"I sort of had it figured for the other way around."

"Oh, yeah. We'll see, and may the best ravisher win." She clicked off the computer and shoved it into the flight bag, then turned back. "How about that wonderful restaurant we went to way back when? You know.

That night we both got so drunk and you almost offered to make an hon- est woman of me."

"An offer you saw fit to refuse in advance." He looked her over. "But I assume you mean that place up in Islington? What was it? The Wellington or something?"

"Right. It was sort of out of the way. Down a little alley." She threw her arms around him. "That night was so wonderfully romantic, like a honeymoon."

"It almost was," he smiled, remembering. "Let's call for a reservation and just go."

"Darling, are we acting insane?" She looked up, eyes uncertain. "I'm half afraid."

"Don't be." He touseled her hair before thinking. "Nobody's going to touch you, believe me. I've nailed the bastards. All of them."

Monday 11:28 P.M.

It was flawless. They dined in a Gothic, ivy-covered greenhouse in the garden of a maitre nineteenth-century inn where waiters scurried, the maitre d' hovered, and the wine steward nodded obsequiously every time he passed their table. It was even better than their first visit. After a roulade of red caviar, Eva had the ragout au gratin, Vance the boeuf a la ficelle, his favorite. For dessert they shared the house specialty, tulipe glacee aux fruits, after which they lingered over Stilton cheese and a World War I bottle of Lisbon port.

And they talked and laughed and talked. They both tried to focus on the good times: trips they'd taken, places they'd shared, what they'd do next--together. She even agreed to spend August helping him sail the Ulysses over to Crete, his latest plan. The gap in time began slowly to drop away. It was as though they'd been reborn; everything felt new, fresh, and full of delight. Who said you couldn't start over?

Neither wanted it to end, but finally, reluctantly, he signaled for the check. After a round of farewells from the staff, they staggered out into the brisk evening air.

"Where to now?" He was helping her into a black London taxicab, after drunkenly handing the uniformed doorman a fiver.

"God, I'm so giddy I can't think." She crashed into the seat and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Yanks?" The driver glanced back with a genuine smile. He wore a dark cap and sported a handlebar mustache of Dickensian proportions. "Been to New York myself, you know, with the missus. Two years back. Don't know how you lot can stand the bleedin' crime, though."

"Worse every year," Vance nodded.

"So, where'll it be, my lords and ladies?" He hit the ignition.

"How about heading down to the Thames, say Victoria Embankment Gardens, around in there."

"Lovely spot for a stroll. Private like, if you know what I mean." He winked, then revved the engine and started working the vehicle down the narrow street, headed toward the avenue. "Thing about the States, you'd be daft to walk in a park there after dark." He glanced back. "So how was it?"

"What?"

"The Wellington, mate. You know, I take plenty of Arabs there, bleedin'

wogs, them and their fine Soho tarts."

"We made do."

"If you've got the quid, why not. That's what I always say." He smiled above his mustache. "Guess you know IRA bombed the front room about ten years back, bloody bastards. Lobbed one right through the big window."

"We were hoping they'd never hit the same place twice."

"With those bloodthirsty micks you never know, mate, you never know.

Only good thing about the States, no bleedin' IRA." He made a right turn off Goswell Road onto Clerkenwell Road. Even at this late hour, the traffic was brisk, black taxis side by side.

"Michael, I love Victoria Gardens." Eva reached up and bit his ear.

"Can we dance in the moonlight?"

"Why not. I think it's romantic as hell." He drew her closer. "Probably shouldn't tell you this, but back in my youth, when I was living in London one summer, I used to take a plump little Irish hotel maid down there. I confess to a series of failed assaults on her well-guarded Catholic virtue."

"Maybe this time your luck will change," she giggled. And she bit him again.

"I'll never be seventeen again, but I'm willing to give it one more try." He turned to study the traffic behind them. Had the play started already?

Yep, there it was. A dark car was following them, had pulled out right behind as they left the restaurant's side street. It was trailing discreetly, but it was in place.

Pretty much on schedule, he told himself. They must have found out by now.

"Darling, I want to make you feel seventeen all over again." She snuggled closer. "I'm starting to feel good again. I'd almost forgot you could do that for me. Thank you."

He kissed her, then leaned forward and spoke through the partition.

"See those headlights behind us?"

"I think they were waiting outside, at the restaurant. Noticed them there. Now they look to be going wherever you're going." The burly cabbie glanced into his side mirror. "Friends of yours?"

"In a manner of speaking. I think we've just revised our destination.

Make it the Savoy instead. The main entrance there on the Strand."

"Whatever you say. Forget the park?"

"You've got it. And try not to lose them. Just make sure they don't know that you know. Figure it out."

"Having some sport with your friends, eh?"

"Work on it."

"Oh, Christ." Eva revolved to look. "Michael, what is it?"

"My guess is somebody found out something, and they're very upset."

She grasped his hand. "Why not try and lose them in the traffic?"

"They probably know where we're staying. What's the point?"

"I do hope you know what you're doing."

"Trust me. The Savoy's a nice friendly place for a drink. We'll ask them in, maybe drop by the American bar, there on the mezzanine."

"Why did we go out?" She threw her arms around him. "I knew it was a risk and still--"