"Well," Gabe murmured into the silence, "that's telling him." He toasted her with a can of Coke. "Does he make a habit of calling you?"

"Every couple of months." She kicked the table, then ripped her shoes off her aching toes and heaved them across the room. "To chat. If you can believe that. We can't be married, but why can't we be friends? I'll tell you why. Because nobody cheats on me. Nobody."

"I'll keep that in mind." Gabe watched her, wondering if he should let her cool down, or if he should just scoop her off to bed and help her expel some of that energy.

"He's getting married tomorrow. He thought I should hear it straight from him, so he called Candace.

They still belong to the same club, you know." She gulped down wine, found she didn't have the taste for it. "She told him where I was. She told him, as if he had some unbreakable right to know. As if I give a damn about him getting married."

"Do you?" Gabe reached out to keep the glass she'd slammed down from tipping over onto the rug.

"No." She needed something to throw, anything, and settled on the complimentary travel guide. "I care that he can call me out of the blue and make me feel, even for an instant, that it was my fault he was with another woman. I care that when he does, I think back and remember how perfect it was supposed to be. A nice young couple, from good families, having their splashy society wedding, the romantic two-week honeymoon in the Caribbean, the charming little row house in Georgetown. The right friends, the right clubs, the right parties. And I hate when I look back and I realize I never loved him."

Her voice broke and she fisted her hands at her temples. "I didn't even love him. How could I have married him, Gabe? How could I have when I didn't feel even a fraction for him what I feel for you?"

His eyes flashed, then the light narrowed down to a pinpoint of heat. "Be careful, Kelsey. I don't cheat, but that doesn't mean I play fair. I don't give a damn that you're upset. If you say too much, I'll hold you to it."

"I don't know what I'm saying." Unnerved, trembling, she dropped her hands. "I only know that when I listened to him just now, I realized I'd married him because everyone said he was right for me. And because it seemed like the next natural step. I wanted it to work. I tried to make it work. But how could it? He never once made me feel the way you do." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "No one's ever made me feel the way you do."

He set down his drink, suddenly aware that his fingers had pressed dents in the can. "Everyone will tell you I'm wrong for you."

"I don't care."

"I hate country clubs. I'm not going to take you to spring balls."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I could get the urge tomorrow and put everything I've got on one spin of the wheel."

Her hands relaxed at her sides. She could almost see him doing it. "I think the wheel's already spinning, Slater. Maybe you're not enough of a gambler to put it on the line."

"You don't know what you feel for me." Clawed by his own emotions, he grabbed her, nearly lifting her off the floor. "You're working on it. Christ, I can almost see the gears turning in that head of yours. But you don't know."

"I want you." Her heart was lodged in her throat, pounding. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."

"I'll make you give me more. And once I've got hold, Kelsey, you won't shake me loose. If you were smart, you'd take a good look at what you're getting into with me, and you'd run."

She started to shake her head, but he swept her up.

"Too late."

"For you, too," she murmured, and shifted just enough so that her lips could reach his throat. "I'm not running away, Gabe. I'm running after."

And she knew what to expect now, what to anticipate, what to yearn for. Heat and speed and frenzy.

She wanted the ache, knowing he could soothe it away, then incite it again until every pulse throbbed like a wound. And she reveled in knowing it was the same for him, that breathless, burning need, the panic, the thrill that they brought to each other from the first greedy touch.

Tumbling over the bed, groping, gasping, they fought with buttons and snaps until clothes scattered like fallen leaves. The quest was for flesh, the taste of it, the feel and scent that was a prelude to that most basic of desires.

He traced his hands over her, the firm, silky-skinned breasts, the narrow rib cage and hips. In the dark he could see her with his fingertips, every inch, every curve and muscle. Like a blind man seeking texture and shape, he explored the body he already knew.

She was everything he'd ever wanted, ever fought for. Ever gambled for. And she was quivering beneath him, ready, eager. Amazingly his.

Her body surged up, agile, quick. When their positions were reversed, she straddled him. In one fluid move, she imprisoned him inside those hot wet walls, arching back to take him hard to the hilt. Her hands groped for, then grasped his, their fingers tightly interlacing as she rocked them both toward madness.

His last thought was that it was indeed too late. Much too late for both of them.

Morning dawned dreary. Heavy clouds thickened the sky and the air, muting all the color to a gunmetal gray. Occasionally rain pricked its way through the layers and fell in sharp darts that stung and chilled.

Men and machines raked the track, turned it up anew, sleeked it with furrows. Pimlico drained well, and its groomsmen attended it as carefully, as tenderly, as a man might tend a much-loved horse.

Rain didn't deter the crowds, or the press. By post time for the first race the stands were full. Brightly colored umbrellas seemed to float like balloons on a gray sea. Inside the clubhouse, people stayed dry, feeding on crabs and beer while they watched the action on monitors.

