"It doesn't matter." Kelsey drew a deep breath. She could still smell the glamour. "It was worth it. Did you see how he came up like that? It was almost out of nowhere."

"Number three," Gabe said, and waited until her eyes met his. "My hunch paid off."

"That was number three?" She turned toward the winner's circle, torn between annoyance at losing to him, and her enjoyment of watching the horse win. "This must be your lucky day."

"You could be right."

"So." She slid her eyes up to his and smiled. "Who do you like in the next race?"

Sometime during the afternoon she devoured a hot dog and washed it down with a watered-down soft drink. She felt a surprising stab of pride, very personal, when Virginia's Pride dominated his field. It was so obvious, she thought, even to her untrained eye, that there wasn't another horse in the race to compare with him.

Another, less identifiable emotion pricked her when Gabe's horse crossed the wire first.

As dusk fell, the grandstands were littered with losing tickets, cigarette butts, and shattered hopes.

"Can I interest you two ladies in some dinner?"

"Oh." Distracted, Naomi buttoned up her jacket. She was already looking for Moses. "I'm going to be at least another hour here. Why don't you take Kelsey?"

Instinctively, Kelsey sidestepped. "I don't mind waiting for you."

"No, go ahead. Have fun. I'll see you at home in a couple of hours."

"Really, I-" But Naomi was already hurrying away. "I appreciate the offer, Gabe, but-"

"You're too well mannered to refuse." He took her arm.

"No, I'm not."

"Then you're too hungry. A single hot dog doesn't fuel all that energy. And I can help you count your winnings."

"I don't think that's going to strain anyone's math." In any case, she was hungry. She let him guide her through the parking lot to a bottle-green Jaguar. "Nice car."

"She's fast."

He was right. Kelsey leaned back and enjoyed the ride through the pearling twilight. She'd always liked to drive fast, top down, radio blasting. Wade had lectured her countless times as he'd stuck to the heart of the speed limit. Sensible, she thought now. Responsible.

But he'd never understood that now and again she had to cut loose, do something, anything, full out.

He'd preached moderation, and she had agreed-except when she couldn't. An impulsive spending spree, a speeding ticket, a last-minute urge to fly to the Bahamas. Those quicksilver changes in her had been the cause of most of their domestic quarrels.

Small stuff, she'd always thought. Incorrectly, she realized now. What had her impulsive surprise visit to Atlanta gotten her?

Freedom, she reminded herself, and determinedly closed the book on it.

When she began to pay attention to the scenery again, she realized they were nearly at Bluemont. "I thought we were going to have dinner."

"We are. Do you like seafood?"

"Yes. Is there a restaurant out here?"

"One or two. But we're eating in. I called home earlier. How does grilled swordfish strike you?"

"That's fine." She straightened in her seat, listening to the alarm bells in her head. "How did you know I'd be coming to dinner?"

"I had a hunch." He cruised down the road, zipped through the iron gates and up the drive. "You can take a look at the house before we eat."

His gardener had been busy. Beds had been tidied for spring so perennials could flaunt their new growth. A few brave daffodils had already bloomed, their bright yellow heads nodding charmingly.

Funny, she'd never have picked Gabe as the daffodil type.

The front door was flanked by beveled glass panels etched in geometric designs. With the light inside glowing through them, they glinted like diamonds. She remembered now that his jockeys' silks had resembled diamonds as well. A dramatic red and white.

"How did you pick your colors, the silks?"

"A straight flush, diamonds, eight through king." He opened the door. "A hand of cards. I drew the ten and jack against the odds. People will tell you that's how I came into this place. Winning a hand of cards."

"Did you?"

"More or less."

She stepped inside into a tiled atrium, all open space, dizzying ceilings with arched skylights. The copper rail that circled the second floor followed a gently curving staircase. Huge terra-cotta pots hung suspended, spilling out greenery.

"Quite an entrance," she managed.

"I don't like to be closed in. I'll get you a drink."

"All right." She followed him through a wide arch into a living area. This too opened into another room through archways. Glass doors invited the night inside; lamps, already lit, softened it.

There was a fire crackling in a hearth of river stone. A table was set in front of it. For two, she noted. A white cloth, candles. Champagne chilled in a bucket beside it.

"Did you also have a hunch that Naomi wouldn't be joining us?"

"She usually goes into conference with Moses after a day at the track." He opened the bottle with a quick, celebrational pop. "Do you want to look around, or would you rather have dinner right away?"

"I'll look around, since I'm here." She accepted the glass, noting there was no matching flute by the second plate. "You're not celebrating?"

"Sure I am. I don't drink. Why don't we start upstairs and work down?"

He led her out, up the curving stairs. She counted four bedrooms before they climbed a short flight into the master suite. This was a split-level affair, the bedroom three tiled steps above the sitting area. A stone fireplace would warm the foot of the lake-sized platform bed, and the skylight would invite a restless sleeper to watch the moon.

