Worse than she'd thought, if that was possible. She could always leave, but that wouldn't get her what she wanted, and Jack Furlinghetti had what she wanted. He held the whip hand, literally.

Just get this over with, she told herself. Bend over and think about shopping. At least she wouldn't be able to see the ceiling mirrors. "Over here?" She walked to a device that resembled a portable pommel horse, with leather straps that were probably meant for the wrists and the ankles.

Grimacing, she flipped up the back of her dress and draped herself over the horse. He would have to strap her in, if that's what he wanted. She braced herself, and her whole body flinched in anticipation. But nothing happened. What was the twisted little fiend doing? Admiring her thong?

She waited for the blows, refusing to say a word.

Finally, she looked over her shoulder and spotted him across the room, bent over the back of the room's only chair. His leather suit had another exposure in the back. There were two cutouts for his buttocks.

"What are you doing, Jack?"

"Have I displeased you in some way?" he asked. His voice quavered. The riding crop lay on the carpet next to him, where he must have dropped it. Suddenly it dawned on Julia what was going on. The pommel horse had been meant for him.

"Displeased, Jack?" she said, putting some steel in her voice. "You'd better believe I'm displeased."

It was all over very quickly. She'd only swatted him a couple times when his muscles clenched and he gave a surprised gasp. He dropped from the horse to his knees in apparent shame.

"Look what I've done," he wailed. "I beg your forgiveness."

Julia definitely did not want to look at what he'd done. Evidently it was that most dreaded of male accidents-and she was secretly thrilled. The obnoxious Mr. F. had a fatal flaw. She turned her back to give him some privacy while he attended to himself. Finding the right disdainful tone was a snap.

"Forgiveness, Jack? I'll have to think about that."

"Will you let me try to make it up to you?"

"I'll consider it, but only if you honor our deal."

"I will, I swear, but first I have to redeem myself in your eyes. Let me worship at the shrine of your womanhood, Julia. And if I don't give you more pleasure than you've ever received before, you can punish me in any way you wish."

Could be fun, she thought.

A moment later he was beside her, restored to his domineering persona. He kissed her fingertips and nodded toward the circular bed. "Could I interest you in a hot lunch? Or if you're not hungry, possibly some kitten whiskers?"

"What are kitten whiskers?"

His laughter was positively wicked with delight. "You're about to find out, my reluctant little slut."

Damn, she's beautiful. Andrew forgot everything else but the power and grace of her lines as he made his way down the ramp and onto the dock. She had masts as long and sexy as a supermodel's legs, but when it came to sailing yachts, he was into natural beauty. He couldn't take his eyes off her lean, gleaming silver hull. She was built like a knife blade, and the way she cut through wind and wave took his breath away.

The waterfront cleared his head of clutter like nothing else, and after last night's confrontation with Marnie, he needed a break. The woman was driving him nuts. She lived and breathed her own personal pain, and he had no way to combat that. She didn't know how to compromise. Maybe she couldn't.

So, her hair was dark and wild, and the bracelet...gone.

And she was calling the shots.

Andrew needed a rest. He needed the sea to wash him clean.

Seals were climbing onto the jetty rocks to sunbathe. You could see their glistening black coats and hear their throaty barking for miles. An outgoing tide coaxed rich, briny smells from the shoreline.

Just for the pure joy of it, Andrew tilted his head back and breathed in, filling his lungs. The midmorning haze had started to burn off, revealing the promise of a sapphire-blue sky, and the gulls were in full flight-all signs that it was going to be a beautiful summer day.

Sun warmed the back of his neck as he walked to the very end of the long dock. The planks creaked with his weight and the water beneath made soft, silky noises. The Mirage Bay Yacht Club was a tiny organization with either a big heart or a need for funds. Andrew wasn't a member, but they'd agreed to rent him the guest berth indefinitely.

He'd decided to leave Bladerunner here for repairs after Alison's disappearance. The work had been minor and finished within weeks, but Andrew hadn't dealt with the yacht until now. Bladerunner had been dry-docked at the local boatyard until two weeks ago. Now he was glad he'd called ahead and had them put her back in the water.

A speedboat plowed by, churning the water. He watched the gentle waves rock his own vessel, and felt a familiar yearning. He wanted to take her out again. He wanted to bake in the sun, get burned to a crisp, and taste the salt wind. It was hard to imagine that sailing in Mirage Bay wouldn't be tainted with bad memories, at least the first time out, but it had to be done. Someone was out to get him, threatening to go to the police. He had to have some plausible explanation for Alison's disappearance. One way to do that was to recreate the incident in his mind and see if there was anything obvious that he'd missed.