The weather had Kelsey opting for jeans and boots rather than the linen dress she'd expected to wear.

It gave her an excuse to linger at the barn and weave black-eyed Susans through Justice's blond mane, to decorate him for his regal task of ponying High Water to the track.

And, in her opinion, there was nothing like a rainy day to make you stop and think.

Six months earlier, she hadn't known Naomi existed. She'd taken no more than a passing glance at the world she was now a part of. She'd been drifting, haunted by a failed marriage, and what she had begun to see as her own failed sexuality. Her job had amused her, nearly satisfied her, yet she'd been thinking of moving on.

There was always another job, another course to take, another trip to plan. She liked to tell herself she'd made all those restless, lateral moves to stimulate her mind. But in reality she'd done so simply to fill holes. Holes she hadn't wanted to acknowledge. Holes she certainly hadn't understood.

She had considered, carefully, whether she was doing the same now, using Naomi, the farm, even Gabe to plug those cracks in her life. Would she, as her family seemed to think, become disenchanted, dissatisfied with the routine, and move on yet again?

Or could she trust the feelings that were blooming inside her? The growing attachment to her mother, a simple, almost quiet evolution from anger and suspicion to affection and respect. Why not just accept that she'd found, and perhaps begun to earn, a place on the farm?

And Gabe? Wasn't it possible to relax and enjoy what was happening between them? She'd had no doubts the night before when they'd tumbled into bed. No doubts when she'd turned lazily to him at dawn and made slow, languid love.

Perhaps it was that inflexible sense of values, her own unwavering perception of right and wrong. How could she allow Naomi to depend on her when she couldn't be certain how long she'd stay? How could she take a lover and glory in lovemaking when neither of them had so much as whispered a word about love?

Maybe she was too rigid. If she couldn't take pleasure in the moment without questioning every motive, what did that say about her own makeup? And was she sulking, just a little, because her ex-husband was being married, perhaps had already taken those vows a second time while she braided flowers into a gelding's mane?

It was time to push that aside once and for all, she warned herself. Time to look forward. She wasn't drifting now. She had a purpose-and questions that needed to be answered. She'd deal with them logically, starting at a twenty-year-old root. First thing Monday morning, she promised herself, she would make that call to Charles Rooney.

The rain had stopped again when they walked to the paddock. Watery sunlight sneaked through breaks in the clouds and fell on dripping eaves. Gutters rang musically and turned the ground to mud.

Kelsey sneaked a look at Boggs. He seemed old, more frail than he had two weeks before. She knew he'd been assigned as High Water's groom as much for his skill as to help heal the wounds.

"The rain's a plus," she said, hoping to lift the shadows from his eyes. "High Water likes a wet track."

And so, she remembered, did Double.

"He's a good colt." Absently, Boggs patted his neck. "Steady and kind. Might be he'll surprise us all today."

"Last word, he was five to one."

Boggs shrugged. He'd never paid much heed to the odds. "He ain't run much this year, so they haven't seen what he can do. Still, he's finished in the money more times than not. He'll move if he's asked."

But he's no Pride. Boggs didn't have to say it. Kelsey understood.

"Then I'll ask him." Kelsey went to the colt's head and held his bridle so that she could look in his eyes.

They seemed so wise to her, and as Boggs had said, kind. "You'll run, won't you, boy? You'll run as hard and as fast as you can. And that's enough for anyone."

"You're not going to ask him to win?" Naomi laid a hand on Kelsey's shoulder, a small gesture that still touched both of them.

"No. Sometimes the winning isn't as important as the trying." She spotted Reno standing to the side, his arm in a sling, his face haunted and pale. "I'll meet you in the box in a minute."

Kelsey crossed to him and took his free hand. "I was hoping I'd see you."

"Couldn't stay away." He'd wanted to. The last thing he'd wanted was to stand on the sidelines and watch. "I figured to stay home, maybe catch the race on the tube. But I found myself in the car, driving out here."

"We'll have you up again soon, Reno."

A spasm crossed his face. He looked away from her, away from the horses, away from the track. "I don't know if I have the heart for it. That colt deserved better."

"So did you," she said quietly.

"I've spent most of my life dreaming about a Derby win. You can ride dozens of horses, cross dozens of wires, but the Derby's the one. That's gone now."

"There's another Derby next year," she reminded him. "There's always another Derby."

"I don't know if I want another chance." His face tightened when he saw a figure over her shoulder.

"Good luck today," he said, and hurried away.

Rossi noted the jockey's quick retreat , and filed it. Despite the lack of welcome on Kelsey's face, he walked to her.

"Miserable day."

"It seemed to be clearing up, until a moment ago."

He smiled, acknowledged the thrust. "I was hoping for a few tips while I was wandering around."

"You're unlikely to get any, Lieutenant." She began walking, resigned to the fact that he fell into step beside her. "You look like what you are. A cop."

