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unreformed wise guy in faded jeans and a black sweater loose enough to conceal a weapon. He’d slung his leather jacket over the chair back. His blunt, Roman nose had been daunting even before it was broken, and the dent in his chin was courtesy of a long-ago prison-yard brawl. These days I failed to see what was so frightening about his face, but I was in the minority.
    He said, “We left things up in the air the other night.”
    “So you tracked me down for a rematch?”
    Mischief danced in his gaze. “I’m game. Hungry?”
    “No, thanks.” The idea of food made my stomach give a little roll. “How did you score dinner for yourself? The rest of the guests are only getting hors d’oeuvres.”
    “I dunno. Maybe the cook thought I’d stay out of trouble if my stomach was full.” He looked down at his bowl. “She made this just for me. It’s good stuff. White truffles. Sure you don’t want a taste?”
    I touched an unruly curl of his dark hair. “I’m sure.”
    In a different tone, he said, “Want to go home?”
    “Yes, please.”
    He got up, a tall, powerful body that radiated comfort and something much more magnetic. Touching the point of my chin, he said, “Let’s blow this joint.”
    “Why don’t you come inside and meet some of Lexie’s guests first?”
    “No,” he said.
    I slanted a glance up at him. “Are you afraid to meet my friends?”
    “Nope.”
    “Because they’re dying to meet you.”
    “I’m not going to scare the shit out of your aristocratic pals just for the entertainment value. Anyway, you need to get home, I think.”
    I carried his plate and silverware to the sink and spoke briefly to my friend Jill. Waiting by the back door, Michael drained the glass of red wine he’d been sipping and left it on the counter. We went out the door into the cold air. The harsh, damp smell of the river washed up to us as we walked around the side of the boathouse and past the long line of vehicles Lexie’s guests had parked in her driveway. There were German cars and Rovers, plus a Hummer and a Jag or two.
    Under a no-parking sign, Michael had angled one of his many muscle cars. This battered one looked ready for an Ozark stock-car track, with a low nose and a spoiler on the back. He saw me into the passenger seat before going around and getting in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine and thumbed the heater full blast before turning sideways toward me.
    He said, “You going to tell me what happened now?”
    “Is it that obvious?”
    “You look plenty shaken up. Who’s dead?”

Chapter 4
    Later, at Blackbird Farm, after I’d told him everything and spent a couple of tumultuous hours reaffirming life, I once again heard Michael’s unique perspective on crime.
    With one shoulder propped against the headboard, he said, “It’s the assistant.”
    “You think Darwin killed Popo?” I filed my broken fingernails with an emery board while deciding if we were tired enough to sleep or had just reenergized ourselves for a long night. “Why?”
    “The twerp assistant has the best motive. He wanted her job. And he’s probably got access to the security system.”
    “But he didn’t have enough time. He locked me in the bathroom, and then— Wait, that’s why you want to see him arrested, right? Because he locked me up?”
    Michael grinned slowly. “If he’d hurt you, he’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble.”
    “From you? Tell me, Tarzan,” I said, dropping the emery board on the bedside table, “precisely how does your family exact revenge on the reckless fools who mess with your women?”
    “Is that what you are now? My woman?”
    “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said.
    “Nora—”
    “Let’s just be happy that you’re not in police custody at the moment, shall we?”
    Reminded of our recent argument, he rubbed his face as if to erase the events of the last several days. “They didn’t arrest me. It was the usual drill, a bunch of questions. The whole thing