'Geez, man, you had me scared there for a sec! How the hell are you?' He hadn't seen Luther in, what-ten years maybe?

'Nothing personal,' Luther said.

Warwick had been so busy looking down the barrel of the gun that he had failed to notice the object in Luther's other hand. It was a tyre iron. It flew towards him at lightning speed, and with one crushing blow made contact squarely with Warwick's head. He cried out.

Now Warwick thought he was going to die.

'No, man, no!'

The tyre iron struck again, this time against Warwick's jaw. He nearly lost consciousness from that one blow.

'Stop, please! Stop!'

Luther Hand kicked him to the ground, and continued kicking him. He had steel-toed boots, and every blow brought incredible pain to Warwick's body. Warwick lost track of time as he was beaten into near unconsciousness. He no longer begged or pleaded. He could barely speak, and barely move.

Finally the beating stopped.

'Get in the trunk.'

'What?' Warwick tried to mumble through his swelling face. The word came out in a grunt.

'GET-IN-THE-TRUNK.'

Warwick tried to lift his body but failed. He wanted to do whatever Luther said. Luther was beating him, so he'd begun to hope that he wasn't going to kill him. He wasn't using his gun. This was about teaching him a lesson: Warwick would leave the Cavanaghs alone. The Cavanaghs or whomever else he had pissed off. He would leave them all alone so that no one would send Luther Hand to him again. He would skip town. He'd send a postcard to Madeline and she would join him one day. Maybe he'd go to Darwin. Or Perth. He would move far from Sydney and he would never come back.

Warwick dragged his body along the gritty pavement of the parking lot, towards the rear of his car, while Luther watched in silence.

Luther had already opened the trunk.

There was no way Warwick could lift himself to get in. He was pretty sure his leg was broken. And one of his arms.

Luther bent down and hauled his victim up, pain soaring through Warwick's bruised and broken limbs. He couldn't help but cry out, blood mixed with tears and mucus oozing down his face.

He was shoved inside the trunk of his car. Warwick managed to open his swelling eyes just enough to see Luther's form above him, the light of a distant streetlamp giving the giant man a faint halo.

'I...' Warwick began, but found he couldn't speak.

Luther slammed the trunk shut, leaving him in darkness. Warwick was relieved.

It's over. Thank God, it's over.

When he got out, he would leave Sydney and never come back.

After a few minutes his shaking began to ease. The full impact of his wounds sank in: he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. He didn't want to bleed to death; he hoped someone found him before that happened. He would need a good surgeon-someone to make his face look normal again. His nose was broken, his eyes swollen shut.

Then Warwick thought he smelled petrol again, as he had when he'd first got into the car. The smell was stronger this time. Something dripped on his face and stung. He was confused.

The realisation hit him only as he felt the searing heat. Smoke poured into the trunk. He kicked against the lid of the trunk, screaming, shouting, coughing, struggling, but it was no use and he knew it.

This wasn't a lesson.

It was an execution.

CHAPTER 40.

'I've got the room set up. Come in and make yourself comfortable.'

'Okay,' Mak said and walked into the bedroom. Thankfully Loulou was busy with her boyfriend, and Donkey was comatose in front of the television, so there would be no more embarrassing talk. Mak wondered if Loulou had any idea how awkward she felt.

The modest guestroom had been temporarily transformed into a relaxing retreat; a couple of candles lit, the floor space cleared and a yoga mat stretched out for her to lie on, next to some towels. Her suitcase was pushed into a corner.

Mak took a deep breath.

'So you used to do this professionally?' Mak asked.

'Yes, one of my many and varied careers,' Bogey said, and laughed softly. 'I did remedial massage for about two years.' He gestured to the spot he'd set up. 'Are you okay to lie on the mat?'

'Sure.' She got on her knees at first, trying to decide what to do about her clothing. 'Did you enjoy it? When you were doing massage?'

'Yes. It's nice to make people feel good. I still like to give massages once in a while.'

'I don't think I've ever met someone who used to be a musician, masseur and coffin-maker,' Mak commented.

'I guess I am still looking for something I'm good at.'

There was an uncomfortable silence while Mak pulled her jumper over her head and stretched out on her stomach on the mat. She realised she had only text messaged Andy to see that he had arrived safely in Virginia. She hadn't called. That was a little insensitive of her. Then again, neither had he contacted her once he'd touched down.

Andy, don't be gone too long.

'This is very kind of you. You don't have to just because Loulou suggested it,' Mak said then.

'No, it's my pleasure. As long as you are comfortable with it?'

'Absolutely,' she lied. She wanted the massage, but that didn't mean she was entirely comfortable about it.

Bogey asked her how hard she would like the pressure.

'Um, I like it hard. Ummm, deep tissue.'

I like it hard? Jesus, Mak...

She was blushing wildly by now, but she hoped he couldn't tell with her face pushed into the pillow.

'I'll take my T-shirt off, if that's okay,' she said. It was useless to try to have a massage fully clothed. She pushed herself up on her elbows and strained to pull her top over her head. It was a thrill to disrobe, even to this degree. Perhaps too much of a thrill. Was all this really harmless? Of course it is. It's just a massage. She hardly knew this guy, but he had been cool about her strange adventure at Thunderball, and he was a friend of Loulou's latest boyfriend. That sort of made him trustworthy, didn't it?

'Are you okay if I undo your-'

'Yes, yes, that's fine,' Mak said to him, and she reached behind her back to undo her bra. The elasticised straps sprung apart and hung from her sides.

