with Pat Roussel?” “No. Of course not.” Lauren could hear the thin quality of her own voice. “Whatever would give you that idea? I hardly know her.” “Well, I don’t recall ever seeing you have palpitations over Mike Wallace, and since he’s the only other person on the screen…” Lauren forced herself to get a grip. Wetting her mouth, she said, “I just got a shock to see her. That’s all. It kind of brought up…everything.” “Ah.” Her mother looked skeptical. “Well, I’m sorry about that.” She continued to stare at Lauren as if she could see right through her. An uncomfortable silence ensued. “Okay. We did have kind of a…thing,” Lauren admitted finally. There was no point lying. Her mother had always been able to read her like a book. “But she…we decided it was the wrong time. You know. It wasn’t appropriate.” Trying

to make her mouth quit trembling, she bit down on her bottom lip. “And you thought you would forget her and move on? ” “I’ve tried to. It’s strange. We only spent a few weeks together. Maybe it was the timing. I think my feelings were out of proportion because of the shooting. I formed a strong attachment to her very quickly.” “Ah.” Helen mulled this over, then said, “I like her. I think she has integrity. And she saved your life. That certainly scores points with me.” “She is a good person,” Lauren said stiffly. “I wish things had been different. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” “So, are you saying you wouldn’t be attracted to her now? That it was just a fleeting thing?” Lauren caught her breath. The very thought of Pat’s touch, the feel of her body, evoked a sharp physical response. She blushed. “I’m not sure. I mean, yes. I think so.” Maybe it would be different now, she reflected. Maybe, if she met Pat she would not feel this ache anymore. A year had gone by. Even if Pat had not changed at all, Lauren was a different person. She no longer had panic attacks. She felt confident, calm, and

in control of her own destiny. How could she be so undone seeing Pat on TV? It made no sense. “There’s one way to find out,” Helen said, ever the pragmatist. “Phone the woman and have a drink with her.” Lauren shook her head. “I don’t want to see her again. That experience is behind me now. I’ve moved on.” Even to her, the protestations sounded tinny. She cleared her throat. “What I’m trying to say is that I can’t see the point. It never works to go back and try and pick up where you left off.” Her mother nodded sagely. “That was then, this is now. What’s the harm in seeing her…just to say hello?” Lauren knew the mature response would be a sanguine willingness to see Pat in a social setting. To have a civilized conversation, and come to terms with what could never be. But she felt a mixture of dread and embarrassment at the thought. In hindsight, she could see she had thrown herself at Pat Roussel. She had placed an employee in an awkward position. Had Pat felt sexually harassed? Lauren didn’t think so, but she wasn’t sure if she could trust her own judgment on that count. All she knew was that Pat had backed off, and the moment the job was done, she had left without saying goodbye. Could she have made it any plainer

that she did not want Lauren in her life? Lauren caught her mother’s eye. “To be honest, I doubt she would want to see me. It’s kind of awkward.” “Because you were intimate? Is that what you meant by having a thing?” Lauren groaned. This was something she did not want to discuss in any detail with her mother. “We did sleep together, yes.” “Let’s not share that with your father.” “Good idea.” Helen had a brooding expression on her face, the one Lauren associated with plotting and scheming. “Just leave it. Okay?” she said. “I’m not sure if your father ever told you this, but Pat returned the check for her salary.” Lauren tried not to react. Absorbing the information, she said, “I didn’t know that.” “At the time, I didn’t understand why she would do that,” Helen mused. Lauren had trouble swallowing. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said feebly. Helen gave a tiny shrug and picked up the remote. “All I want is for you to be happy, darling.”

