He looked up at her, his brown eyes dark, the pupils huge, his eyelids heavy. He stood and picked her up, carried her to the head of the bed, and laid her down. He undid the belt on his pleated trousers and shoved them down along with his briefs, standing before her with his engorged member pulsing to the rapid beat of his heart.

She lay on her side, her hand supporting her head, and lifted one knee, posing provocatively, watching him quake with need, making him wait for permission to come to her. She loved the different sizes and shapes men came in, the difference in the way they tasted. Tom was larger than most. Saltier, too.

She gestured with a forefinger.

The young man scuttled onto the bed, pushing his face between her legs and shifting his hips toward her face, offering her the gift he had brought. Victoria opened her mouth and let him push inside, hard and tight against the roof of her mouth. At the same time she felt his tongue slide into her like liquid fire.

It was a long time before either of them had another rational thought.

Victoria wasn't sure why she enjoyed this so much. She was astute enough to reason that it had something to do with the fact that in her day, "nice girls" weren't even supposed to know about such things, let alone indulge in them, and God forbid enjoy them.

She had been a virgin on her wedding night, as had been expected of her. But that had merely been a technicality. Victoria had long before learned the joys of sex without penetration. It was a way of keeping herself "perfect" for her husband, yet indulging needs she could not deny. Nevertheless, she had intended to be a faithful wife. Until she had caught Richard indulging himself with another woman at his office a mere two weeks after their wedding.

She had made a scene. Really, looking back, it had been a childish thing to do. She knew better. She had been trained from birth to defer to the men in her life. Her father had been a hard taskmaster, and nothing less than perfection would suffice-in dress, in manners, in behavior. Well, she had certainly thrown a perfect tantrum.

She had raced home to her father, expecting him to take her side. He had corrected her with a slap that had stopped her tears. "You're Richard's wife now," he had said in cold, steely tones that had chilled her to the bone. "Your husband's word is law as much as mine ever was. Listen to him and do exactly what he tells you. Don't contradict him or correct him, no matter how wrong you may think he is. Those are the rules, Victoria."

The slap had left her dry-eyed, and the lecture had left her raging inside. If her father's tirade had stopped there, she might have divorced Richard and led an entirely different life. But her father had been so much smarter than she was. He had known all the right things to say.

He had pulled her into his arms close enough for her to smell the familiar, pungent odor of Cuban cigars embedded in his blended wool suit. He had rocked her and smoothed her hair and said, "Do you want to be loved, Victoria?"

Who did not? "Yes, Father."

"Do you want to know the secret to being loved."

Who did not? "Yes, Father."

"Obedience," he said. "That is the secret. Do as you're told. Follow the rules perfectly, and you will be loved."

He demonstrated the truth of his words by hugging her and kissing her forehead and telling her he knew she was a good girl and a good wife and that she would learn not to feel slighted by Richard's indiscretions. "A man sometimes needs a different kind of woman," he said. "It has nothing to do with you personally. Be as obedient as I know you can be. That is the way to win Richard's love."

She had followed her father's advice. She had become a slave to Richard's every whim. She had set perfect tables and held perfect parties and kept herself looking as perfect as she'd looked the day she married him. She had never caught Richard with another woman.

But somehow, she had never felt loved.

She had substituted what she could get: respect and admiration. Of course, it came mostly from other people besides Richard, but it had filled the emptiness inside her. Even today Victoria kept herself perfect because that earned her the respect and admiration of those around her.

When she was struck with lustful urges, she satisfied them with the young lawyers at Porter's firm, or the young interns at the hospital, where she was on the board of trustees and the bioethics committee and served as a volunteer reader for the Wainwright Pediatrics Wing on alternate Mondays and Wednesdays. The young men knew better than to kiss and tell. She made it clear from the start that Victoria Wainwright had the power to help them-or destroy them.

It wasn't an altogether perfect life, but it was close.

Victoria felt the young man's lips graze her cheek as he said, "I need to get back to the hospital. When can I see you again?"

"You can't."

He frowned, putting old-man wrinkles in his young brow. "Why not?"

"Don't be a child about this, Tom," she said.

The young man flushed to the tips of his ears.

They were always aware of the age difference, even if they never mentioned it, she had learned.

"That's it? You're through with me?" he demanded angrily.

"Yes." She didn't bother to keep the irritation out of her voice or the annoyance from her face. They all knew the rules. When she called, they came. When she was done playing, the game was over.

The embarrassed flush had receded, leaving his cheeks as pale as chalk. He looked like he was about to throw up, and in fact, he took a step toward the bathroom before he stopped and swallowed convulsively.

Usually she let them down easier, but she was feeling peeved at the thought of Margaret indulging herself this way with Jack Kittrick. Although why that should bother her, she couldn't imagine.

Because you want him for yourself.

Victoria sat up, patted her hair into place, and languidly walked to the window, still dressed in her black lingerie and high heels. She ignored Tom, who was gathering up his clothes and sulkily putting them on, while she tried to figure out why she should be interested in Kittrick, when he was nearly twice the age of the men who usually caught her fancy.

