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paranoia."
    "All I know is, this trip isn’t turning out to be what I expected."
    "You have to be flexible, Zac."
    But all Zac seemed intent on flexing at the moment was a little muscle. Guinevere found herself back at the Buick before she had a chance to catch her breath. Turning to glance once more toward the marina she saw Springer in deep conversation with the man called Cassidy.
    It was during dinner, which she and Zac shared with Edward Vandyke at his insistence, that Guinevere learned she was not alone in her dislike of small planes. Vandyke fully concurred with her feelings.
    In the week she had known him Guinevere had come to like the slightly balding, slightly paunchy, earnest, hardworking Vandyke. She knew there was intelligence and ambition beneath the sincere manner, as well as a willingness to work hard for his objectives, and she admired that. As she sat across from him at the dinner table she wondered what was causing the anxiety she sensed eating him. It seemed out of proportion to the business he was here to negotiate with Sheldon Washburn.
    Washburn, a thin well-dressed man in his fifties, and his assistant Toby Springer were seated on the other side of the dining room. The two other businessmen and their assistants who were there to make presentations to Washburn were also eating. Everyone had been quite civilized over cocktails earlier, Guinevere reflected in amusement. You’d never know from looking at them that there was so much money on the line, she thought.
    "I know exactly how you feel, Miss Jones," Vandyke said in response to her comment about seeing the small plane in the marina. "I did some charter work myself in my wild and misspent youth. It would suit me perfectly never to get near anything smaller than a Seven Twenty-seven again in my life."
    Zac prodded his red snapper. "You did some flying?"
    Vandyke nodded. "At the time it seemed very adventurous and it certainly made for some great cocktail stories over the years. But to tell you the truth, most of what I remember is the unpleasant aspects. Running a shoestring charter service is no picnic. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It provided me with the stake I needed to start Vandyke Development."
    "Did you operate alone?" Guinevere asked.
    Vandyke concentrated on his salad. "No. I had a partner for a while. There was an accident, and he was killed. It was one of the things that made me decide I’d pushed my own luck far enough. I was sick of flying around, under, and through tropical storms; landing on dirt roads, or in places where there weren’t any roads at all; trying to collect for deliveries from people who could have cared less about their credit ratings. And then Gannon got himself killed…." Vandyke paused for a long moment, his dark eyes distant and full of fleeting pain.
    Empathic as usual, Guinevere immediately wished she hadn’t asked the question. Zac, however, seemed oblivious of Vandyke’s unhappiness. Tearing off a chunk of sourdough bread, he asked, "Tropical storms? Where did you do your flying?"
    "The Caribbean. What about you, Zac? Has your varied background included a bit of flying?"
    Zac shrugged. "Some. Not much. It was a long time ago."
    "Ever yearn to go back to it?"
    "Nope. I feel the same way you do. For me the old adage applied: hours of boredom broken by moments of stark terror. Basically I’m a quiet businessman at heart. I prefer to – ouch!" He glowered at Guinevere, who had just kicked him under the table.
    Guinevere smiled sweetly at Vandyke, who was looking curiously at Zac. "Zac tries to downplay his more adventurous activities. He’s always pretending that everything he does professionally is just business as usual. Actually, some of his tales make your blood run cold. But you have to get him fairly drunk before you get the truth."
    Vandyke managed a small chuckle. "I see. I’m not surprised. I suppose most men who have lived action-oriented lives like yours, Zac, become very casual about