Chapter Twenty-Three Pat should have known she would never make it in time for the pre-dinner drinks. Her puddle-jumper had gotten into JFK an hour late, and the taxi ride in rushhour traffic was one of the reasons she would never live in New York City. The speeches had already started when she reached the dinner reception and she slid guiltily into a spare chair at the back of the room. She would have to wait for a break between speakers before finding her table. Helen Douglas’s invitation had come as a complete surprise and she’d been in two minds over accepting right up until the plane boarded. By the time she’d finally decided to back out, it was too late. Her plane was taxiing away from the terminal and the guy on the other side of the aisle reached out and shook her hand, saying, “I hope they fry that fucking scum,” before announcing to the rest of the cabin, “Hey, right here’s the lady who nailed the Kiddy Pageant Killer.” Which made Pat very popular with the flight attendants, who had to keep the autograph-hunters in their seats during take-off. Pat had still been signing her name on paper napkins at the baggage claim and thanking God that

her fifteen minutes of fame would soon be over. Scanning the reception room, she tried to catch sight of Helen. A staff member had told her she was seated at the main table, a large one close to the front. But the room was in darkness, with only the stage lit. A woman at the podium was talking about poverty in the third world and what the National Organization for Women had done about it recently. Waving an arm toward the curtains behind her, she said, “And on that note, it is my pleasure to introduce the daughter of the woman we’re gathered here to honor. Please welcome Lauren Douglas!” Startled, Pat got to her feet with the rest of the clapping audience and sidled around the room to get a better view of the stage. Locating an empty table to one side, she took a seat and stared at the young woman who had strolled to the podium. Lauren had changed. Pat noticed her hair first. The heavy, shoulder-length red tresses had gone, replaced by a short bob that made her neck seem painfully vulnerable. She was thinner. Much thinner. The cocktail dress she wore revealed a body that had lost its soft curves. Her heart-shaped face was more elfin, her cheekbones defined, her eyes shadowed as if she hadn’t slept properly in months. Pat was shocked.

What the hell had happened to her? “When my mother and I went to Ethiopia a year ago, I was a child,” Lauren said, adjusting the microphone slightly. “A spoiled child. One of the most fortunate ten percent of the world’s girl children. My parents had not starved me, sold me into sexual slavery, or sent me out to work when I was five years old. I went to school. I played sports. I became an actress and earned more money each week than many of the world’s women earn in their lives.” She paused, scanning the room, but did not see Pat in her shadowed corner. “My skills included pretending to be a doctor on television, pretending to be a heterosexual in real life, and …buying shoes.” This scored a laugh, but not from Pat. Lauren had spent a year in Ethiopia. She was stunned. It certainly explained why Pat had never found her in any of the TV listings she checked intermittently. Lauren continued her speech, describing what it was like to work with her mother in a women’s hospital in Addis Ababa. The place sounded horrendous. Pat tried to imagine how she had coped—the woman who had to have bottled Italian mineral water. Not only had she coped, she had stayed there for a year. “What can I say about my mother that hasn’t already

been said much better by the people at the National Geographic?” Lauren said warmly. “She is my inspiration and my best friend, a model of grace under pressure, and a woman who makes a difference in the lives of others every single day. I am honored to introduce Dr. Helen Morrow Douglas.” Pat rose with everyone else, loudly applauding as Helen took the stage and hugged her daughter, at the same time acknowledging the audience with nods and smiles. During the applause, Pat hastened across to the large table in the center of the room and sat down at an empty place, just as everyone else took their chairs. She didn’t know any of the other women at the table but surmised from their thinness and jewelry that they were probably important donors. Helen started her presentation by screening a video she said Lauren had filmed. The film left Pat thunderstruck, and she wasn’t the only one. By the end, every woman at her table was discreetly mopping tears. And that was before Helen’s speech. Her chair angled toward the stage, Pat barely noticed someone had occupied the empty place to the left of hers until a purse landed at her feet and a hand reached for it. “Excuse me.” Lauren Douglas brushed past Pat and returned the purse to her lap. Her polite smile froze in