"An occupational hazard. I don't claim to know a lot about horses, Ms. Byden, but that one of yours seemed a little on the small side."

"He is. Just over fourteen hands. But I don't think you're here to talk horses."

"You're wrong. Horses are right at the center of this." He offered her his bag of peanuts, then cracked another for himself when she declined. "I've been doing some research. There are a lot of ways to kill a horse, Ms. Byden. Some of which are on the gruesome side."

"I'm aware of that." Much too aware now, she thought. It had been Matt who'd told her when she'd pressed for answers. Told her of electrocution. Putting a horse in standing water, then killing him with live battery cables. A cruel and clever murder, sometimes overlooked. Unless a vet spotted burn marks in the nostrils. Worse, she thought, was suffocating them with Ping-Pong balls, thrust up the nose. They were impossible for a horse to expel, causing a slow, hideous death.

"Your Derby colt," Rossi continued, "he wasn't just killed, he was killed in full view of millions of people. Risky. It's my belief that when someone takes a risk, a particularly unnecessary one, it's because he's anxious to make a point. Who'd want to slap down your mother in public, Ms. Byden?"

"I have no idea." But she stopped. The statement shifted the suspicion from Naomi and instead made her a victim. "Is that what you think this is about?"

"It's an avenue worth exploring. She had the colt insured, heavily. But there's no cash-flow problem at Three Willows, and in the long term, that colt could have generated a lot more. Your mother appears to be a sensible businesswoman. Now, there's Slater."

"He had nothing to do with it."

"That's an emotional response." And precisely what he'd expected. "Backing off that a minute, he reaped the reward. You always want to look at who benefits from murder, Ms. Byden. Any kind of murder. The problem with that is it puts a cloud over him, and his Derby win. So I ask myself, would it be worth it to him? He had a good chance of winning anyway, so would it be worth it to him to stack the deck in so obvious a way? He doesn't strike me as an obvious man."

"An emotional response, Lieutenant?"

"An observation, Ms. Byden. He's not the only one who benefited. There's his trainer, his jockey. They both got a piece of the pie. And there's anyone who bet."

She gave a short laugh, looking around at the crowds. "That certainly narrows the field."

"More than you think." He scanned the crowd as well, enjoying himself. "If it ties in with my two homicides, it narrows it a lot more than you think. Who did Lipsky trust enough-or who was he afraid enough of-to let get close enough to kill him? Someone he worked with, worked for? There were a lot more than two horses in that race, Ms. Byden, and a lot more riding on the Derby than a blanket of flowers."

She stopped, then turned to study his face. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"You're new to the game. You might see a lot more than people think." He paused to crack open another nut. "And you're involved. Your relationship with your mother isn't making everyone happy."

So, he'd been prying into her personal life as well. She should have expected it. "That's family business, Lieutenant, and has nothing to do with murder."

"I could quote you statistics that would show you family business leads to murder more often than any other kind. I'm just asking you to keep your eyes open."

"They're open, Lieutenant." She stood her ground, unwilling to have him walk into view of the boxes.

There was no point in upsetting Naomi moments before the race. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to join my mother."

"Good luck," he called out, and chose another nut. He had a feeling Kelsey Byden would be much harder to crack.

Kelsey stepped into the box just as the horses were being loaded into the gate.

"I was afraid you wouldn't make it."

"Ran into someone," Kelsey muttered, and glanced from her mother to Gabe. It was like him, she thought, to be here. To stand with them when this was so completely his moment. She took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "Side bet, Slater."

"You still owe me from the first one."

"Double or nothing, then. It's apropos." She studied the field through her binoculars. "Your horse by two lengths. The track's sloppy, but I'll say he runs it in a minute fifty-eight tops. Our colt takes third in two and twelve."

He lifted a brow. "That's a hard bet for a man to turn down. Since there's no way to lose."

The starting gun fired. From the first plunge, Double and his rider took the lead. It was as if, Kelsey thought, they both knew they had something to prove. This was a champion, bursting from the pack in a heartbeat with no need to feel the bat on his back to pour it on. By the first turn he was a half-length in the lead, with the Arkansas colt and the Kentucky roan fighting for second.

Again Kelsey lost herself in the grandeur of it. With her binoculars in place, she urged the horses on, not seeing, as she'd been afraid she would, an overlapping image of Pride going down. There was only the mud-splattered athletes, riders and ridden, thundering around the oval.

There was rain in the air, another misty, steady drizzle that blurred her vision and soaked her skin.

A full length now, and moving out, his red wrappings smeared brown, his rider balanced like a toy in the irons. She heard herself laughing at the glory of it.

Then, like an arrow from a bow, High Water shot up the outside. Kelsey's breath caught at the suddenness of the move. He was gaining, digging in, kicking up turf. Fighting, she thought, dazed, for honor.