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through small palms and hibiscus, anxious only to reach her little cottage.
    She slid her plastic key from the button pocket of her uniform shorts and inserted it into the lock. The door swung open.
    The air was on; the ceiling fan in the whitewashed and rattan-furnished living-room area was whirling away. The coolness struck her pleasantly.
    She walked through the living area and into the small kitchen, pausing to pull a wine cooler from the refrigerator. She uncapped it quickly and moved on, anxious to flop down on the sofa out on the porch. She opened the floor-to-ceiling glass doors and went out, actually glad of the wave of warmth outside, tempered by the feel of the night breeze and the hypnotic whirl of another ceiling fan.
    But even as she fell into a chair, she tensed, sitting straight up and staring across to the charming white gingerbread railing, too startled by a figure looming in the shadows of coming twilight to scream. Then shetook a deep breath of relief when she recognized who it was.
    It wasn’t just anyone planted on her porch.
    It was David.
    He was wearing nothing but swim trunks, broad, bronzed shoulders gleaming, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the rail. He was very still, and yet, as it had always been with him, it seemed that he emanated energy, as if any moment he would move like a streak of lightning.
    Her heart lurched. He was so familiar. How many times had she seen him like this and walked up to him, wherever they were, sliding her fingers down his naked back, sometimes feeling the heat of the sun and sometimes just that of the man? She had loved the way he had turned to her in response and taken her into the curl of his arm.
    How many times had it led to so much more? There had been those days when, just in from the water, he had been speaking to a TV camera, holding her as he talked, then had suddenly turned to her, and she had seen a sudden light rise in his eyes. She could remember the way he would move, his attention only for her, as he excused himself, smiled and led her away. By the time they reached a private spot, they would both be breathless, laughing and pulling at the few pieces of clothing they were wearing. He could move with such languid, sinewy power; the tone of his voice could change so easily; the lightest brush of his fingers could evoke a thousand rays of pure sensuality. And she had been so desperately, insanely eager to know them all.
    But then, that had been in the days when it had mattered to him that she was with him.
    He didn’t smile now. His deep blue eyes were grave as he surveyed her. She’d seen him cold and distant like this, as well, the light in his eyes almost predatory.
    “David,” she said dryly, pushing away the past, forcing herself to forget the intimacy and remember only what it had been like once she had determined to pursue her own career and he had begun to travel without her. Days, weeks, even a month…gone. Not even a telephone call, once he was with his true love. The sea.
    And those who traveled it with him.
    “Alex,” he responded. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
    “So it appears. Well, how nice to see you. Here. On my porch. My personal porch, my private space. Gee, this is great.” Her tone couldn’t have held more acidity.
    “Thanks.” Her welcome hadn’t been sincere. Neither was his gratitude. But there was no mistaking the seriousness of his next words.
    “So,” he said, “tell me about the body you found—the one that disappeared from the beach.”

Chapter 3
    “W hat?” she said sharply.
    “You heard me. Tell me about the body.” He uncoiled from his position, coming toward her, taking a chair near hers. He was close, too close, and she instantly felt wary and, despite herself, unnerved. They’d been apart for a year, and she still felt far too familiar with the rugged planes of his face, the bronzed contours of his hands and fingers, idly folded now before him.
    She managed to sit back, eyeing