place. “Pat?” The sound of her name on those lips delivered a shock of joy so irrational Pat blinked in surprise. Trying to sound at ease, she said, “Hello, Lauren. It’s good to see you.” “What are you doing here?” Catching a “shush” from a grandmotherly woman nearby, Pat leaned close to Lauren’s ear and murmured, “Your mother invited me. I didn’t realize you were going to be here.” Lauren’s mute stare was eloquent in its displeasure. Whatever Helen Douglas had thought she was doing, it had backfired. “I see,” she said without expression. Waiting for her mother to finish speaking, she sat rigidly in her chair, her hands clasped over her purse, her face set. Pat wondered what she should do. She had no intention of staying if it meant Lauren’s evening would be ruined. At Helen’s suggestion, she had checked into the hotel for the night and arranged a late flight for the next day. That was easily fixed. As soon as she had exchanged pleasantries with Lauren’s mother, she would excuse herself on the pretext of work, arrange a morning departure, and get a good night’s sleep in the room she had paid for. The last thing she wanted to do

was make Lauren uncomfortable. Helen obviously had no idea what had transpired between them. Perhaps she had imagined Pat’s presence would come as a happy surprise for her daughter. Amidst rousing applause, Helen left the stage and navigated her way toward their table, shaking hands and exchanging greetings. She knew how to work a room, Pat observed. No doubt, as a politician’s wife, she’d had plenty of practice. Pat glanced sideways at Lauren and was relieved to see she had been pounced on by a couple of eager socialites wearing oversized pearls. This seemed like an opportune time to slip away. She could phone Helen tomorrow and apologize for not waiting to speak with her. Just as she backed her chair out, a hand touched her arm and Helen exclaimed, “Pat! How wonderful to see you.” To the women at the table, she announced, “Ladies. Please let me introduce Special Agent Pat Roussel of the FBI, whom we recently saw on 60 Minutes after she solved the child pageant killings. I owe Pat a debt of my own, as she was also responsible for apprehending the man who shot my daughter last year.” Pat immediately found herself the center of attention, women throwing questions at her and inviting her to

come and address other events. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Helen speaking with Lauren, who occasionally cast uncertain looks in Pat’s direction. A woman pawed her arm. “Agent Roussel, we were wondering if you were inspired by Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs ?” “Er…” Inspired. Pat scavenged for something to say. She met Lauren’s eyes and caught a flash of amusement. “Actually, it’s one of Pat’s favorite films.” Lauren came to her rescue. The woman looked gratified. To the friend with her, she said, “Didn’t I tell you women joined the FBI because of that movie?” “I was about to leave,” Pat told Lauren quietly. “Please don’t.” Pat fought off a reckless urge to take her into her arms then and there. She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Your film was wonderful. I’m so impressed.” “I hope they open their checkbooks.” Lauren glanced covertly around. “Do you think anyone would notice if we vanished for a while?”

Pat’s heart jerked into a gallop. “You mother seems to have it all under control.” Lauren slipped her arm into Pat’s and they took the shortest route through the tables and around the wall to the exit. Once outside the reception room, Lauren took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. I just had to get out of there.” Pat’s spirits dampened immediately. It’s not as if Lauren would want to slip away just to be in private with her, she reminded herself. Unless it was to slap her face. “I could use a stiff drink,” Lauren said. “How about you?” “Absolutely.” They took the elevator down to the small, quiet bar in the hotel lobby and ordered drinks, barely exchanging a word. “I feel shell shocked,” Lauren finally said. “It was pretty full in there.” “Not about the fundraiser.” She seemed to be measuring her words. “About everything. Why did you leave the way you did?” Pat had rehearsed any number of answers to that question over the past year. Her reply was not one of

