He hadn't expected her to challenge him. Suddenly, he was back at Beach High with a huge crush on Renee de Pres, an exchange student from Paris. Even now, he remembered everything about her. Dark hair cut short in that s.e.xy French way. Tight miniskirts with the top three b.u.t.tons of her blouse left open. An alluring accent that made him want to lick the dewy perspiration from behind her bare knees. He was, after all, seventeen with an achy-breaky heart and a perpetual erection.

Renee had been in the stands when they played Hialeah High for the state baseball championship. In the ninth inning, with the score tied, Steve singled, stole second, then third, and scored on a sacrifice fly, sliding headfirst under the tag. His teammates carried him off the field. It was an ephemeral moment, but in his naivete, he believed it was the first of an endless series of joyous spectacles, drums and bugles announcing every triumph of his life.

Four hours later, Renee introduced him to the wonders of blossoming Gallic womanhood in the backseat of his Jeep, pulled into a mangrove thicket at Matheson Hammock. It was his first time, though not hers, and he completed the act even faster than he had rounded the bases. With her guidance, a second effort was more rewarding, and a third left them breathless. By dawn, he was sure no one had ever felt like this before, and he uttered the three magic words-"I love you"-which made Renee laugh and call him a "silly boy."

For the next two weeks, barely a moment went by that he wasn't touching her or kissing her. Every shared experience-no matter how mundane-miniature golf, pepperoni pizza, Sting's "Every Breath You Take," unleashed torrents of joy. Could this be anything but forever-and-ever love?

Then, a mere 363 hours and 17 minutes-by Steve's deranged calculation-after they had first scrunched up in the backseat of the Jeep, it ended. When Steve tried to join Renee in the cafeteria, she was sitting with Angel Castillo, the burly fullback on the football team. Baseball season was over; spring football practice was starting; and Steve had been discarded like a splintered Louisville Slugger.

In the nearly twenty years since, he had refrained from even once telling a woman that he loved her. How could he? The risk of pain was too great. And now he was standing mute in the face of Victoria's challenging glare.

Victoria resisted the urge to pull him out of his chair and throw her arms around him. He had never looked so hopeless and so huggable. So different from the smart-a.s.s she first met in court. But she steeled herself against showing any emotion other than indifference. She wouldn't reveal what she felt. How could she? She couldn't even define it herself. She didn't know what propelled her toward Solomon. But he had been right about one thing: I kissed him. I grabbed him and kissed him deeply, pa.s.sionately . . . dangerously.

So reckless. So irresponsible. So unlike her. She desperately wished she could take it back.

Or did she? With the boats creaking in their moorings and the moonlit sky swirling above, she'd molded her body to his, a yin-and-yang perfect fit. The kiss had left her disoriented and dizzy and frightened. She wanted to write it off to gin and stress and exhaustion. But in truth, she had no idea what was happening to her. Was she subconsciously trying to sabotage her relationship with Bruce? Did she have a self-esteem problem? Did she feel she didn't deserve someone so right? So d.a.m.n-near-perfect it could sometimes be daunting just being with him?

Working it over now, she thought she was figuring it out.

I'm in love with Bruce and in l.u.s.t with Steve.

Thank G.o.d she'd been around enough to know all about the l.u.s.t factor. Relationships built on pa.s.sion last about as long as the fever that accompanies the flu. When was the last time she had succ.u.mbed? Maybe six years ago-a lifetime, it seemed-there'd been Randy, a teaching pro at a tennis club in Boca Raton. Australian. Sun-bleached hair. A laugh like surf crashing on rocks. And a s.e.xual athlete. Thank G.o.d her chiropractor's bills were covered by insurance.

She was waiting tables the summer between college and law school . . . and totally in love. Or what she mistook for love. Postadolescent l.u.s.t was more like it. All those steamy nights in Randy's s...o...b..x apartment with its wheezing air conditioner, mildewed shower curtain, and retro water bed. And one night of tears.

She remembered the pain, finding another woman-a married tennis pupil, of all the lousy cliches-riding the waves in Randy's bedroom. His confession was without guilt or remorse: "Not my fault the sheilas want to have a naughty with me."

Thinking back, the men after Randy seemed like a procession of faceless gray suits. Lawyers, CPAs, brokers. Ambitious young men in pinstripes. Impatient men who often pushed the relationship too quickly. She remembered Harlan, a brainy tax accountant, popping the question on their third date. At that moment, they were stuck in a mob at Joe's Stone Crab, waiting for a table. How do you politely reply-"Are you out of your bean-counting mind?"-when some tourist is standing on your foot and the matre d' is announcing, 'Grossman, party of five!'"

