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intercourse, notable only because of where we were. Guests at a multimillionaire’s secluded retreat. We were an intriguing assortment:an actress, a stepson, a son, an employee, a lawyer. A journalist turned novelist.
    But it couldn’t be as aimless as it appeared. In some fashion these particular people met a certain criterion.
    I wondered if Chase was going to tell me what that was.
    Or whether I should have to find out for myself.
    On that thought, known only to me, of course, I excused myself, professing much pleasure with both the tea and the company. I had business to take care of before I met Chase.
    I had no difficulty following Miranda’s directions. The travertine marble staircase in the foyer led to the second floor. A marble-topped Louis XVI—style side table sat on the landing. Firecracker plants flamed in jade pots. The hallway was wide and spacious, the walls a cool lemon with crisp white moldings.
    My room was in the south wing, the last bedroom on the right. It would have been a perfect room for a visiting teenager. Pink walls, pale pink shutters (open to provide a slatted but glorious view of the sound), pink bedding (roses again, climbing a trellis). White wicker furniture afforded a bit of contrast. But surprisingly the pink didn’t cloy; it was light and delicate, as faint as the first wash of sunrise.
    My emptied suitcase was in the closet, my clothes were hung, my lingerie was neatly folded in the lavender-scented drawers of a wicker dresser.
    But, I was pleased to note, my carry-on bag sat on the desk, unopened.
    A superbly trained maid had attended to my belongings.
    I closed the door and went directly to my canyon bag. I never travel without the tools of my trade: a laptop computer, a tiny state-of-the-art recorder, and, of course, my latest addition.
    Opening the bag, I lifted out the carrying case of the cellular telephone and unzipped it. Taking the phone, I stepped out on a now shadowy balcony to make the call.
    That was my first intimation of just how tenuous was our connection to the mainland. It rang, but faintly. Still, I felt a surge of triumph when Lavinia answered on the first ring.
    Lavinia is an old and dear friend. She looks like a Betty Crocker ad from the fifties. Many too-slick money dealers, to their chagrin, have been fooled by the gingham dresses and sweet rosebud mouth. Lavinia was once a top financial columnist for a New York newspaper, and she has a mind like a Sony microchip.
    “I got right to work yesterday afternoon as soon as I got your message. And let me tell you, Henrie O, you …”
    Her voice faded.
    That set the pattern. We were barely within a transmission area. Snatches of information. Fadeaway. Information. Fadeaway.
    But when I hung up I knew a good deal more than when I started. What I’d learned was damned interesting. Now I wondered just what my function was to be. Perhaps the other guests didn’t matter. Perhaps Chase wanted me here to study documents.Though if that was the case, he would have been smarter to invite someone with Lavinia’s skills. In any event, Lavinia’s information put a whole new face on my mission. But Lavinia’s parting, half-heard advice gave me even more food for thought: “
Keep a close …hurricane nearing Cuba … listen to wea … keep out … trouble
…”
    Then the connection died.
    At six minutes after five I knocked on the door to Chase’s study, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.
    He was crossing the room to meet me. He still moved with that commanding grace, the; easy, confident, predatory swagger of a panther—beautiful, dark, fascinating, and infinitely dangerous. The kind of man to whom women lose their hearts.
    On one level, it was a disturbing encounter.
    On another, it was the most natural event in the world.
    Chase Prescott. Forty years later. So much had not changed. The aura of power, of greedy desire, of iron-hard determination. It was there in his eyes, in his still darkly handsome face. Oh,