"You didn't recognize him? It was Orlando Lamb."

Lexie stared after him. "That was Orlando? Poor thing! He's like a character in a Dickens novel now, isn't he? First orphaned, and now chained to Hemorrhoid. Does Hem still color code his medicine chest?"

"And use Lysol by the gallon? I suppose so. Hem just told me he's changing his own name to Lamb."

"I can imagine what the Lamb family might have said about that."

"Aren't they all dead? I think Orlando is the heir to the whole empire now. With two dozen guardians, or something?"

Lexie nodded. "He won't see a penny for years. A huge board of directors protects the assets, but they're all in New Zealand. Hem was given a seat on the board when he became Orlando's loco parentis. Now he thinks he's a mogul. I suppose he dreams of Orlando expiring so he gets the whole enchilada himself."

"That's awful. He's Orlando's only living relative, isn't he?"

"Yep."

I noticed her expression. "You have your Wall Street face on, Lex."

She continued to frown as if contemplating a Vatican political plot. "Do I? A rumor just started to make sense."

"Anything I can know about? Or is client privilege at stake?"

"Not at all. I heard Lamb Limited is looking to expand. I wonder if they're thinking of buying the Brinker Bra?"

"Is it for sale?"

Kindly, my friend said, "Everything's for sale, Nora."

I never pretended to understand how large fortunes were made. Personally, I only knew the other end of the tale-how families lost great sums of money. But with Lexie supervising my financial learning curve, I was holding the tax man at bay-at least until my next installment was due. I hated the monthly panic of raising more cash, though.

"Trouble is," Lexie continued, "making a deal like this requires a lot of financial expertise-or else a very solid friendship at the core. Brinker and Hemorrhoid weren't exactly best buddies as kids, remember?"

"Believe me, I remember."

Lexie popped her eyes wide. "Of course! I'd forgotten! My God, Nora."

"Don't worry. I plan to leave as soon as the show is over."

"I've been watching his videos." Lexie indicated the rushing deluge of film that continued to spin over everything around us. "His obsessions haven't changed, have they?"

Brinker's stand-up comedy always felt like one angry man lashing out at people to prove himself smarter or more able to talk women into doing things they wouldn't admit later to their friends. His rage at his parents boiled over. At first large audiences howled at Brinker's routines-crude remarks made while a video of candid bumbling played behind him. Only when his images turned even more misogynistic did people begin to object to him. Finally a woman sued, and his rising star began to fizzle.

Then his comedy club conveniently went up in smoke, and the insurance money made him rich.

Lexie and I heard the music change, an indication that the fashion show was coming to a climactic end. I said, "Before the grand finale, how about giving me a quote for the paper? Something noble, please, to dispel the tacky factor?"

"Okay, I'm delighted to have any ally help us fight breast cancer. I hope Brinker's combination of creative thought and good luck inspires scientists to seek innovative treatments."

"Perfect." I jotted down her remark. "And who's the biggest donor? I'll put their picture in the paper."

"It's me," she said. "But why not ask Sue Mandell?"

"She's here all the way from Maine?" I'd met Sue in college when I dated a naval officer who'd been one of her patients. Long after I parted ways with the young lieutenant, Sue and I remained friends, bonding over Brazilian music and Thai food. Now she was a respected oncologist, the ideal person to picture in the newspaper.

"She's in town to see a patient, I hear. She and Steve are running up to see a show in New York later this week."

"She's the perfect choice. I'll be sure we get her photograph."

"Here comes the big finish," Lexie said as we drifted back to the warehouse doorway. "Hey, see those twins? The models?"

I watched the two young women flaunt themselves for the crowd. "Yes. Are you wondering if their hair is real?"

"Not just their hair. But . . . I think I know them from somewhere."

"The floor of the stock exchange?"

Lexie laughed.

We didn't have long to wait for the big finish. The twin models disappeared behind the curtain at the back of the runway, and the lights brightened. The crowd held its collective breath.

Suddenly the futuristic theme exploded. No more hard rock or outer-space girls. Even the videos changed. The images became deep forests and tumbling waterfalls.

The curtain parted, and the lights struck the gleaming black coat of a magnificent stallion-a gigantic live animal snorting and tossing its thick ringlets as his rider spun him on his haunches and sent him strutting onto the runway. On his back was no astronaut girl in plastic harness but a modern Lady Godiva, clad in little more than a long red wig and artfully cast seaweed and, of course, a Brinker Bra that drew the eye to her beautifully displayed breasts.

Behind her strode Brinker Holt himself.

Brinker-tall and rangy in blue jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his gym-rat physique-accepted his applause with unsmiling aplomb. Then he lifted his camera and began to film the crowd. We could suddenly see ourselves projected live against the walls, then spinning across the floor and climbing to the ceiling. Brinker filmed his applauding audience-an auteur recording his own adulation. An ego trip magnified.

But I wasn't looking at Brinker.

I only saw the model on horseback. And recognized her instantly.

"Emma," I said aloud. "What the hell are you doing out of rehab?"

She had a whip in her hand-a long one. With a strong snap of her wrist, she cracked it over the heads of the audience, then down beneath her horse's feet. The animal danced, causing shrieks in the crowd. But Emma was in total control. She rode the enormous horse straight off the end of the runway and directly toward me. As the crowd behind her jumped to a standing ovation and the music crashed to a climactic conclusion, my sister effortlessly guided the stallion through the crowd and out of the warehouse.

Going past, she leaned down to me with a grin. "Hey, Sis. Happy New Year!"

Chapter 3.

Emma disappeared, of course. Like a naughty genie evaporating back into her bottle.

Libby and I scoured the warehouse and the parking lot long after everyone else departed, but no luck. Emma was gone, and her horse with her.

