TANDING IN FRONT of the bathroom mirror, wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe that the hotel provided, Kate finished taming her curly hair into soft waves, then switched off the blow-dryer and walked over to the closet to survey her choice of clothing. Most of the restaurants in Anguilla were casual, but a few were quite elegant, and she had no idea whether her dinner companion would be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, or a sport jacket and slacks.

Since he’d been wearing a white shirt, slacks, and loafers at lunch, it seemed likely he’d be dressed at least that well for dinner, and possibly more so. Based on that, Kate chose a pair of silk pants with a hazy version of Monet’s Water Lilies on a pale blue background, a matching top with a wide off-the-shoulder neckline, and a pale blue satin sash; then she hesitated, hanger in hand.

Rather than try to second-guess him and end up making the wrong choice, she put the clothes back into the closet and walked over to the phone on the desk in the living room. A balmy breeze drifted in from the gardens through the open terrace doors as she pressed the button for the hotel operator and asked to be connected with Mitchell Wyatt’s room.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said after a pause, “but Mr. Wyatt isn’t staying with us.”

“You’re certain he isn’t registered here?” Kate asked.

“Yes, very certain.”

The vague uneasiness Kate had experienced earlier when he said he had “another restaurant in mind” sharpened into alarm as she hung up the telephone. Gazing blindly at theHotel Services notebook lying beside the desk phone, she reviewed the facts: She’d met a man in a hotel—a stranger about whom she knew absolutely nothing—and she’d agreed to get into a car and go somewhere with him. The man was extremely handsome, flawlessly charming, and very glib—the perfect combination for a gigolo who hung around expensive hotels, hoping to pick up wealthy women.

Or, he could be much worse than a gigolo. He could be a rapist. He could be a murderer—a serial murderer who moved from island to island, butchering his victims and burying their bodies in the sand.

Unnerved by her thoughts, Kate wandered outside onto the terrace; then she stifled a nervous gasp as a large canine head suddenly reared up from the bushes on the edge of the terrace. “You scared me, Max!” she said. The dog flinched at her accusatory tone, and Kate instantly switched to a soft, reassuring one. “You didn’t really scare me. I was already scared, because I may have agreed to have dinner with Jeffrey Dahmer or Jack the Ripper.”

The dog looked over his shoulder as if to be certain no one was watching; then he moved around the bushes and hesitantly put one paw onto the terrace. Just one paw, Kate noticed, not two. “I don’t have any more food to give you,” she told him, gesturing to the empty table beside her. “See, there’s nothing here.”

He put his second paw onto the terrace, still hesitant, but looking at her intently as if he wanted something from her. Stepping forward, she laid her hand on his head. “I don’t have anything for you,” she repeated, but his tail wagged as soon as she touched him. “Is this what you want?” she asked in surprise, and tentatively stroked her hand from the crown of his head down his neck. In response, he pressed the side of his head against her leg.

On her third stroke, he leaned the full weight of his body against her.

On her fourth stroke, he closed his eyes in quiet pleasure.

“I’m lonely, too, Max,” Kate whispered. In the aftermath of her father’s death her emotions were so raw that just the realization that this dog was also lonely brought tears of empathy to her eyes. Trying to concentrate on something else, she thought about the possible ramifications of her reckless decision to have dinner with a stranger that night, and stroked Max’s head. When she finally glanced at her watch, it was fifteen minutes to eight. “I have to go now,” she said, giving the canine’s head a quick pat before moving away from him. “Tell you what,” she added, trying to sound cheerful for his sake, “if I get back here alive and unharmed tonight, we’ll have breakfast together in the morning, and I’ll order you an entire, all-meat breakfast of your very own. How does that sound?”

Large brown eyes looked at her imploringly, and he wagged his tail. He wanted more petting, and that was as clear as if he’d spoken the words. Kate backed into the suite and put her hand on the sliding glass door to pull it closed. In an idiotic attempt to bribe the forlorn dog to feel better—and make herself feel less guilty—she made him promises as she slowly pulled the door closed. “I’ll order you bacon and sausage. Better yet, I’ll order you a steak with a bone that you can take with you and bury! You really have to go now,” she urged, closing the door the last inch. On the other side of the glass, the dog stared at her intently; Kate reluctantly turned away.

Ten minutes later, wearing the outfit she’d originally chosen, Kate bent down to slip on a pair of light blue sandals with narrow straps, then picked up the little blue clutch-style purse that matched the shoes. It was time to find out if she’d made the most idiotic and possibly dangerous mistake of her life by agreeing to have dinner outside the hotel with a total stranger. If she didn’t return that night and ended up dead, no one would ever know who murdered her.

Partway to the door, she had an idea and turned back. From her green canvas tote bag, she dug out the pen and tablet she’d used earlier and tore off a fresh sheet of paper. On it, she wrote in large letters, “I’ve gone out to dinner with a man who says his name is Mitchell Wyatt. I met him this afternoon in the Sandbar when I spilled a Bloody Mary on his shirt. The waiter can give you his description.” Satisfied, she propped the note on the living room telephone, where it would be easily spotted by the police if they were investigating her disappearance. Once they read her note, they’d surely check with the waiters at the Sandbar, and one or more of them would be able to give a good description of her abductor.

At the door to her suite, Kate paused again and glanced over her shoulder at the terrace door. Max had moved off the terrace into the grass, and was poised to run. Evidently, he was too wily to hang around on her terrace if she left, and Kate was glad of that. She assumed he’d head for the safety of the trees and the company of his canine friends, as he usually did, but when she was only a few steps away from the white stucco villa that housed her suite, the brown dog bounded around the building and trotted straight to her side. Kate stopped worriedly and he sat. “You’re getting way too daring,” she warned him sternly. “The groundskeepers are on the lookout for you, and I can’t protect you if I’m not here.” Pointing to the woods, she ordered, “Go!”

He glanced in the direction she pointed, then back at her.

“I know you understand me,” Kate told him firmly, “because people are always chasing you off and telling you to go away, and then you do it. Now, I mean it.” She patted his head because she couldn’t help herself; then she pointed to the line of trees and ordered sharply, “Go away!”

He stood up slowly.

“Go on—go away!” Kate said sharply, and clapped her hands for emphasis; then she turned her back on him and walked purposefully down the path to the hotel’s main entrance. From the corner of her eye she watched him running toward the trees, but angling in the same direction she was headed. He was so large and so agile that he covered an amazing amount of ground in an effortless, loping canter, she noted admiringly, but if he intended to try to meet her outside the front of the hotel, he’d get into trouble for being there. She thought of the way he’d leaned his body against her and closed his eyes a little while ago when she petted him, and she felt like a cruel witch for running him off just a few minutes later.