She took another deep breath.

Now her back was entirely vulnerable and exposed. She felt the cold air of the room over her skin. Her face was continuing to flame, so she kept her head firmly on the pillow.

'Just close your eyes and relax,' Bogey told her.

She heard him rub his hands together briskly for a few seconds and when he placed them on her back they were hot. Her skin responded gratefully, and Mak felt her heart jump. His touch was electric.

'Take a deep breath for me,' he said.

She inhaled through her nose, filling her chest with oxygen, and letting it out slowly.

'Good. And another.'

She repeated the deep breathing, feeling her head sway slightly from the experience. With the red wine, she was feeling it even more.

Bogey gently pushed against her back with his palms, rocking her spine softly. She listened for the sound of a bottle as he filled his hands with oil and slicked her back with it in slow-moving rhythmic circles and strokes. The feeling of release was immediate and beautiful. He caressed her back with an almost loving grace, and as the minutes progressed and she lost herself in his touch, Mak allowed herself to imagine this interaction as a slow and sensual foreplay to lovemaking.

'That is beautiful,' she muttered guiltily, enjoying his touch.

'Just allow yourself to relax completely and enjoy it. Let everything go.'

She was beginning to feel warm between her legs. Being touched by another man, this young and fascinating Australian, was getting to her. She had sensed the danger of it. What if she rolled over and pulled him into her? What would he do?

She could feel her body respond as if for sex; as if this man, this near stranger, was worshipping every inch of her skin, section by section, before entering her and bringing her to orgasm, which she already felt tantalisingly close to reaching.

Stop it, Mak. Think about something else.

But she couldn't.

Perhaps the way she felt was just because of the change of scenery, or perhaps it was because of the way Andy had left and his proposed move to Canberra when he got back, never having discussed any of it with her, never talking about how she might fit into that picture. Mak felt tempted to take advantage of this moment.

She was alone with this man, and she might never be alone with him again.

Mak was relieved when Bogey was gone.

He had massaged her for nearly ninety minutes before gently running his fingertips in lines down her skin, and asking if she felt good.

Did she feel good?

She felt transported.

Now she was preparing for bed, feeling guilty at the pleasure she'd experienced. The temptation to step over the line had nearly overwhelmed her. Imagine if she had given in to it...What would she do then? Tell Andy? Move back to Canada? Keep a naughty secret like that?

What was getting into her? Andy had left only yesterday and she was already acting like they had been apart for years.

Mak brushed her teeth in Drayson's bathroom and crept back to the guestroom in a long T-shirt and a pair of Andy's boxer shorts. The lights were off in the apartment, with only a soft glow coming from under the door of the main bedroom. She could hear Loulou giggling, the mattress squeaking. They would be having sex.

Oh God.

Mak fumbled for her doorway, wanting to cry. Her body was exploding with desire. She should have been relaxed, but she'd let her mind get away. The entire ninety minutes had been like an agonising foreplay. In reality it had just been a massage. A nice guy offering a massage-something he used to do professionally, something he likes to do for his friends. He was a friend, that was all; he was not courting her. Those strong hands had touched her body in friendship. He could not even know how she had desired him.

She felt the sharp edge of her loneliness, away from everyone she knew, away from her lover, her life displaced.

Mak reached for her mobile phone and started a text message.

MISSING YOU. LOVE YOU.

Mak pressed send and lay back against the sofa bed.

Dammit.

Frowning, she crawled between the sheets Loulou had prepared, feeling the lumps in the old mattress press against her body. Mak looked at the spot where the yoga mat had been, and her body tingled at the memory of Bogey's touch. Mak crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling, trying to concentrate on the way the shadows fell in the corners of the room, the form of the warm glow from the floor lamp. She wanted to cry.

Mak lay back under the sheet and let her fingers caress her thighs, fighting back the feelings of desire and guilt as she imagined being held, being touched, being made love to. She saw Andy's face, but it became Bogey's, with his touch burning into her, his strong hands caressing her back, sliding across to massage the sides of her breasts, turning her over gently and kissing her hard.

Her fingers found her moist centre, her pleasure point jumping under the light pressure. She did not take long to explode, shuddering with guilty ecstasy, a sigh escaping her lips.

Mak rolled onto her side, curling into a ball, conflict raging in her head. She wished Bogey had not gone home-and yet she was relieved that he had. Who was this young guy with the easygoing nature and the strong hands? She wanted to know so much more about him. What did her feelings mean? Or did they mean nothing at all?

CHAPTER 41.

'We have a problem,' The American said. He did not want to alarm his client, but he had to give him the news. It was early on Monday morning, and they had met in Jack Cavanagh's office for an emergency debriefing, doors closed.

Jack Cavanagh wore his usual uniform of khaki pants and pressed shirt. He ran an unsteady hand across his face in response. 'What is it? Tell me.'

'I have confirmation that the video footage of Damien does exist and, though it is a little grainy, he is potentially identifiable.'

Jack closed his eyes. 'I don't want to see it.'

The American nodded. His costly NSA contact had traced all of the electronic communications of Meaghan Wallace in the lead-up to her death. The video SMS had been sent from Meaghan's mobile phone to her friend Amy Camilleri at the time of the party, before the phone had supposedly been 'destroyed' and then lost by Simon Aston. Miss Camilleri was in possession of the video, and she was now a target. Who knew how many people she might have shown it to? He would now need to monitor all of her communications, and he would have to think up a way to remove the threat she posed without causing too much suspicion.

'The initial threats have been taken care of.'