Fleetingly, he wondered if Marnie liked the water, and then he corrected himself. Not Marnie, Alison-and of course she liked the water. The day his wife disappeared, she'd convinced him to go for a sail, despite the storm blowing in. He'd been questioning her motives ever since.

He'd asked her for a divorce earlier that week, and she'd taken the news so calmly he'd immediately been suspicious. Alison was larger than life, with insecurities to match. She'd never handled rejection well, and he'd expected icy outrage and a series of hysterical scenes, at the very least. Possibly their prenup, which compensated her nicely if he asked for a divorce, had eased her pain, but Andrew had sensed something was up. Alison was ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted and going along with the dissolution meant she wanted something. Somehow, he doubted it was the money. She'd walked away from a fifty-million dollar trust fund to marry him.

She'd even agreed their marriage was a mistake and admitted seeking him out to further her career. She'd hoped he would make her a recording star the way he had Regine. Alison had a pleasant enough voice, but no real musical talent, and she hadn't taken it well when he'd told her, which might explain her calm reaction to the divorce. If she wasn't going to get what she wanted, why stay with him? But he'd given her the bad news over a year ago. It didn't make sense that she would wait this long-and disappearing off his yacht on a stormy night seemed a little extreme.

He'd been engaged to Regine when Alison reentered his life. She was living in the Fairmont's upper eastside apartment and studying at Julliard, and she claimed to be serious about her singing career. She was also a huge fan of Regine's. She volunteered her time, traveling with Regine when she was on tour, and eventually she became a regular fixture, even in their home. After the freak accident that took Regine's life, Andrew had been shell-shocked and grateful for Alison's compassion-and her companionship. Not love, gratitude. He'd been in denial.

When he'd asked for the divorce, he'd apologized for letting things go as far as they had. But Alison had insisted that she understood. He'd married her on the rebound. Of course she would give him a divorce. All she wanted was one last sail on Bladerunner. He'd made the mistake of agreeing, and it was their last sail.

With that night still on his mind, Andrew gripped the line and pulled the yacht close enough to the dock to climb aboard. He made his way to the port side bow, where the lifeline had given way. The repairs had removed all traces of the accident, but Andrew wouldn't soon forget the sight of the snapped line. It was the first thing he'd seen when he came up from below.

He'd gone down for life jackets that should have been in the cockpit locker. The storm had blown up out of nowhere and the yacht was lurching violently. Possibly Alison was caught off balance and thrown over the side. It wasn't until later that he discovered she had taken out a large insurance policy on her own life a month prior to the accident-and forged his name to the documents. If she was embittered about the divorce, she'd gone to a lot of trouble to seek revenge, even for a scorned woman, and may have paid for it with her life.

He'd already given some thought to the other Fairmonts' motives. Alison had told him the family trust passed down from mother to daughter. If she was wrong and Bret was next in line, then Bret would have reason to get rid of his sister, and perhaps to frame the most obvious suspect, Alison's estranged husband. It wasn't totally impossible that Bret, or someone else, had stowed away below deck. But that hadn't occurred to Andrew at the time, and he hadn't searched the yacht, even after he brought it back on. Someone quick and agile could have slipped away unseen while Andrew was radioing the Coast Guard. Also, the weather reports had predicted the Devil Winds would blow in that evening, which was why he'd tried to talk Alison out of the sail. The conditions were perfect for a disappearance at sea.

Andrew wasn't sure what Julia might have to gain, but that didn't rule her out. Having Alison dead might clear the way for her to reclaim the trust. And then there was Tony Bogart, her old boyfriend. He seemed to have held a serious grudge all these years, which meant he might have it in for both of them, Alison and Andrew.

Andrew couldn't rule out Alison herself. He doubted she was a strong enough swimmer to negotiate the seas in storm conditions. It would have required an accomplice and some advance planning, but it had been dark enough that night to conceal a small powerboat by the reefs. Nothing would surprise him where she was concerned, even the possibility that she was still alive and waiting to make her move, whatever that might be.

He'd gone through her checkbook, bills and credit card statements, but there'd been no activity since the accident and no evidence tying her to the insurance policy. He'd also gone through her clothing, her purse and her Blackberry. Nothing. But none of that was conclusive. She was plenty smart enough to have planned ahead and covered future tracks. It was easy to get credit cards in a different name, and she'd had accounts he'd never had access to.

