"When it comes to women, you're pretty d.a.m.n dense," he says. "No wonder you haven't gotten married since your wife died."

"That's a tender subject," I tell him.

"And it's an old one, ancient history. You gotta move on. From what I can see, you got one h.e.l.l of an opportunity dangling in front of you right now. If I were you, I wouldn't let it die on the vine, not without tasting the wine, sampling the vintage, to see if you like it."

"I'm not sure I..."

"Don't tell me you're not interested. I've seen the way you look at her. And if I die in my sleep tonight, I wouldn't want the last words I hear from your lips to be a lie. So bite your tongue," he says.

THIRTY-SIX.

After a short but silent ride, Herman dropped me back at the Melia. He told me one more time to knock on Joselyn's door and at least be friendly. Then he turned around and headed back toward the downtown plaza.

I haul my luggage upstairs, fishing for the room key in my pocket. When I find it, I finally drag my weary body inside the room and dump my bags at the foot of the bed.

Before the spring on the door can close it, I hear her voice behind me. "So what's going on? Where's Herman?"

I turn and Joselyn's standing in the doorway, her left arm dangling at her hip as her right hand holds the door open. She is barefoot, wearing a kind of silky-slinky red chemise that clings to her body and ends midthigh under a longer thin duster, open and unbelted in the front. Her curving hips form a lazy S against the steel frame of the door as she stands there.

"Come on in. Herman took a room at the Belgica."

"Told you it was a nice place," she says.

"We think we found Thorn."

Her gaze suddenly turns serious. She steps inside the room and lets the door close behind her. She has her room key in her hand.

"So he is there?"

I nod. "According to the desk clerk. He ID'd him from one of the photographs. He's booked under the name Johnston. But he's not there now. Herman took the room next door. According to the clerk, Thorn's been at the Belgica for two days. He leaves early in the morning and doesn't get back until after dark. Herman's going to try to listen through the walls, pick up his movements when he comes in tonight, and track him when he leaves in the morning. He'll call us on my cell as soon as he knows what's going on."

"You think that's safe?" she says. "I mean, you don't think Herman's in any danger, do you?"

"Herman knows what he's doing. He'll take precautions, keep his distance." I don't share with Joselyn my concern about the desk clerk. That if he says anything to Thorn about Herman asking questions, there are only two possibilities: one, that Thorn will disappear and we'll never find him again, and the other, which is more ominous. If Thorn is heavily invested in whatever he's doing on the island and he thinks Herman is acting alone, he may decide that it's easier and more profitable to dispose of Herman than to run.

"If I don't hear from Herman by ten o'clock tonight, I'll call him. If I think he needs backup, I'll grab a taxi and go over."

"And then what are you going to do? You don't have a gun," she says. "This is crazy. The two of you are going to end up dead. I'm telling you, he is a dangerous man. You're worried about Liquida. Thorn is just as deadly. Trust me on this."

"Yes, but at the moment he's all we've got and we can't let him go. Tiger by the tail," I tell her. "Thorn is the only link we have to Liquida. And if I can't lead the cops to Liquida and get him off my back, I don't have a life. And neither does my daughter, or, for that matter, Harry or Herman. I don't have to remind you that Liquida has shown a pathologic willingness to kill people who are even remotely a.s.sociated with me. You might want to think about that," I tell her. "In fact, it might be a good idea if you got on a plane and headed home. I'll keep you posted on what happens. I promise."

"You look exhausted," she says.

"Yeah, well, you should be tired too."

"I got a little rest. Why don't you sit down?" she says.

I step around my bags and settle down on the side of the bed.

"Take a deep breath," Joselyn says. She approaches and puts her hands on the shoulders of my polo shirt and starts to ma.s.sage.

I roll my head back, move my shoulders. "That feels great." Then she pushes my upper body back until I'm lying flat on the bed with my feet on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Never mind, just relax." She reaches down, grabs my ankles, and swivels my body until I am lying with my head on one of the pillows, my feet up on the bottom of the bed. Joselyn unties my shoes and pulls them off, tossing them on the floor. The release of tension and stress is palpable as she rubs my feet.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. Focus on your mantra."

"My what?"

"Relax. Don't tell me you've never done any meditation?"

"Sorry," I tell her.

"Your mantra can be anything, an image, a word. It can be a tone, like this: Aommmmmmmmmmm."

She does it two or three times, holding the tone until, like a bellows, the air goes from her lungs. The gentle, low tone of her voice is something strange, almost intoxicating. But I'm afraid it's not meditation that I'm thinking about.

"If you do it repeatedly and focus your consciousness, you can reach a transcendental point where monks believe the mind and the soul meld," she tells me. "Practiced regularly it can lower blood pressure and reduce stress. And stress kills, in case you haven't heard."

"I know."

"Trial lawyers don't like it," she says. "They believe meditation dilutes their aggression. And, of course, they're right. It's the fight or flight thing. When you don't want to do either, resort to your mantra."

"I will."

"There's a time to talk and a time to be quiet." She puts a finger to her lips. "This is the time for silence. Just lie there and relax."

She rubs my feet, and then my lower legs, and I begin to drift off.

"There is no restaurant or bar in the hotel, but there are some good restaurants a few doors away. We can order out later if you want. They'll deliver. I've got a menu."