them. “Because I had fallen in love with you.” Lauren made a small sound, as if air had escaped her lips, leaving them parted in surprise. “I don’t know what to say.” “I was an idiot.” “If you’re suggesting that’s what I should say, okay.” Lauren’s tone was playful. “You were an idiot.” For a moment Pat was taken aback, then she laughed. “I deserved that.” Lauren was letting her off the hook, she realized in that moment. A woman conscious of her own power could do that. The changes in Lauren were not just physical. Their drinks arrived and they tapped glasses without making a toast. Close up, Lauren seemed so fragile that Pat’s protective instincts went into overdrive. Yet there was a strength in her face that had not been there before, and a serenity that reminded Pat of Helen Douglas. Lauren might look like a gangly fourteenyear-old in adult’s clothing, but her level gaze and selfassured demeanor told a different story. “Congratulations on cracking the case,” she said. “I know it must mean a lot to you.” “Thank you. It does.” In truth, without it, Pat felt rudderless. She was tempted to say as much, but did

not want to sound ambivalent about this win. A monster was behind bars. They had a confession. Pageant parents could get back to exploiting their daughters with peace of mind. For Pat, there would be new crimes to solve, new horrors to confront. Lauren regarded her with serious eyes. “You seem different.” “So do you. God, you’re thin.” Soft laughter. “Let’s just say it’s for good reason Addis Ababa is not listed by the gourmet travel guides. ” “Why did you go?” Pat asked softly. “Instead of staying home, crying in my soup because I’d been discarded by the woman I wanted?” Pat flinched at the bitterness in her tone. “I suppose I felt lost. It wasn’t a noble decision at the time. I just couldn’t think of anything to do with my life and my mother kind of railroaded me into it.” Lauren sipped her vodka. “Later, everything changed. I wanted to feel…useful …to do something that would count. You must know what I mean.” “Yes. I think I do.” Pat struggled to keep her expression composed in the face of a steady litany of harried thoughts. What was I thinking walking away

from you? Do you have someone else? Would you

consider moving to Philadelphia so we could date? Observing her companion lost in thought, Lauren swirled her ice for something to do. Covertly, she took in the lithe muscularity of Pat’s legs, the tanned, squarish hand resting on one thigh, the leashed power in her every movement. Did Pat feel anything for her now? Lauren thought she had caught a brief burst of electricity between them when they had escaped the reception, but perhaps it was her imagination. It felt odd to be sitting here with her so formally. Their roles were different now, of course. It was almost as if they had just met, yet they knew so much more than they should about one another. Taking a risk, Lauren said, “Back then, before you left, I was in love with you, too.” “I know.” Those intense green eyes met hers squarely. “The timing was all wrong.” “I see that now.” With mild self-mockery, Lauren added, “I hated you for not saying goodbye. I was horribly disillusioned.” “Goodbyes were never my strong suit. I can’t stand to see a woman in tears. Myself especially.” Lauren smiled over that. The old Pat would never have been so candid. “Are you happy?” she asked. “I

mean, is your life going well?” “I have no complaints.” Pat set her drink down. Lauren could sense she was leaving a great deal unsaid. “I got a promotion. And a guy from the CIA called me up and asked me if I wanted to work in Iraq.” Lauren’s heart stopped, then started again with a jolt. Feigning nonchalant interest, she asked, “Are you going to go?” “I told him no. But I’ve been thinking about it.” Pat seemed restless all of a sudden, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she spoke. “I’m not a coward. I would risk my life if I thought I was doing something important for our country. But Iraq was always about money, never about anything moral.” “You’re already doing something important. Besides…” Lauren took a deep breath. “How would we get to see one another if you’re in Baghdad?” Pat’s eyes shot up. A faint dimple appeared in her right cheek. “Are you hitting on me?” “Maybe.” Pat’s eyes glittered with a potent mixture of desire and amusement. “Don’t stop. I’ve missed it.” She hadn’t seen this woman for a year, but Lauren wanted very badly to crawl into her lap and be held before making passionate love. It seemed crazy after

