Knowing a true ally, the dog shuffled over to Emma, head low. "Can he

come?" she asked as he rested his head against her thigh. "I've got an

MG."

"I don't mind being crowded."

"He'll shed all over you."

"It's all right."

Conroy followed the conversation, one ear p.r.i.c.ked. Michael would have

sworn the dog snickered. "You win, Conroy." Michael pointed toward the

front door. Sensing victory, Conroy bolted. His waving tail struck

Emma's purse and knocked it from table to floor.

When Michael bent to retrieve it, the clasp gave and the contents

spilled out. Before he could apologize, he saw the .38. Emma said

nothing as he lifted it, turning it over in his hand. It was top grade,

the best automatic of that caliber that Smith and Wesson had to offer.

It was glossy as silk and heavy in his hand. No elegant ladies' gun,

this one was mean and for business only. He pulled out the clip, found

it full, then snapped it back into place.

"What are you doing with this?"

"I have a license."

"That wasn't my question."

She crouched down to pick up her wallet and compact and brush. "I live

in New York, remember?" She said it lightly, while her stomach churned

as it always did when she lied. "A lot of women carry guns in

Manhattan. For protection."

He studied the top of her head. "So you've had it awhile."

"Years."

"That's interesting, seeing as this model came out about six months ago.

From the looks of it, this gun hasn't been knocking around in your purse

more than a couple of days."

When she stood her whole body was shaking. "If you're going to

interrogate me, shouldn't you read me my rights?"

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Emma. You didn't buy this to scare off a mugger."

She could feel the skitter of panic, up her back. It made her throat

dry and her stomach roil. He was angry, really angry. She could see it

in the way his eyes darkened, in the way he moved when he stepped toward

her. "It's my business. If you're going to take me to the hotel-"

"First I want to know why you're carrying this around, why you lied to

me, and why you looked so d.a.m.n scared at the airport this afternoon."

She didn't say a word, but watched him, just watched him with dull,

resigned eyes. He'd had a dog look at him like that once, Michael

remembered. It had crawled onto the gra.s.s at the edge of their lawn one

afternoon when he'd been about eight. His mother had been

afraid it was rabid, but when they'd taken it to the vet, it had turned

out the dog had been beaten. Badly enough, often enough, that the vet

had had to put it to sleep.

A sick rage worked inside of him as he stepped toward her. She stumbled

back.

"What did he do to you?" He wanted to scream it, but his voice hissed

out through his teeth.

She only shook her head. Conroy stopped scratching at the door and sat