"Why do you want to get married?" she had asked, befuddled.

"Because I love you," Harlan had replied. Then, sheepishly, "And my firm favors married guys in selecting partners."

"So, I'm sort of a talking point on your resume?"

Romantic love, she believed, was a myth that preyed on our illogical need to fulfill fantasies. It was, by definition, irrational. Just look where it got her mother. Romantic love was like a vacation suntan. It faded quickly.

What she had with Bruce she called "rational love." It was based on logical factors. Intelligence, kindness, sensitivity, empathy. And one more thing: Bruce was the first man in her life-including her father-who didn't disappoint her in a major way. So, romantic love be d.a.m.ned. She cherished and adored Bruce, but in a different way. It was a love based on so much more than pa.s.sion, she told herself. Then, just to be sure, she told herself again.

"I have to know you can handle this," Victoria said.

"Handle what?"

"Our working together without you getting all moony-eyed."

"Aw, c'mon, I'm a big boy. If you say the kiss didn't mean anything, I'm cool with that."

"You sure?"

"Totally."

"Good. From now on, we're living by Lord's Laws. No touching, no flirting, no kissing. Nothing but business."

"You got it," Steve agreed. He had a sense of loss, which was weird, because how can you lose what you never had?

"Now, let's get down to Gables Estates and let you burglarize our client's closets."

"Ready when you are."

Victoria started packing her briefcase. "So, what do you think of Jackie?"

"Seems nice. Has a good laugh."

"Think she's pretty?"

"Sure." Where was this going?

"She thinks you're hot."

"Yeah?"

"You want her number?"

Steve would not let her see his pain. "Sure. She like stone crabs?"

Victoria laughed. "Jackie says some guys take a girl out for stone crabs and expect a b.j. afterward."

"They wait till after?"

"You two have the same sense of humor. This could work out."

"Great."

"I don't want to push you into anything if you're reluctant."

"No. I'd like to see her," Steve said, knowing it was a lie. "As long as you don't mind."

"I think it'd be great," she lied right back.

Twenty-seven.

OUT OF THE CLOSET.

The rich are different, Steve decided. They have bigger closets.

Katrina Barksdale's wood-paneled two-story coliseum was larger than Steve's bedroom. Strike that. The shoe section was larger than his bedroom.

He heard the purr of a dehumidifier and smelled a lavish mixture of aromas. The tang of cedar, the richness of leathers . . . the scent of money. Katrina's closet was a cool and peaceful sanctuary, dripping with silks and linens, minks and wools. Every pair of shoes had its own Plexiglas drawer, tastefully lighted like a sculpture in a museum. Designer clothing hung on a motorized track that circled the room like a toy train. You punched in the key of a designer-Armani, Saint Laurent, de la Renta, Moschino-then a garment code, and the track hummed contentedly as it delivered to your manicured hands a suede jacket or lacy skirt or velvet blazer.

Steve had told Katrina Barksdale he needed to take photos, which was true, as far as it went. He'd left her downstairs with Victoria, sipping wine and preparing for trial. He spent the next twenty minutes in the master suite with a digital camera, creating a 360-degree view, from the four-poster, silk-canopied bed-where Charles had expired, breathless but erect-to the arched entryways of the mammoth his-and-her closets. Then he tackled his other mission, finding the Breitling dive watch.

In a vestibule that led to Charles' closet, Steve came across a teak chest with small drawers like a library's card catalog: Charles Barksdale's jewelry cabinet. Inside were cuff links, rings, and an a.s.sortment of watches. Audemars Piguet, Vacheron Constantin, Patek Philippe, Cartier, Rolex, even a Casio G-Shock, named for Jeremy Shockey, the football player. Some were new and some antiques, some solid gold, others stainless steel, still others circled with diamonds.

But no Breitling dive watch.

So maybe Bobby was right. Maybe Katrina Barksdale didn't buy the watch for good old Charlie. But then again, there were other places to keep the watch. He'd have to check out the master stateroom on the Kat's Meow.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

The growl came from behind him, and Steve whirled around, looking guilty as a purse s.n.a.t.c.her. There was Chet Manko, the boat captain, wearing a mesh athletic shirt and paint-splattered cargo pants and holding a wood chisel.

"That's amazing," Steve said. "I was just thinking about the boat, and boom, there you are."