"I'm trying to be quiet," I tell her.

"Good."

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"Um, no. I have an appet.i.te but not for food."

I open one eye and look at her. She fixes me with a winsome smile, stops ma.s.saging, and gazes at me from the foot of the bed with almond-shaped eyes.

"That was very nice. Thank you."

"We're not done yet," she says.

At the moment she looks like the spider about to attack the fly. I watch her as she moves gracefully, almost floating on air, around toward the other side of the bed. Halfway there she drops her hands to her sides and gently thrusts her shoulders back. The robe slides from her body and disappears like a silk puddle, past her thighs and onto the floor.

As she walks through it, the body-hugging red chemise clings to her form, set off by two thin straps over her shoulders and a filigree of lace at the tawny satin smoothness of her thighs.

"I really didn't want to stay in my room alone tonight," she says. "I hope you don't mind."

"No. Why should I mind?" I think to myself, I love being raped by beautiful women.

"Missing Herman, are you?" she says.

"Umm, no. Not exactly."

"Good. That makes two of us."

"You don't like Herman?"

"He's a very nice guy," she says. "But that makes two of you, and when I'm added to the mix, three is a crowd."

"I see. He speaks highly of you."

"Thank him for me." As she reaches the other side of the bed she raises a tanned, shapely knee and plants it deep in the soft muslin bedcovers. Then in a flowing feline motion she traverses the width of the bed on her hands and knees. When I look up I see her face hovering just over my left shoulder, pursed sensuous lips and oval eyes.

"Don't look so frightened," she says.

"Do I look scared?"

"I won't bite," says Joselyn. "I promise. Not unless you ask me to, and then you may have to beg."

"That sounds kinky."

"Silence, remember?" Joselyn has bathed and washed her hair. I can smell the perfumed soap and the scent of strawberries floating in the ether above me.

"Pick a mantra, anything, and focus on it. It will help break the fear."

"Really?"

"Aom, aom."

I look at her eyes, her pursed lips, almost pouting, as she stalks me on her hands and knees, staring down at me. "Before I settle in, would you like something to drink? Something from the minibar, perhaps?"

"Sweetheart, if you think I'm going to allow the moment to slip away and let you slide off the hook by bringing me a c.o.c.ktail, you're out of your mind."

She laughs. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"I don't know, but I'm dying to find out. At the moment I'm feeling just fine." In fact, looking up at her face, her body encased in the tight chemise, kneeling above me like a tigress, I am feeling almost euphoric, as if someone has shot me up with heroin.

She settles down with the sweet fragrance of her hair dulling my senses and her head on my shoulder. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, yeah. I hate it." As I lay sprawled on my back, Joselyn snuggles up against me, displacing every void of air between our bodies. Lying on her side, she raises a bent knee and rests it gently on top of my thigh. The tension causes me to stir in that place down below. She knows exactly what she's doing. She smiles and rhythmically rolls her knee gently across my groin.

I take a deep breath and arch my back.

"Relax," she says. "Focus on your mantra."

"I'm trying to, but they're pressing into the side of my chest at the moment."

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s planted in my side, her back gently arched, she starts to laugh as her body stretches out and sculpts the perfect form of sensual desire.

I lift my right arm over her head so that I can cradle her. She stops laughing and snuggles in tighter.

Like a schoolboy, my heart pounding, I slowly move my hand down the smooth, silken finish of her chemise until my fingers reach the small of her back. They come to rest in that heaven above the arch of her b.u.t.tocks as my fingers start to dance. Lazily they skim across the satin finish, feeling only the b.u.mp of a single chord, the waistband of her thong under the smooth, red-silken sea of the chemise.

"I'm glad that Herman found another room tonight." The warm, moist breath of her words in my ear ignites a s.e.xual tingle of electricity that traverses my spine.

"Herman says I snore."

"I wouldn't call it snoring," she says. "They're actually just cute little occasional snorts."

"How do you know?"

"I heard it every once in a while between Herman's foghorn."

"When?"

"When I was outside your door at night."

"What were you doing outside the door?"

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come to my room. Obviously not," she says.

"I didn't...I mean I wasn't sure..."

She puts her finger over my lips. "Now is one of those moments when silence is best," she says. Her lips seal over my ear, her pointed, wet tongue penetrating to its inner depth as she quickly slides her hand from my lips down my chest and stomach under the open bottom of my shirt. Her nails, like talons, rake my stomach and chest. Pa.s.sion seizes my lungs. I arch my back as her knee presses into the hardness at my groin. I listen and feel her hot, moist breath in my ear until her lips move, grazing my cheek.

Like a magnet, I turn my head, finding her lips with my own, rolling up onto my side as I grab her in my arms, pressing her body to my own, our legs intertwined, our tongues doing a dance.

Suddenly she pushes with her hands. I don't want to let go. It feels so good to hold her, as if nature itself had reached a point of equilibrium, a tender balance of two human souls.

Suddenly she disengages. She's back up on her knees. I lay there wanton, baffled and befuddled. Then I realize her need and she starts to pull the shirt over my head. While I'm finishing with the shirt, her frenzied hands go to work feverishly at my belt.

"Maybe I should take a shower," I tell her.

"Later," she says. "Unless you want me to leave, in which case you better make it a cold one."