It was probably the masculine aura she had mentioned to Margaret. There was something raw and elemental about the man, something unconquerable and unconquered. It would be interesting to have such a man in bed.

Victoria heard the door snap closed and realized she was alone. The problem was, lately, she felt alone even when she was with the young men. The approaching anniversary of Richard's and Woodson's deaths was causing the problem, she knew. She fought the same battle every year, raging against fate for taking the perfect husband and the perfect son from her.

Margaret was to blame, of course, for both deaths. She was the one who had sent Woodson out onto an icy road that day in early April. And Richard's stroke had occurred on the corporate jet as they were landing in Minneapolis to be with their mortally injured son. She would never let Margaret forget what she had done, or forgive her for it. But hating Margaret did little to ease her through the horror each year.

Thank goodness she had a full life. Thank goodness she had her charities and the hospital and Porter. And the young men, of course. Without them, what would she do?

Jack had missed his 10 A.M. appointment with Maggie. He figured she would understand when he filled her in on what he'd been doing. His interview with Roman had been enlightening-for the five minutes he'd spent with the doctor before Hollander got a STAT call and disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors.

It was the discussion he'd had with Isabel Rojas, Roman's head surgical nurse and, according to the doctor, his "right arm" in surgery, that had gotten Jack excited enough to make him forget all about his meeting with Maggie.

Once Ms. Rojas realized he was trying to help Dr. Hollander, she'd been willing to tell him anything he wanted to know. Across the table from each other in the cafeteria, where they had sat drinking black coffee, he discovered Isabel had grown up just over the American side of the border in El Paso. Her family had been illegal aliens, but she'd been born in the states, thus securing her citizenship. Determined to live the American dream, she had decided to become a nurse.

"It was better than smuggling marijuana over the border." She smiled and said, "The way I'm shaped, I'd have looked like Dolly Parton once I got a few three-finger bags tucked in my bra. The border guards would've searched me just for the fun of it!"

It didn't take Jack long to figure out why Hollander liked her so much. Besides being a competent nurse, Isabel Rojas had a dry wit that kept Jack chuckling almost the whole time they talked about her life growing up. He couldn't understand why some man hadn't snapped her up years ago.

"Why aren't you married?" he asked, an instant before he realized the rudeness of the question.

"I decided to join the Cucumber Club instead," she answered.

"What's that?" Jack asked warily. The name sounded self-explanatory, with lurid possibilities he would just as soon not explore, but he had learned not to make assumptions in his line of work.

"There are only three qualifications for membership," she said. "You must have loved or hated a man in the past, love or hate a man in the present, or think you might love or hate a man in the future. Our motto is: 'A man is no better than a vegetable.'"

Jack wasn't sure whether to be appalled or amused.

Isabel laughed merrily. "The look on your face is priceless."

"I'm trying to imagine what your meetings must be like," he said.

"The last time we got together at a restaurant, the waitress asked if we were franchised," Isabel said.

"Are you?" Jack asked incredulously.

"We ought to be," Isabel said with a laugh. "One of the nurses started the club as a humorous support group for divorced and dumped women, on the theory it's better to laugh than to cry."

"Is it love or hate for you?"

"A little of both," Isabel confessed, sobering.

"Would you mind if I ask you some specific questions about the little girl whose parents are suing Dr. Hollander for malpractice?" he asked.

"Shoot."

"What do you remember about Laurel Morgan?"

Isabel didn't have any trouble remembering the case, but Jack was surprised at what she recalled first.

"She liked Winnie-the-Pooh," Isabel began. "Her parents brought her a stuffed Pooh bear, but of course she couldn't have it in the ICU. So Mrs. Wainwright sat beside the little girl for hours reading Pooh story after Pooh story, even though Laurel never regained consciousness after the operation."

Jack's heart was thumping hard. "Maggie did that?"

Isabel shook her head. "No, I meant Victoria Wainwright."

Jack was taken aback. "What was Victoria Wainwright doing in the ICU?"

"The lady goes pretty much where she wants, when she wants," Isabel replied.

"Why is that?" Jack asked.

Isabel laughed. "You haven't looked at many of the signs around here, have you?"

Jack turned and looked where Isabel pointed. "Wainwright Cafeteria."

"Wainwright Trauma Center, Wainwright Pediatric Wing-" she recited.

"I see what you mean," Jack said. "What made Mrs. Wainwright come in and read to this particular little girl? Did she know the family?"

"Victoria Wainwright is a regular volunteer reader in the pediatrics ward," Isabel explained. "Once in a while she'll come up to spend some time with a kid who's stuck in the ICU." Isabel took a sip of coffee and asked, "Is any of what I say going to get back to her?"

Jack shook his head.

"Then I'll be honest and tell you she's arrogant and condescending with the nursing staff. Like her money makes her a better person than the rest of us. The nurses do the best they can to keep their distance when she's around. But to be fair, I've never seen anyone more sympathetic and loving toward children," Isabel conceded.