"It's not easy to hide a horse," I said.

"Trust Emma to know how." Libby shivered outside her minivan. "Why did she leave rehab?"

"She probably went over the wall in the dark of night like some kind of prisoner of war."

"I thought Emma was getting her problem under control."

"Me, too." I should have known it wasn't going to be as easy as dropping her off at one of Mama's spas. But nothing about Emma was ever easy.

"She looked good, though, didn't she?" Libby unlocked the minivan and got in. As we fastened our seat belts, she said, "I don't suppose she'd like any Potions and Passions gadgets. Emma probably has scads already."

As Libby drove me home to Blackbird Farm, we both thought privately about Emma, whose life was more of a bonfire of insanities than our own. Our little sister had a tendency to self-combust when things went bad, and I always felt the need to step in. But as the headlights swept the bleakly leaning fence posts and finally flashed squarely on the bright blue tarp that flapped on one corner of the roof where a major leak had burst through, I realized my own home sweet home looked more like a derelict ruin every day. And in just a few more weeks I owed another installment on my tax repayment plan. Unless the Publishers Clearing House crew showed up soon, I had more problems than Emma on the loose.

"We'll talk tomorrow," I said to Libby.

"I know you want to kidnap her," Libby said. "You're thinking we shall capture her and take her back to rehab. Well, I have handcuffs now. They're fur-lined, very comfy."

"Do you think that's what we should do, Lib?"

"No," she said. "Emma's an adult."

"But she needs help."

"Nora, I may not be the world's best mom, but I know when my kids need to figure things out for themselves."

"Tomorrow," I said. "We'll be able to think more clearly then."

"The lights are on in your kitchen," she said, suddenly observant.

Hastily, I got out of the minivan. "I hate coming home to a dark house."

"Is somebody inside?"

"Good night!"

I dug my house key out and waved to her. Hugging myself against the biting air, I hurried up the slate sidewalk. The porch was still Christmas-swagged with hemlock boughs trimmed from the trees out near the old canal.

On the porch steps I found a neatly wrapped package tied with a holiday bow. Another fruitcake from one of the neighbors, I assumed. I picked it up and carried it inside.

I didn't need to unlock the door.

But I stepped into the kitchen and yelped.

"Sorry," growled the thug in front of the open refrigerator.

"Who are you?"

"Me? We met once before." He took a beer from the top shelf. "I'm the evil minion. At least, that's what the boss calls me. I'm Danny."

He wore a snug leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. A stringy ponytail straggled out from underneath a navy ski cap with a Nautica logo, a touch of class for the aspiring Mafia wiseguy.

I closed the door, but kept my distance. "What are you doing here? There's no car parked outside."

He opened the beer with a twist. "Boss told me to leave it next door."

"Next door" was now a used-car lot. Michael and I first became acquainted when he purchased five acres of Blackbird Farm, a transaction that had helped me stabilize my tax situation, but ruined the riverfront view as Michael erected Mick's Muscle Cars on the spot. Complete with plastic flags and Muzak, the sales lot despoiled two hundred years of Blackbird family history and also provided a steady parade of Michael's merry band of employees. They usually didn't venture into my house, though.

This one took a slug of beer and looked me up and down. "That's some getup you're wearing."

Involuntarily, I checked to be sure the coat was fully buttoned. "I see you've made yourself at home."

He grinned and lifted the beer to indicate the hospitality of the house. "Thanks."

The kitchen at Blackbird Farm was built under the impression that George Washington and his troops might drop by for breakfast before crossing the Delaware. Large enough for a skirmish to break out, it was decorated by a long-dead Blackbird with a love for baronial melodrama. The high ceilings were perfect for hanging game birds or sharp weaponry. The ancient stove, as big as an iron forge, was capable of baking pies, simmering cauldrons of stew, warming stacks of dinner plates and keeping baby chicks alive all at the same time.

"Where, exactly, is your boss?" I asked.

The man in question made his entrance at that moment, simultaneously shrugging into his coat and terminating a cell phone call. He moved with quick purpose-a man with a mission. Nonetheless, I felt the seismic event that shook me to my molten core every time I saw him.

Tall and looming, Michael said, "Rough night?"

"An interesting one," I replied.

In the light of the kitchen, I was reminded that Michael was not a handsome man. In fact, his looks-brutal and blunt, with a nose broken numerous times and jaw that looked almost cruel-often frightened strangers. He was also very tall, with threatening shoulders and a certain manner that bespoke years of hanging around career criminals. But he could melt me into a puddle of hot hormones with the tip of his tongue, and his body had enough strong planes and curves to keep a woman interested for hours.

I had a bad history with men, of course. All the Blackbird women did. We were blind to their faults or drawn to their dark sides or maybe just plain foolhardy. I'm not sure which, but I knew I was attracted to Michael, and he wasn't Prince Charming.

But he was very sharp. He pocketed his cell phone. "Let me guess. One of your sisters has committed a crime. Or both of them this time?"

"If they had, they'd be safely in jail." I dropped the neighborly gift on the kitchen counter. "No, it's nothing that easy. I thought you went out earlier."

"I got held up. I'm going now. Anyway, somebody had to babysit your dog while you were out."

"Where is Spike?"

"In the basement, digging his way to China. While he's busy, I'll make my escape."

I knew he was joking. Michael liked my new puppy, and Spike adored Michael in return. They were two of a kind. Scoundrels at heart.

Part of me really wanted to know where Michael was going in the middle of the night. His evil minion looked as if he'd lost one fistfight and didn't need another. He had a scratch across his cheek and he held the cold beer bottle against his face as if it hurt.

Michael smiled into my eyes while I considered what they could be up to.

"Want to come along?" he asked.

"Would you let me?"