everything that had happened, but all Lauren could think was that she and Pat had been given a second chance and all they had to do was take it. For her part she planned to do just that. In a small voice, she asked, “Are you staying in the hotel?” “As luck would have it, yes.” “I have an idea.” Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. “Let’s go to your room so we can talk without that guy over there staring at us.” Pat cast a sideways look at a crew-cut hunk in a charcoal suit and a shirt too tight at the neck. “Your father’s?” Lauren nodded. “Dad says he’s just a driver. As if. He’s out here because Mom wouldn’t let him sit behind the stage during the dinner.” “I feel for him,” Pat said. “In fact, I’m going to buy him a drink.” Ignoring Lauren’s laughing protests, she went over to the security guy and spoke with him for a few seconds, then returned, saying, “Now, where were we?” “What did you say to him?” Lauren demanded, picking up her purse and smoothing her dress over her hips. “That you’re all mine. Maybe not in those exact

words.” Pat placed a hand in the small of Lauren’s back, as they walked to the elevators. The slight pressure was almost enough to make Lauren turn, inviting collision. She thought everyone in the elevator must see the pink tide rising from her cleavage to her throat. Mirrored in the stainless steel door, Lauren could tell she looked like the proverbial woman going forth in sin. The doors swished closed behind them at Pat’s floor and Lauren found herself tongue-tied, her poise nowhere to be found. As if guessing this, Pat took her hand and they walked briskly along the over-bright hotel corridor. * “It’s not as nice as the last place,” Pat said, flicking light switches. Waving a hand, she invited, “Make yourself at home.” Lauren sat on the edge of a fantastically uncomfortable sofa and watched Pat remove her jacket and unbutton her sleeves. She rolled these halfway up her forearms, and asked, “Pellegrino?” At Lauren’s nod, she removed a green bottle from the bar fridge, broke ice into two glasses, and poured. “You

turned me onto this stuff,” she remarked. “My buddies think I came back from my bodyguard stint with fancy ideas.” Lauren took several large gulps and touched her fingers to her forehead. The skin felt damp. Why was she so nervous? Pat was being perfectly charming. No one had said they were coming up here for any reason but to talk. Pat sat down next to her and drank in silence, joining Lauren in the pretense that they were not being awkward with one another all of a sudden. In a conversational tone, she asked, “So, what are your plans now?” “I’m going to train as a doctor, provided I can find a med school that will take me.” Pat grinned. “That’s great. Your mom must be thrilled.” “She’s already planning the clinic we’ll open one day.” Lauren stretched her legs out in front of her and slipped her feet out of her pumps, saying, “I’ve been in flat shoes for a year, so these are torture. Do you mind?” “Be my guest.” She looked criminally at ease, Lauren thought. What was new? Nothing ever seemed to get under Pat

Roussel’s skin. By contrast, Lauren thought her own discomfort must be written all over her. “I didn’t come up here to sleep with you,” she blurted out. This scored a reaction. Pat laughed. “What’s so funny?” “Us.” Pat said. “This deeply unromantic room. We haven’t set eyes on one another for a year and we can hardly look at each other now. But you still need to let me know we’re not jumping into bed any time soon. Good plan. Just in case I had the wrong impression.” “I hate you,” Lauren said throatily. “Really?” Pat reached over, took her glass, and set it on the coffee table. “You want to hate me. Not the same thing.” Raising a hand to Lauren’s cheek, she brought her face-to-face. Softly, she said, “I’m so sorry I hurt you. There was no excuse. I wasn’t being honest with you, or with myself.” Lauren’s eyes stung. She wiped each of them against the backs of her hands. “I thought you didn’t care. That I was just a job.” “I ran from you because you were so much more than that,” Pat admitted bleakly. “Back then, I felt like my life was out of control. You were just one more thing I failed to handle properly, and it almost got you killed. I couldn’t forgive myself for that.”

