Sarah had no one to defend her. Not while her friend Tom from Stargazer was in Moscow, convincing a Hollywood movie star to make a commercial for vodka rather than drink it all. Well, there was Wendy's husband, Daniel, too. Wendy might talk Daniel into committing murder if Sarah really needed protection. But Daniel was the press secretary for a senator, and somehow Sarah didn't think his murder conviction on her behalf would make for good political PR. Wendy might not forgive her.

Besides, Sarah couldn't drag Wendy anywhere near Nine Lives. Quentin would help Sarah get her very own gun, and then she could defend herself. He swung her hand as they pa.s.sed under the crepe myrtle trees buzzing with bees. She thawed a little in the sunshine.

That night, Quentin sipped his beer and tried to concentrate on peanut antigens and the cytokine response. So much had been discovered in the two years he'd been on tour. Now he was refreshing his memory with the most recent issues of Clinical Immunology and Allergy Today.

He hadn't had trouble concentrating for the last few weeks. It was pleasant out here at night on the secluded screened porch, his Fortress of Solitude. The ceiling fan faked a breeze in the still dark, and tree frogs chanted in the forest. He hadn't even had trouble concentrating last night, after he'd made Sarah come and then cooked jehangiri s...o...b...

Tonight he was having trouble. Maybe because he was looking forward to a definite date with Sarah tomorrow night. She'd whispered to him as she left this evening that they should go out alone tomorrow to give Erin the w.i.l.l.i.e.s.

More likely it was the cold shoulder he'd gotten from Sarah that was bothering him now. He suspected she'd only come over in the afternoon because she wanted a gun. And he couldn't convince her to stay after they returned from the firing range.

He shouldn't have messed around with her last night. He'd pushed her too far too fast, and now she was shying away. Which was smart of her, because they couldn't be together. Right.

Owen walked onto the porch without knocking, with Martin behind him. Owen s.n.a.t.c.hed the copy of Clinical Immunology and Allergy Today away from Quentin and threw it at Martin, then collapsed into a wicker chair that creaked under his weight. Martin sat in the chair on Quentin's other side. Quentin was cornered.

"I didn't break Rule Three," Quentin said automatically.

"We know Erin will go ballistic," Owen a.s.sured him. "This is just between us."

"I still didn't break Rule Three," Quentin insisted.

Owen and Martin looked at each other.

"Don't I look frustrated?" Quentin asked.

"But you will break Rule Three," Martin said.

"No I won't." Quentin rubbed his eyes behind his gla.s.ses. "There are only eight more days until the concert."

Owen said, "We want you to go ahead and cut her loose."

Quentin had to tread carefully here, so they wouldn't see his desperation. "I can't do that," he reasoned. "There wouldn't be any way to explain it to her without telling her that the thing between Erin and me is fake."

Martin suggested, "You could get back with Erin early."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Owen said quickly.

Reaching for his beer, Quentin gave Owen a knowing glance. Owen looked appropriately uncomfortable. Aha. Ammunition. But Quentin didn't want this kind of ammunition. If Owen fell for Erin, the band would be in a world of trouble. That's what Rule Two was for. Maybe Quentin should get back with Erin early.

And lose Sarah? No way.

After a sip of beer, Quentin said, "Me, neither. If Erin switches around too much, the press will lose interest. It has to be a big deal when she changes hands."

Owen looked like the wind had died out of his sails. Martin wasn't as intent as Owen, anyway. Martin had never been a plotter, and it was almost impossible to get him involved in band politics when he was on a drug binge.

"I don't know what y'all are complaining about," Quentin went on. "There's nothing in Rule Three that says Sarah can't hang around. For that matter, there's nothing in the rule that says I can't cop a feel."

Owen woke up to this challenge. "The spirit of the rule is that you can't cop a feel."

"We've never established separation of power," Quentin pointed out, "so you don't have the right to interpret the spirit of the rule."

"Logically," Martin said, "you wrote the rule, Q, so you're legislative. Someone else gets to be judicial."

"I'm appointing myself executive," Quentin told them, "and I'm ordering you the h.e.l.l out of my Fortress of Solitude!"

Owen and Martin looked at each other again, and Owen motioned with his head. They got up and left with more creaking of wicker.

"Martin!" Quentin called after them. "Clinical Immunology and Allergy Today." He caught the magazine as it flew through the doorway at him.

He downed the rest of his beer, then thumbed back through the magazine. And looked at his watch. He wondered what time Sarah would show up tomorrow night, where they'd go, and whether they'd get some privacy. If privacy wasn't part of Sarah's plan, maybe Quentin could convince her.

Martin reappeared on the porch and pulled a chair close to Quentin for a conference.

