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the tremor in her sensitive lips or the unconscious invitation when they parted in an audible sigh. Caressing her neck, he felt the telltale pounding of a pulse that spoke of the danger she was determined to deny.
    â€œYou can’t fight fate,” he advised gently as he finally surrendered her mouth. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
    Her chin shot up. “So you say. How much do you get for performing heart surgery?”
    â€œA lot,” he admitted, not taking offense at her intended insult.
    She went inside and closed the door quietly but firmly in his face.
    Michael drove home, no longer aware of the moonlight, but thinking instead of the precarious nature of life itself. There was a sense of urgency in him, as if he needed to do something right away.
    Like make love to Susan Wainwright before she disappeared into a wisp of moonlight?
    He gave a wry grimace at the absurdity of this notion as he parked and depressed the remote to close the garage door behind him. Two shadows stepped out of the gloom of the dim interior.
    â€œEasy, Doc,” one of them said. “We need to have a little talk.”

Three
    â€œD o I know you?” Michael asked when he stood face-to-face with the two men in his living room.
    Both men wore suits and ties. One, obviously several years older than the other, had a diamond pinky ring. From their appearance, Michael didn’t think this was a burglary.
    â€œYou know Carmine Mercado,” the spokesman of the duo informed him.
    â€œAh.” He indicated the comfortable grouping of chairs. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Would you like a brandy?”
    The two men exchanged a glance and nodded. Michael poured each of them a brandy and one for himself, then joined them. “I suppose Mr. Mercado has more questions.”
    â€œNah,” the younger man said.
    â€œMaybe,” the older one corrected. He leaned forward, his manner suddenly earnest. “He needs a heart.”
    Michael nodded. “So he said.”
    â€œHis doc tells him he probably won’t get one because of his age.”
    Michael nodded again. The don had little hope unless a perfect match came in and there was no one younger and healthier who could use it. Fat chance of that happening.
    â€œHow does a half mil strike you?” the mobster asked.
    â€œAs in, half a million dollars?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œSorry, I don’t follow you. What’s the half mil for?”
    â€œFor the operation,” the older man said impatiently. “You arrange for the operation, get the hospital to agree and the money will be deposited in your name in any bank in the world, plus the insurance will pay your regular fee.”
    Michael swirled the brandy, then took a sip, letting it glide across his tongue while he composed an answer.
    â€œTell Mr. Mercado I’m sorry,” he said, and truly meant it. A man’s life hanging in the balance wasn’t a joking matter, no matter how that life was lived. “It isn’t up to me. There’s a hospital medical board that decides who gets the next available heart, provided a match comes up. You do understand that there are several blood factors that have to match before we can even take a chance on surgery?”
    â€œHuh.”
    Michael wasn’t sure what the grunted answer meant. He waited for their next move, not at allthreatened by their presence now that he knew they were sent by Mercado. The Mafia boss controlled his operations and his minions with an iron fist in a velvet glove, or so he’d heard.
    â€œSo, you’re refusing to do it?” the older mobster asked, his eyes narrowed.
    â€œI didn’t say that. Mercado has my office number. Tell him to call me tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be glad to explain how the system works.” Michael stood, dismissing the men.
    The older thug set the half-full brandy glass on the coffee table. The younger one polished his off in a final