“You know what I think.” Lauren took Pat’s hand and drew it to the valley between her breasts. “I think we met at the wrong moment. I believe it was meant to happen, but the timing was out by…hmmn, a year.” “You’re saying we got ahead of ourselves?” “Maybe.” “It was worth it.” Pat smiled a slow, hot smile. “Any chance we can pick up where we left off?” Lauren could feel her body responding to Pat’s before they made it into one another’s arms. Pat’s mouth fused them together. Her kiss was everything Lauren had yearned for, night after night in her lonely, dusty bedroom in Bar Dahr. Intense. Profound. Naked in its craving. Lauren reveled in the salty taste of her mouth, the familiar feel of her. Sense memories dragged her from present to past and back again, dissolving time and distance and doubt. They made it to their feet, the kiss unbroken. Lauren’s dress was unzipped and fell away from her naked breasts. Impatiently, she pushed the garment over her hips, collecting her panties on the way, and stepping out of both. Pat’s hands slid down her sides, spreading possessively over her hips, drawing her closer. When her mouth finally left Lauren’s, it moved

from her jaw to the slender column of her throat, branding the delicate flesh with small hot kisses. Trembling, Lauren tugged open the buttons on Pat’s shirt, and pulled it from her pants then fumbled with the belt buckle and zip. “Slow down.” Pat’s voice drifted into her ear and she took over, shedding the flimsy barrier of her garments. They moved to the bed, caressing, stroking, savoring. The contrast of cool, clean sheets and hot skin was more arousing than Lauren could bear. Urgently, she dug her fingers into Pat’s back, drawing her down hard, loving the crush of their bodies, the merging of breath, the primal communion of heart, mind, and body. Pat drew back, her face unguarded, eyes clouded with desire. “God, I’ve missed you.” Her thumb skimmed a nipple. “Just let me touch you for a while.” Compliant, Lauren melted back against the pillows as Pat explored her slowly and possessively, her hands lingering over breasts and belly, her mouth tracing its own path across quivering skin. In the haven of their shared passion, she allowed herself to watch as Pat made love to her, slowly, silkily intensifying her arousal. The sight of that dark head descending between her legs, the feel of a bracing hand in the

hollow of her back, made Lauren whimper. A hand took one of hers. Their fingers knotted. Lauren closed her eyes, lost in sensation. She felt a strange awe as her sex was enveloped. It was as if she’d had no other lover, never given herself this way. Surrendering to the insistent pressure of Pat’s mouth, the hot teasing torture of tongue and lips, she lifted her hips in rhythm and released Pat’s hand. She slid her fingers through the straight dark hair, urging her, needing a little more. She knew she was making the soft moans she could hear, but was helpless to control her own responses. The pressure against her clit increased unbearably. When it was joined by the fullness she craved, Lauren’s womb contracted. The tension in her body built. Cresting, bearing down, she uttered Pat’s name over and over between small sobs of pleasure until she let go and floated. Limp and sated, she couldn’t move, or think, or speak. It was much later, cradled in Pat’s arms, that she could finally articulate what she felt. “I love you. I never stopped loving you.” Pat kissed the top of her head. “I love you, too.” “What are we going to do?” “Sleep sounds pretty good right now.”

Lauren prodded Pat gently. “You know what I mean.” “Well, we could get married and live happily ever after.” Lauren propped herself on an elbow and looked down at Pat. “Do you mean that?” Pat’s eyes sparkled. “Put yourself in my shoes. Do you think I’m going to tell your father I just want you for sex?” Lauren laughed and crawled on top of her, raining kisses over her firm flesh. “Tell me again,” she demanded. “I love you, Lauren Douglas. Will you marry me?” Lauren brushed Pat’s lips with her own. “Name the day.”

Epilogue Annabel dumped the mail on the kitchen counter and said, “We have a wedding invitation.” Cody groaned. “I still feel sick from those ribs at Whetu Parata’s bash.” “This one’s in Vermont. Pat Roussel and Lauren Douglas are tying the knot.” “You’re kidding. I thought they were history.” Annabel unfolded a couple of pages torn from a magazine. “Check this out. Lauren and her mom are in the National Geographic. They’ve been doing medical aid work in Ethiopia.” Cody read the letter that came with the invitation, her disbelief palpable. “Pat says Lauren’s starting med school soon.” She read a little further. “And she’s made a documentary about this hospital in Addis Ababa. She’s won prizes at film festivals.” “I guess she’s not a soap actress anymore,” Annabel said. “I always thought she had more brains than that.” Cody finished the letter and skimmed through the National Geographic article. “Let’s send some money to this place.” “I already do,” Annabel said. “The Fistula Hospital is