Quentin said, "I didn't break Rule Three in the last five minutes."

Martin fixed Quentin with an anxious stare, eyes owlish behind the thick gla.s.ses. "I didn't try to explain it to Owen," he said low, "but I've changed my mind since he and I talked about it this morning. I don't think you should cut Sarah loose."

"That makes two of us."

"I think you should keep her closer," Martin said ominously. "Or go with her to buy a gun, like she wanted."

"Have you lost your mind?" Quentin laughed. "You saw her at the firing range. She nearly capped me while I was standing next to her. I've never seen anyone's hands shake that badly, outside the hospital."

"She's scared because she thinks she'll have to use that gun."

Quentin bit the bait. "On whom?"

"Nine Lives. You know he's in jail for a.s.sault."

Quentin could see that Martin was genuinely concerned for Sarah. But heroin made Martin paranoid. "You don't know that it was a.s.sault on Sarah," Quentin said. "Why would Nine Lives have a.s.saulted her? It wasn't a lovers' quarrel. She said she didn't have s.e.x with him."

"You say she's not having s.e.x with you, either, and look at you. Completely whipped. She's been here three days and you're about to implode. She was down there-what'd she say?-months and months."

Quentin saw Martin's point. But he still thought Martin was blowing the issue out of proportion. "It's a good thing Nine Lives is safe in a Brazilian prison."

"That guy has more money than the four of us put together," Martin said. "How long do you think he'll stay in a Brazilian prison?"

Quentin started to protest, but Martin put up his hand. "I don't want to hear it. You're so caught up in your games, like that s.h.i.t you pulled with Rachel today, that you're not paying attention. I know I've got my problems, Q, but at least I'm paying attention. Sarah needs to feel like someone's got her back, and she's not getting that from you."

Martin rose to leave. He paused in the doorway to say, "She has a fresh three-inch scar under her chin, Q. She really wanted that gun."

Martin's words were still echoing in Quentin's head the next morning. She really wanted that gun. And Quentin wanted to find out why she wanted it. A little revenge wouldn't hurt, either, for the phone to Owen's nose and the jar of garam masala broken on the floor. His hired car had driven him to the Galleria, and he'd sweet-talked the hotel desk clerk, a fan, into giving him a key card.

Sarah's room was dark and, not surprisingly after the way she'd treated him yesterday, cold. The bathtub was dry, so she hadn't taken a shower that morning. He felt a flash of worry for her, which justified scanning her room and checking out her closet. Everything was in neat order. Nothing was wrong.

She always looked immaculate. Not a wrinkle in her clothes, not a hair out of place-until he got a hold of her. He doubted she would let anyone see her at breakfast in the hotel restaurant before she'd taken a shower. But underneath her soft skin, her muscles were rock-hard. If he had to guess, he'd say she was exercising now.

He resisted the urge to sift through her things, looking for the reason she felt so threatened. He quashed the even stronger desire to examine all her underwear. He consulted the hotel map on the bedside table and found the gym.

She was the gym's only patron, jogging on a treadmill among the rows of white machines. As soon as he stepped off the elevator, he recognized the pink streak in her ponytail through the gym's gla.s.s wall. Her back was turned to him, and she wore her earbuds plugged into her MP3 player, so she didn't see or hear him. He sat in a chair just outside the elevator. He would watch her for a few minutes before entering the gym to surprise her.

She was a runner. He knew that right away. She was no dilettante. Her tank top and shorts were soaked through with sweat, as if she'd been here for a long time. Yet she showed no signs of being the least bit winded, or of stopping anytime soon. He wished he could see her face.

He wondered what she was running toward, or running from.

Martin's words came back to him yet again. She really wanted that gun. This was the first time Quentin had seen her when she wasn't on parade. She thought no one was looking, and her drive was raw and undisguised. She really wanted that gun. She had a problem, and she would take care of it. If not this way, another way, wheels always turning. Quentin understood this completely.

What he didn't understand was how she was still jogging, her running shoes padding on the treadmill in time with his heartbeat. He had to exercise in short bursts each morning to keep from wheezing. He was actually jealous that she was healthy and athletic, probably going on ten miles by now.

Suddenly she jumped from the treadmill without turning it off and jogged to the water fountain in the corner. Quentin was poised to go either forward to greet her, or back into the elevator, before she discovered him. Then she bent over to drink from the fountain, and he decided to stay where he was. Discovery or no, if he died right now of an asthma attack, at least he'd had a view of Sarah Seville bent over in her running shorts.

She jumped back onto the treadmill without looking in his direction. He was invisible.

