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made nice, and Claire thought she’d like to slap them both, too. Could barely control the urge, actually. Armed escorts were just such a no-no with her.
    â€œNicky, good God, it’s great to see you, man. I am just so glad you agreed to come out here.”
    â€œOne usually does agree to come out here when prodded by threats and a couple of gun barrels,” Claire felt the need to mention, although she was not the one being spoken to. Just so he would know that she wasn’t thrilled with the parameters of his invitation.
    The guy, Mr. Jonas with a Y, she guessed, turned quickly to her. A mighty look of chagrin overtook his deeply tanned, seafaring face. “What? Surely, you are not saying that my men treated you with some sort of disrespect?”
    â€œDon’t know about you, but guns thrust in my face don’t equate with respect,” she said.
    Black turned to her and did his polite thing some more. “Jonas, this is Claire Morgan, my fiancée. We’re to be married in the summer. July. Around the Fourth.”
    Well, now, it looked like Black had the date down pat, all right. Claire hoped that wasn’t meant as an invitation, what with Jonas being banned from stepping foot on American soil and all that bother.
    â€œYes, the famous detective. I have heard of you, of course,” the former gunrunner said to her. “This is truly a great pleasure, my dear.”
    Claire thought of a few rather nasty things she could throw back at that, but he did appear to be Black’s friend and was being pretty damn polite thus far, for a dastardly exiled criminal, so she bit her tongue. It was hard to refrain from immediately grilling the hell outta the little guy, but she didn’t utter a single question. For Black’s benefit of course. She glanced at the woman on the couch, who was now up on her feet. She was very slight of build, probably less than five feet, four ten or eleven, something like that, maybe ninety pounds at the most, yep, she looked like a little ten-year-old. Kinda pretty, though, with dark hair shot with gray and combed into a neat chignon and huge pearl earrings that cost her husband plenty. That is, if Claire was any judge of pearls, and of course, she wasn’t. She once had a white blouse with pearl buttons, one given to her by a well-meaning fellow police officer, but Claire had hated it at first sight and dropped it off at Goodwill the first chance she got.
    Mrs. Mobster had olive skin and was well dressed in a tan linen pantsuit and matching sandals with little glistening white crystals on the straps. To match the chandelier, no doubt. To Claire’s surprise, the woman stared right up at her for a mere moment, and then her face crumpled into a look of absolute, and yes, blatant, despair. Then she burst into a rash of loud groans and weeping, and hightailed it out of the room as if the hounds of hell were chasing her. Well now. That was a trifle odd. Maybe she wasn’t expecting anyone, and really, really needed forewarning when casually dressed visitors with mussed hair came aboard. Maybe she just couldn’t hack rumpled female detectives.
    â€œAbigail, dear one, wait, wait, please, don’t do this,” Jonas called after his itty-bitty wife, very worried, indeed, but his pleas did not stop the little lady’s headlong and tearful and panicked flight. “Oh, my goodness, Nicky, you’ll have to excuse us, I guess. Ms. Morgan, I’m so sorry. I do hope you’ll stay aboard for dinner. Please do, please.”
    Black answered quickly, and for both of them. “Of course, Jonas, we’d love to. I hope Abigail isn’t ill? Is there anything we can do to help?”
    â€œNo, no. She’s just very distraught. Please make yourself comfortable. We’ll be back shortly, and then I’ll ring for dinner to be served.”
    Claire and Black said nothing as he scurried out of the room in pursuit of his noticeably