one of the charities we support.” Cody looked shame-faced. “I should take more of an interest in your trust.” “You run the island, sweetheart.” “I admire Lauren,” Cody said, pensively. “I never picked her for the type to do something like this.” “Well, she won’t be a celebrity anymore,” Annabel remarked. “You don’t get famous for helping people.” “Weird, isn’t it?” Cody said. “When people who act the parts of heroes in the movies are more famous than the people who really are heroes.” “Luckily for us all, the real ones don’t do it for the glory.” “I was thinking.” Cody folded the National Geographic pages, her face suddenly very serious. “Briar could use some company. You know, someone her own size. Maybe we could adopt one of those little girls nobody wants.” Annabel was speechless. Before Briar came into their lives, Cody hadn’t wanted children at all. Now, she was suggesting they increase their family. Apparently reading Annabel’s silence as dismay, Cody said, “It’s just an idea. I know you’ll need time to think about it. But I think we’re pretty good with babies.

And I could build another room onto the house.” Laughing, Annabel took her partner’s earnest face between her hands and kissed her tenderly. “I don’t need time. I think it would be wonderful for Briar to have a sister.” Cody brightened immediately and kissed her back. “Hey. I know! We could call her Xena?” “Wait a second. Am I hearing this? You want to name our next child after a TV hero?” Annabel gave her a sharp prod. Cody caught her hand and pulled her into a clinch. “Xena’s not just any hero.” “Uh-huh.” Annabel brushed her mouth across Cody’s. “I’m thinking Amelia has a nice ring to it.” Cody unfastened Annabel’s shirt buttons and steered her toward a sofa. “We’re not naming our baby after someone whose plane went down in the Pacific.” “Spoilsport,” Annabel murmured as Cody kissed her throat. They sank into the soft upholstery. “What if Briar wakes up from her nap?” Cody paused between discarding garments. “We’ll just tell her we were getting ready to go swimming.” They stared at one another. Briar was getting more curious by the day. “Rain check?”

Annabel suggested, reaching for her shirt. “Tonight,” Cody said. “Our bed. Eight o’clock?” They kissed, the long, slow kiss of lovers who have time to savor one another. Annabel smiled in contentment. After seven years, Cody’s touch still made her melt. “I love you,” she said. “I love our family.” Cody nuzzled her. “Me, too.” She helped do up Annabel’s buttons. “Remember when you first told me you wanted a baby?” “How could I forget?” The fight had been the worst they’d ever had. “I was an idiot.” Cody sighed. “Looking back, I think I really believed if you had one, you would love me less.” “The pumpkin pie theory of love—there’s only so much to go ’round?” “Something like that.” Annabel took Cody’s hand. “It’s the other way ’round. I love you more.” “I don’t know why, but there’s this part of me that gets afraid.” Cody’s voice was uneven. “I keep thinking I could lose you…and Briar…everything…just like that. That’s another reason I didn’t want a baby at first. If there’s more to love, then there’s more to lose.” Realizing her lover had finally dealt with some very old issues, Annabel asked, “How do you feel about that

now?” “Like a total jackass.” Annabel gathered her into a warm embrace. “I never thought I could love you more, but I do.” Solemnly Cody met her eyes. “Everything I know about love, I learned from you.” Their mouths fused, softly pledging what their hearts knew. That they belonged to one another. Now and always.

About the Author Jennifer Fulton is a best-selling lesbian romance writer who is a recipient of the 2006 Alice B. Readers' Appreciation Award. Born in beautiful New Zealand, the author now resides in the Midwest with her partner and a menagerie of animals. When she is not writing or reading, she loves to explore the mountains and prairies near her home, a landscape eternally and wonderfully foreign to her.