This was stupid. It was like he had a crush on her, which hadn't happened to him since Vonnie Conner in high school. There was almost no resemblance between Sarah and Vonnie Conner. Vonnie had been blond and busty, like Erin. A cheerleader. Only the feelings of l.u.s.t, wistfulness, and loss that Vonnie and Sarah evoked were similar. The feeling that he had to have this and he could not have this.

He couldn't have Vonnie Conner because in high school, he'd been lanky, gla.s.ses-clad, and asthmatic, without a truck. There hadn't been much he could do about that. Sarah he could do something about. He could quit the Cheatin' Hearts.

No he couldn't. The band was counting on him. And what would happen to Martin?

What would happen to him?

He could convince her to quit her job. Maybe Martin was right. If Sarah felt she needed a gun to protect herself against a rock star in jail in a different hemisphere, it didn't say much for her job satisfaction.

But this didn't feel right, either. She did love her job. Maybe not that part of it, but she wanted to keep it badly enough that she was willing to tackle Quentin. She came on to him hesitantly, as if she wasn't used to being s.e.xy-though she seemed comfortable enough in those low-cut shirts and high heels. She put on a show because she loved her job. Like Quentin loved his.

The need to go to her, bring her down off that treadmill, and take her was so strong that he could feel the blood shifting in his veins with the gravitational pull.

It was too much.

And Quentin knew now Sarah was holding her cards too close to the vest. He wouldn't find out why she felt so threatened until she decided to tell him herself. He slipped back onto the elevator and headed for home.

6.

Sweetie, I just got your e-mail from several days ago. I am not as "wired" as you are. I have been in Birmingham all week at the Vulcan Regional Duplicate Bridge Tournament. Please come to the evening session after you finish work today. I am sorry that I will not be able to see you on your birthday. I am flying out early tomorrow morning for the Lake Taneycomo Regional Duplicate Bridge Tournament in Branson, Missouri.

Love, Mom Sarah stepped out of the shower still invigorated from her run and a long set of Cheatin' Hearts on her playlist. Running had always helped her handle the stress of Nine Lives. Running with Quentin's strong, lazy melody in her ears was at once relaxing and terribly exciting. There was no way she could miss her date with him tonight, mother or no mother.

She toweled off and began her hundred-step beauty routine. Before her Natsuko-style transformation, she hadn't worn much makeup. Natsuko required sultry eyes and clear skin. She called her mother on her cell phone and tried to blow her off between the moisturizer and the liquid foundation.

Her mother asked sharply, "Are you telling me that you cannot spare three hours per year to spend with your aging mother?"

Sarah was overwhelmed with anger that her mother manipulated her, guilt that her mother was right, anxiety that her mother would see her hair, and love. The mirror reflected her hand pressed to her cheek. Her mother's cheek. The older she got, the more she looked like her mother. The pink hair did not fix that.

"I'm babysitting this band," she explained weakly.

"The Cheatin' Hearts," her mother said. "After you e-mailed me, I looked them up on your Internet. I've heard a song of theirs, 'Come to Find Out.' Catchy, if risque."

"That pretty much describes them," Sarah acknowledged. "Mom, I don't want to dis you, but I'm swamped with work today. And tonight, I'm supposed to keep up with one of the band members, who causes problems when left unattended."

"The one with the green eyes?"

"Since when do you notice?" Sarah asked suspiciously.

"I'm old," said her mother. "I'm not dead."

"They're really more hazel," Sarah lied.

"Bring him to bridge. He can hang out, as you say."

"Look, Mom, I'm not mixing business with mother," Sarah said with finality. She needed to see her mother. She needed to see Quentin.

After she hung up, she considered the implications. Her mother would want her to stay for dinner at the hotel after the bridge session. Strangely, Quentin seemed to have pa.s.sable table manners. There had been no table when he'd stood in the kitchen to eat breakfast, but he'd chewed with his mouth closed. She called Quentin's cell phone.

He sounded like he was standing in a blender full of margaritas. "Are you in your car?" she asked. She only became more confused when he said yes. They had made their ill-fated trip to the firing range last night in Martin's truck, with Martin driving. She'd concluded Quentin was the Cheatin' Heart without wheels. "Are you driving?"

"No," he said.

"Who's driving?" she asked in a panic. He'd better not be with Erin.

"The guy I hire to drive me."

Oh. "But in your car?"

"Well, in the car I hire to go with the driver."

Right, the car service he'd mentioned several times. Sarah was exasperated. She was trying to put together the puzzle of the Cheatin' Hearts, but he was hiding the pieces from her. "Quentin, why don't you drive yourself?"

"Because I don't have a driver's license."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need one when I'm hiring someone to drive me."

"You've been rich for two years," Sarah said. "How did you get around before that?"

"I lived on the bus line." He paused, then said, "Good morning, sunshine," and laughed and laughed until she laughed.