All along, he'd been hampered by the possibility of triggering suspicions if he investigated too openly. Back in February he'd met with the insurance agent who issued the policy, but Andrew had known if he pushed for an investigation he would bring Marnie under suspicion of fraud and forgery, and he couldn't risk that. He'd actually had to say that the forged signature on the insurance policy was his own, to avoid a probe.

He'd learned from the agent that the entire transaction had been handled via phone calls and faxes. The man had never met Andrew until that day, but he'd mentioned their phone conversations, which meant whoever took out the policy was either male or had a male accomplice. For some reason, Tony Bogart kept coming to mind. Andrew could easily imagine him trying to kill Alison and frame him, but if it had been Tony, he'd blown it big-time.

Andrew reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts for the keys that would let him into the main salon. If there were any supplies aboard, he was going to make himself a cup of coffee and do a bit more thinking before he headed out to sea. He wouldn't raise the sails today. That was a two-man job. He'd just motor out and back.

It disturbed him that Marnie was having second thoughts, because that raised the question of whether he could trust her. Alison had been a cold, calculating bitch who'd had everything handed to her. Marnie was just trying to survive. She'd never expected to be given anything, which had the paradoxical effect of making him want to give her everything....

Now there was a dangerous impulse.

Andrew breathed ice-cold laughter. He couldn't afford to be that sentimental. He wasn't even sure he'd meant it when he'd promised to take her back to Long Island. He knew the manipulative power of noble male sacrifice. Women were suckers for it. On the other hand, if she'd taken him up on the offer, he wanted to think he would have done it. He had some firsthand knowledge of what her life had been like, and she didn't deserve any more grief at the hands of some asshole.

The first time he'd come face-to-face with her in the hospital-and later confronted with Alison's perfect, but sterile, features-he'd forced himself to recall the defiance and the courage he'd seen in Marnie the day he'd run off the young thugs who'd had her cornered. It was closer to beautiful than anything he'd ever seen in Alison.

He tried the key, but the lock didn't want to give. Maybe he had the wrong one-or maybe he was distracted. He'd had dark thoughts about the possibility of becoming locked in mortal combat with Marnie. He had to prove his innocence, and she was not only his alibi, she was his ticket into the Fairmont world. Unfortunately, all she wanted was out of that world, and even though he could hardly blame her, he needed her. His worst-case scenario was that her real identity might be discovered, or even that she might confess. This trip had thrown her into turmoil, and she was unpredictable, anyway. Untamed was probably more apt.

Ironic, he realized. Those were the very qualities that attracted him, and yet for the last six months he'd been trying to reprogram the wildness out of her-and turn her into someone he despised.

Beyond the lap of the waves and the cries of the gulls, Andrew heard a familiar sound. The dock creaked and groaned under the weight of footsteps. The sun was in his eyes as he looked up and saw a silhouetted form coming down the gangplank.

The figure stopped at one of the other moorings, to Andrew's relief. He didn't want to be disturbed right now. Still, he continued to watch the intruder. It appeared the man had stopped to admire one of the yachts, but within moments, he was headed Andrew's way again, slowly and with a certain air of menace.

As the man neared, Andrew realized who he was.

Speak of the devil. Tony Bogart.

10.

Tony was tempted to thank Andrew Villard for being the easiest stakeout he'd ever had. He'd been sitting in his rental car on a side road at the bottom of the hill when Villard had driven by a short time ago. Tony had recognized the Mercedes SUV as one of the Fairmont stable of cars. Apparently now it was a six-figure loaner. And easily replaced, he thought acidly, like everything owned by the rich. Nothing but toys to be tossed away when they no longer amused.

He'd followed Villard at a distance, staying several car lengths behind. Tony had been waiting since dawn for one of them to leave the Fairmont compound. Unfortunately, it was Andrew. He wouldn't be as much fun to taunt as Alison, but Tony had a little something up his sleeve.

Now, he ambled over the dock's rotting wooden planks, taking his time. Unlike most locals, he didn't have saltwater in his veins and he'd never enjoyed the reek of low tide, but he wanted to give Villard a chance to work up a sweat, wondering what was going on. Intimidating a suspect was something any law officer worth his stripes enjoyed, though most wouldn't admit it.

Fear didn't have its own smell. That was a myth. But fear did have a look. The eyes turned unnaturally bright and the skin ashen. People dried up like slugs in the sun and were forced to lick their lips. Some couldn't even talk.

Tony relished those signs. Few things made him feel more in command of a situation, except the resistance of a trigger against his finger. The sight of a weapon worked wonders on assholes who didn't have the sense to show the proper respect.