That behavior didn't fit Jack's first impression of Victoria Wainwright. He couldn't imagine Victoria having the patience to read to a child, much less a child who probably couldn't even hear her. She struck him as the self-centered, selfish type. What made her so attentive to the children? he wondered.

He would have to ask her and see what she said.

"What can you tell me about Laurel's injuries?" Jack said.

"She was hit by a car while riding her bicycle and ended up with a fractured skull. Dr. Hollander did everything he could to save her. He's a brilliant surgeon, but there was just too much damage to her brain."

"She had no chance of survival?" Jack asked.

"If Laurel had survived the swelling in her brain, she probably would have lived, but it's questionable how much of a real recovery she would have made."

"Then it's a blessing she died of heart failure?" Jack said, watching Isabel's face closely.

Without blinking she replied, "It's never good when a child dies. But sometimes it is a blessing."

Jack drew several conclusions from his conversation with Hollander's surgical nurse. First, Isabel Rojas was a smart, funny woman. Second, she idolized-even loved-Roman Hollander. And third, she shared the doctor's feelings about quality of life.

By the time Jack went looking for Maggie in the conference room shortly before noon, he discovered she was gone. No one at the nearest nursing station had seen her leave, but Jack figured the obvious place to look for her was at the offices of Wainwright & Cobb, a couple of blocks away on Travis. From the front door of the hospital, he could see the Texas flag flying all alone atop the Milam Building on a tall brass pole.

Jack smiled. Texans put Texas first, with God running a close second, and the United States of America a distant third. But after all, from 1836 to 1846, Texas had been an independent nation, a republic with its own president and vice-president and army and navy, something no other state could boast.

Jack discovered Wainwright & Cobb took up the entire top floor of the Milam Building, a yellow-brick and glass structure with hand-carved Corinthian columns in the lobby and cherry-wood railings in the Mexican-tiled stairways. Built in 1927 as the first air-conditioned high-rise in the country, the Gothic structure had aged gracefully, maintaining its dignity and charm.

Jack decided the attractive blond receptionist who greeted him at the entrance to the Wainwright & Cobb offices had been chosen as much for her good looks and fashion sense as for her ability to answer a bank of telephones. She gave Jack a friendly smile and said she'd locate Ms. Wainwright for him.

Ninety seconds later Jack found himself headed down a wall of doors toward the southeast corner office, which belonged to Maggie Wainwright.

The center of the twenty-first floor was taken up with secretarial cubicles, while the lawyers' offices ringed the building. Considering where she was situated, Jack figured Maggie had a great tourist's view of downtown from her windows, including Hemisfair Plaza, with its revolving restaurant at the top of Hemisfair Tower, the Alamodome-the godawful wired-up stadium built for the Spurs that was sometimes described as "a riverboat on a freeway," and the city's famous River Walk.

The River Walk was fifteen feet below the downtown street level but visible from the twenty-first floor as a reflective silvery ribbon lined with colorful red, blue, and yellow dots that Jack knew were umbrellas at outdoor dining tables. Tourists could walk the flagstone that meandered along both sides of the thirty foot-wide San Antonio River or take red motorized flatboats-which looked like floating toys from where Jack stood-to get to outdoor restaurants, souvenir shops, and hotels.

When Jack reached Maggie's office, he found her sitting behind a stylish, glass-topped desk with marble supports at each end, deep in conversation with a petite woman in a tailored suit. He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, waiting for the two of them to come up for air.

He had time to examine the other woman, whom the receptionist had identified as Lisa Hollander, his primary suspect's wife. She had short sable hair and bangs that emphasized her immense brown eyes. Lisa Hollander's face reminded Jack of the winsome, doe-eyed children painted on cheap black velvet and sold to tourists at border towns like Juarez and Piedras Negras and Nuevo Laredo. There was something infinitely and inexplicably sad about her countenance.

He wasn't sure what gave him away, but Maggie suddenly looked up. She didn't seem altogether pleased to find him there. "Jack. You should have said something. I didn't realize you'd already found your way here."

"I didn't want to interrupt. Go ahead with what you were doing."

Maggie rose, suggesting the meeting with her colleague was at an end.

Jack uncrossed his legs and entered her office, his boots sinking into thick oatmeal carpet. He stopped behind one of the black leather wing chairs intended for clients and glanced at Lisa Hollander, who was eyeing him curiously.

"Jack Kittrick, I'd like you to meet Lisa Hollander," Maggie said.

Lisa extended her hand, and Jack reached out to shake it. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander."

She smiled, and her face changed completely. Jack decided she should smile more often. The large, liquid eyes exuded warmth as she said, "Call me Lisa, please."

Her voice was raspy, as though she were just getting over a case of laryngitis, and with her soft Texas drawl, unbelievably sexy. Considering the whole package, Jack could see why Hollander, a confirmed bachelor, had suddenly decided to marry four years ago.

"I've heard so much about you from Maggie, Mr. Kittrick, I feel like I already know you," Lisa said. "I hope you're feeling better."

"Make it Jack," Jack said. "Thanks to your husband and some nursing from Maggie, I'm fine."

Lisa shot Maggie a questioning sideways look. "Nursing?"