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Then he stood, hands on hips, watching Natalie sleep. She’d curled a hand under her cheek, and her dark hair streamed over the pillow. Just the tops of her naked shoulders emerged from the covers. And she was on the side of the bed he always slept on.
    Half of him was provoked, half relieved. Finally he just laughed, slid in beside her, and turned off the light. She didn’t stir at all, and he listened to her deep, even breathing, trying to banish his lust.
    Irony of ironies—he, Eric McDougal, had a naked woman in his bed and nothing to do. He groaned and rolled over onto his stomach.
    Was she completely naked? Or did she still have those lacy black panties on?
    She’d clearly taken off her bra, since no straps appeared over her delectable shoulders. And he hadn’t even gotten to see her breasts.
    Were they round or pear-shaped? Dusky nipples or rosy? McDougal groaned into his pillow. Why he was torturing himself, he didn’t know. He could have just raised the covers and taken a peek, but that seemed slimy. Ungentlemanly.
    And since when have you been a gentleman?
    His last girlfriend had walked in on him while he was . . . er . . . entertaining two dancers at the same time. Bad scene. One never to be repeated. Not only did he not give anyone a key now, but he also made no promises and never would again. He was just like his father—it was in his blood, inescapable. McDougal men weren’t faithful to their women.
    Did it make him a dirtbag? Probably. But that was why he didn’t make promises or give out rings. He never wanted to hurt anyone as his mother had been hurt. He never wanted to see that hunted, regretful shame on his own face—he’d seen it too often on his father’s. And it just drove Dad to drink again, during which the cycle got repeated.
    As McDougal lay there in the dark, Natalie rolled over, and her smooth, warm leg brushed against his hairy one. He caught a whiff of her shampoo and resisted the urge to pull her into his arms.
    The woman’s passed out, for chrissakes. That’s how exciting a date you are, man.
    When he looked at it that way, it sure took him down a peg.

Five
    Oleg Litsky, née Weimar von Bruegel, had enjoyed a very pleasant three-week visit to Paris with his son and daughter-in-law when he returned to his Moscow home. His paranoia of years past had mostly dissipated, and he had no reason to think that anything might be amiss.
    So when he walked into his home office on the ground floor and found his safe wide-open, it was something of a shock. The painting that had hidden the safe from view, a very fine Cézanne landscape, was missing. But worse, the cash, silver, and jewelry from the safe were gone—his late wife’s diamonds, several heavy gold bracelets, and a platinum Piaget watch.
    Worst of all, the St. George necklace had vanished.
    Oleg stood there like an idiot, his mouth working, until the telephone rang and scared the life out of him. He let it ring and ring, the noise adding to the pandemonium in his brain. His chest tightened, his pulse spiked, and he felt light-headed. He hobbled to a favorite wing chair and sank weakly into it while he tried to think, but as soon as the telephone stopped he heard the screams of a traumatized child, over and over. He tried to block her face from his mind but couldn’t.
    Bile rose in his throat, and his chest now felt too tight to take in air. Maybe he would drop dead right here, right now, and his secrets would die with him.
    But slowly his breathing returned to normal, the dizziness faded, and he was left with only the bile. Instead of the child’s horror-stricken expression as he shot her father dead, he saw the faces of his own granddaughters, dear little girls who’d inherited his blue eyes.
    But in this vision, instead of running to him and taking his hands, laughing and searching his pockets for candies, they stood like statues across the room with blank expressions. And they asked him, “Why?”
    Why, indeed.
    He’d