He understood life's most essential hierarchy: the law ruled. Even the rich were low on that food chain. Sure, they had fat cat lawyers, but that didn't always get you off in these days of public trials and court TV. Nowadays, everyone had to roll over and show their bellies, and Tony loved nothing better than watching fat cats get skinned.

Villard leaped from the boat and walked toward him. He didn't look like a man ready to roll over. Fine, Tony was always willing to do it the hard way, especially when he was armed and the other guy wasn't. Villard had on khaki shorts, a white V-neck T-shirt and deck shoes. Hard to hide weapons in so little clothing, unless you had a gun stuck up your ass.

Tony came to a stop and let Villard do the approaching. He told himself it was a calculated move, but he had to admit that something about Villard made him uneasy. He didn't have the cold, hard stare of a killer. That was another myth. Killers had wet eyes, like weasels, and they were cowards at heart. But Villard did give the impression of someone who had little more than a passing acquaintance with fear and loathing-and could give a flying fuck about dominance hierarchies.

He'd have to remember not to drop his guard.

"Do you have a boat moored here, or am I under surveillance?" Villard asked.

Tony smiled. "Have you done something that requires surveillance? I'd be happy to hear your confession."

Villard dismissed him with a contemptuous look. "This is a private club," he said, "and somehow I doubt you're a member."

Arrogant asshole. Tony pretended to be apologetic. "The gate wasn't locked, and I just happened to see you down here. I'm staying across the street." He stepped back, shuffling and smiling, as if to leave. "And you did tell me if I had anything to say that concerned your wife I should come to you."

"What about my wife?"

"Well, I wasn't going to mention it," he said, angling a curious look at the other man, "but I couldn't help but notice..."

"Notice what?"

"There's something weird about your wife."

"What are you talking about?"

Tony lifted a shoulder. "You know what I mean. She's different."

Villard was nonchalant. "No one expects her to be the same. She's been through a lot."

"Hey, I knew the woman, and she's different. She doesn't like to be looked at. She turns her head to avoid it. Alison loved to be admired."

"We're done with this conversation." Villard headed back to the sloop. He began to undo the mooring lines.

Tony strolled along behind him. "You're taking the boat out?" he asked.

"Suddenly, I'm feeling the need for some fresh air."

"Really? I thought it might be the need to return to the scene of the crime."

"There was no crime, Bogart, unless you know something I don't." Villard glanced around at him. "How do we know you're not returning to the scene?"

"Me? Why would I want to hurt Alison? I was about to congratulate you on your marriage. Should have done that yesterday. Bad manners."

Villard's disgust was palpable. "Jesus, are you still carrying a torch for my wife? That's pathetic, Bogart. Grow up and go away."

Tony meant to laugh, but nothing came out except an embarrassing squeak. His voice had broken like a teenager's. Rage consumed him. Stupid fuck.

By the time Tony had calmed himself, Villard was on his boat and preparing to pull away from the dock. Tony held his tongue, watching as Villard easily maneuvered the large yacht. He looked like a natural, someone who would understand sailing to the point of knowing the currents-and exactly the right spot to dump a body overboard so that it would never be found.

Except that the body was found-and alive. By Villard himself. That didn't compute for Tony, but it was why he'd joined the FBI. He loved a good mystery.

Tony felt his cell vibrating inside the case hooked to his belt loop. He checked the display, saw that it was an unknown caller, and pressed Talk. His snitch's calls came in that way.

"Bogart," Tony said. It surprised him that his hand was unsteady. He'd worked with informants before, but none who had such power over his deeply personal desires. This was Tony's chance for justice on several levels.

"She's killed twice," said the muffled voice in his ear, "and she'll kill again soon. This time she's after someone you know and love."

"Who's killed twice?" Tony asked.

The voice turned scornful. "You already know that."

"You're talking about Alison Fairmont? Who's she after?"

"You already know that, too. Is your hearing going?"

The line went dead, and Tony hit *75, alerting his cell phone service that he wanted the call traced. The service was intended to deal with telephone threats and harassment, but it was the only resource Tony had at the moment. He'd been cut off from the FBI's electronic surveillance operations when they put him on administrative leave.

The caller sounded like a woman, but there were many ways to disguise a voice. Someone he knew and loved? Tony had to laugh. There wasn't anybody who fell into both categories, except Tony himself.

His smiled faded as he watched Villard navigate the boat out of the yacht club and turn it toward the reefs. This was getting more interesting all the time. Maybe he should thank Villard for dragging his beautiful wife out of the drink and bringing her home just in time for Tony to get a little payback.

Whoever designed this house should have included street signs.