Manko raised the chisel. Muscles ripped on his bronzed arm. "What the h.e.l.l you doing?"

"Taking photos." Steve held up the camera as Exhibit A to his innocence. "Getting the lay of the land."

"In Mr. B's jewelry box?"

There was some New England in Manko's voice, Steve thought. Working-cla.s.s Boston, maybe. "Actually, I was looking for something. Evidence."

"What evidence?" Manko didn't even try to mask his suspicion.

"Afraid that's privileged. What are you doing up here, Manko?"

"Digging dry rot out of the balcony overhang." Again, the chisel came up. "Kat know you're in her bedroom?"

Kat. The hired help was on mighty friendly terms with the lady of the house, Steve thought.

He saw it then, gleaming on Manko's thick left wrist. A Breitling Superocean dive watch, extra-large face, good to three thousand feet.

"Aw, s.h.i.t," Steve said.

"Tell me in your own words when you noticed Charles was in distress," Victoria said.

In your own words.

A lawyer's verbal tic, she knew. Whose words would Katrina use? Abraham Lincoln's?

"Like I told the cops, like I told Steve, like I told everybody, Charlie's tied up, just like always. I whip him with the cat-o'-nine-tails, then do my custom b.l.o.w. .j.o.b with a mouthful of hot water. That always drove him nuts. After he shoots his load, I go over to the bar and pour myself a Stoli. I hear something, and when I look over at Charlie, he's flopping up and down, making noises like a goose squawking. Wait a second." She paused, biting her lip. "Now that I think about it, I might have been drinking Grey Goose. Anyway, I run over there, and he's all blue. His face, not his b.a.l.l.s. By the time I get the collar off, he's not flopping anymore."

They were in the living room, seated on a beige sofa Katrina said was custom-made in Rome. She was wearing red silk pants and an embroidered blouse with a Chinese design and had polished off half a bottle of a crisp Chardonnay. Victoria was sticking to club soda as she took Katrina through her story, looking for inconsistencies.

"If you're asking me all these questions a zillion times, I must be testifying, huh?"

"We don't know that yet." Victoria noticed how the grain of each limestone tile lined up with the grain of the adjacent one. "If our cross of the state's witnesses leaves reasonable doubt, we might keep you off the stand."

"Isn't that risky?"

"Not half as risky as lying to your lawyer," Steve said, hustling into the room, with Manko trailing. "Didn't I warn you? Dammit, Katrina, didn't I?"

"What's wrong, Steve?" Victoria asked.

"Our s.l.u.tty client, for starters."

"You can't talk to her that way," Manko said.

"f.u.c.k you, boat boy," Steve exploded. Red-faced, he wagged a finger at Katrina. "You know what I hate more than a woman who kills her husband? A woman who lies to her lawyer."

Katrina coolly placed her winegla.s.s on the mahogany coffee table. A dainty gesture. "What have you been telling him, Chet?"

"Not a d.a.m.n thing," Manko said.

Katrina crossed one red silk pant leg over the other. "So what seems to be the problem, Stephen?"

He let his voice go high and mocking: "'I've been faithful to Charlie since the day he proposed.'"

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that. How long you been porking Manko here?"

"Does it matter? How long, I mean."

"What matters is that you lied to us. And if you lied about one thing . . ."

"Everything else I told you was true."

"Yeah? Who else you f.u.c.king?"

"Steve, must you be so crude?" Victoria said.

"Chet is my only extracurricular activity," Katrina said.

"No golf pros?" Steve said. "Aerobics instructors? Sweaty gardeners you invite in for lemonade and a quick pop?"

"You got no right-" Manko took a step toward Steve.

"Shut up!" Steve jabbed a finger into Manko's chest, surprising the bigger man. "I haven't gotten to you yet."

Victoria watched as Steve took over the room, planting himself like an oak in front of the coffee table, raising his voice, telling Katrina that in all his years of practice, he'd never encountered anyone as foolish, and he should withdraw from the case and let her lie to some other lawyer, and she'd be lucky if the jurors didn't lynch her before rendering a verdict. At first, Victoria thought it was an act, Steve trying to scare their client straight. Then, when he grabbed Manko's arm and ripped off the watch, she decided he was losing control.

Steve waved the watch in Katrina's face. "You let me make a fool of myself with that Katrina Loves Charles c.r.a.p. But even worse, you led me into a trap. I put Manko on our witness list, but I can't put him on the stand because I can't subject him to cross. And any chance of your testifying is out because I can't let Pincher get at you, either."