Like the rest of the house, it was a mix of the classic and the modern. A Chippendale table held an abstract bronze-and-copper sculpture. A Persian carpet glowed on the floor beneath a free-form coffee table of polished teak.

Meissen vases beside modern art. The art, the painting, drew her. Even from across the room, Kelsey recognized it as a work by the same artist who had done those in her mother's home.

So much passion, she thought as she studied the frenetic brushstrokes, the violent juxtaposition of primary colors. "Not a very restful piece for a bedroom."

"It seemed to belong here."

"N. C.," she murmured. "Did Naomi paint this?"

"Yes. Didn't you know she painted?"

"No, no one mentioned it. She's very talented. I know several art dealers who would be begging at her door."

"She wouldn't thank you for it. Her art's personal."

"All art's personal." She turned away from it. "Has she always painted?"

"No. You should ask her about it sometime. She'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"I'll have to decide what that is first." Sipping her champagne, she wandered the room. "I don't know what that dignified Cape Cod looked like, but I doubt it could have measured up to this." More at ease, she turned back. "Did you horrify the neighborhood by having it razed?"

"Appalled everyone within twenty miles."

"And enjoyed every minute of it."

"Damn right. What's the use of having a reputation if you can't live up to it?"

"And what is your reputation?"

"Slippery, darling, very slippery. Anyone would tell you that being alone with me in my bedroom's the first step to perdition."

"It's a long way from the first step to the last fall."

"Not as far as you might think."

With a shrug, she tossed back the rest of her drink. "Tell me about the card game."

"Over dinner." He held out a hand. "I'm a sucker for atmosphere, and a lot closer to that last fall than most."

Intrigued, she put her hand in his. "That doesn't sound very slippery to me, Slater."

"I'm just getting started."

Downstairs he refilled her glass. Some invisible servant had already set two silver-domed plates on the table, lit the candles, and switched on music. They sat down to Gershwin.

"The card game?"

"All right. How much do you know about poker?"

"I know what beats what. I think." She took a bite of the delicately grilled fish and closed her eyes. "This definitely beats the track cooking all to hell."

"I'll tell the cook you said so. Anyway, about five years ago I was in a game, a marathon. Big stakes, heavy hitters."

"Around here?"

"Not around here, here. In the dignified Cape Cod."

She narrowed her eyes. "Isn't gambling illegal in this state?"

"Call a cop. Do you want to hear this or not?"

"I do. So you were in a big, illegal poker game. Then what?"

"Cunningham was having a run of bad luck. Not just during the game, but for several months. His horses were breaking down. He hadn't had any finish in the money for more than a year. He had a pile of outstanding debts. He figured, like most do when they're on a downswing, that all he needed was one big score."

"Hence the poker game."

"Exactly. I had interest in a horse, and he'd been running well. So I was"-he smiled devilishly-"flush. I wanted a farm like this, always had. I went into the game thinking that if I didn't lose my stake I might finesse enough for another horse. Work my way up."

"Sounds sensible, in a skewed sort of way." Reckless was how it sounded, she thought. Admirably reckless. "Obviously you won more than a horse."

"I couldn't lose. It was one of those sweet moments when everything falls in your lap. If he had three of a kind, I had a full house. He had a straight, I had a flush. His trouble really started when he couldn't let it go. He was down about sixty, sixty-five."

"Hundred?"

Charmed, he took her hand, kissed it lavishly. "Thousand, darling. And he didn't have it to lose. Not cash, anyway. So he upped the stakes, wouldn't take no for an answer."

"And, of course, you tried your best to bring him to his senses."

"I told him he was making a mistake. He said he wasn't." Gabe moved his shoulders. "Who am I to argue? There were only four of us left by then. We'd been at it for about fifteen hours. This was going to be the last hand. Five thousand to open, no limit on raises."

"That was twenty thousand before you even got started?"

"And over a hundred and fifty by the time it got down to me and Cunningham."

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "A hundred and fifty thousand dollars on one hand?"

"He thought he had a winner, kept bumping the pot. I had the last raise, bumped it another fifty myself. I thought it might put him out of his misery. But he matched it."

She lifted her glass and sipped slowly to wet her dry throat. She felt she could almost be there, sweaty-palmed and dry-mouthed with a small fortune riding on the turn of a card.

"That's a quarter of a million dollars."

He grinned. "You are a quick study. I felt sorry for him, but I'm not going to say I didn't relish the moment when I laid down that straight flush to his three kings. He didn't have the cash." Gabe tipped more champagne into her glass. "He barely had the assets. So we made a deal. You could say Cunningham bet the farm and lost it."

"You just kicked him out?"

Gabe inclined his head, studied her. "What would you have done?"

"I don't know," she said after a moment. "But I don't think I could have thrown the man out of his own house."

"Even after he'd gambled with money he didn't have?"

"Even then."

"So, you're a soft touch. We made a deal," Gabe said again, "that satisfied both of us. And, because I played against the odds, I got something I'd wanted my whole life."