s Jim parked his truck a half a block from the Commodore, he thought, Yup, he could see Vin having a crib there. The outside of the building was stark, nothing but glass bezel set into thin steel girders, but that was what would give each of the condos such incredible views. And just from what he could see of the lobby from the street, the inside was pure decadence, all flood-lit, bloodred marble, with a flower arrangement the size of a fire truck smack in the middle of the space. Also made sense that Blue Dress would live in a place like this.

Shit, he should have suggested just he and diPietro go out somewhere together to eat: With what had happened the night before still so vivid, being in the same enclosed space with that woman was not the brightest idea. And then, hello, there was the complication of his having to save her fucking boyfriend from eternal damnation.

Killing the engine, he rubbed his face and for some reason thought of Dog, who he'd left at home all curled up on the messy bed. The little guy had been out like a light, his thin flank rising and falling, his full belly a ball his little legs had to splay around.

How in the hell had he managed to pick up a pet?

Putting his keys into his leather jacket, he left the truck and went across the street. As he pushed his way into the lobby, what had looked lush from the street was magnificent up close, but there was going to be no loitering to admire the place. The instant he walked in, the guard behind the desk looked up with a frown.

"Good evening - are you Mr. Heron?" The guy was fiftyish and dressed in a black uniform, his eyes neither slow nor stupid. Chances were good he was armed and knew how to handle what he was packing.

Jim had to approve. "Yeah, I am."

"May I see some identification, please?"

Jim got out his wallet and flipped it open to the New York State driver's license he'd bought about three days after he'd arrived in Caldwell.

"Thank you. I'll call Mr. diPietro." The guard was two seconds on the phone, and then he swept his arm toward the elevators. "Go right up, sir."

"Thanks."

The ride to the twenty-eighth floor was smooth as silk, and Jim amused himself by locating the mostly hidden eyes of the security cameras: The things were positioned in the upper corners where the gold mirrored panels came together, and they were made to look like decorations. With the four of them, no matter which way someone was facing, there'd be a clean shot at his or her face.

Nice. Very nice.

The bing that announced Jim's arrival was just as discreet, and as the doors parted, Vin diPietro was right there, standing in a long ivory hallway, looking like he owned the whole frickin' building. DiPietro put out his palm. "Welcome."

Guy had a solid handshake, firm and quick, and he looked great - also not a surprise. Whereas Jim was in his second-best flannel shirt and sporting a fresh shave, Vin was in a different suit than he'd had on a mere three hours ago at the hospital.

Probably just wore the things once and threw them away.

"You mind if I call you Jim?"

"Nope."

DiPietro led the way over to a door and opened the way into...Shit, the place was right out of the Donald Trump collection, nothing but black marble, gold curlicues, crystal crap, and carved statutes. From the floors of the front hall, to the stairs that led up to a second level...and then, yeah, what was laid down in the living room, there was so much cut and finished stone, Jim had to wonder how many quarries had been stripped to kit the place out. And the furniture...Christ, the sofas and chairs looked like jewelry, with all of their gold leafing and gemstone-colored silk.

"Devina, come meet our guest," diPietro called over his shoulder.

As the sound of high-heeled shoes came toward the living room, Jim stared out at a truly stunning view of Caldwell...and tried not to think of when he'd seen the woman last. She had on the same perfume she'd worn the night before. And how fitting her name was. She'd certainly felt divine.

"Jim?" diPietro said.

Jim waited a moment longer, to give her time to look at the side of his face and compose herself. Seeing him from far away was one thing; having him in her home, close enough to touch, was another. Was she in blue again?

No, red. And diPietro had his arm around her waist. Jim nodded at her, refusing to let even one memory enter his head. "Nice to meet you."

She smiled at him and extended her hand. "Welcome. I hope you like Italian food?"

Jim shook her palm quickly and then stuffed his hand in the pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, I do."

"Good. The cook is off for the next week, and Italian is pretty much all I can do."

Shit. Now what.

In the silence that followed, the three of them stood around as if they were all wondering the same thing.

"If you'll excuse me," Devina said, "I'll just go check on dinner." Vin dropped a kiss on her mouth. "We'll have drinks here."

As the clipping of those high heels receded, diPietro went over to a wet bar. "What's your poison?"

Interesting question. In Jim's old line of work, he'd used cyanide, anthrax, tetrodotoxin, ricin, mercury, morphine, heroin, as well as some of the new designer nerve agents. He'd injected the stuff, put it in food, dusted it on doorknobs, sprayed it on mail, contaminated all manner of drink and medications. And that was before he'd gotten really creative.

Yup, he was as good with all that as he was with a knife or a gun or his bare hands. Not that diPietro needed to know it.

"Don't suppose you have any beer?" Jim said, glancing at all of the top-shelf liquor bottles.

"I've got the new Dogfish. It's fantastic."

Right, Jim had been thinking a Bud, and God only knew what that was - neither dogs nor fish were something you wanted brewing with hops. But whatever. "Sounds good."

DiPietro fired up two long glasses and opened a panel that turned out to be a mini-fridge. Grabbing a pair of bottles, he popped off the caps and poured out a dark beer with a head so white it looked like ocean foam.

"I think you'll like this."

Jim accepted one of the glasses along with a little linen napkin that had the initials V.S.dP. on it. A single sip...and all he could say was, "Damn."

"Good, right?" DiPietro took a draw and then lifted the beer to the light as if inspecting its character. "It's the best."

"Straight from Heaven." As Jim savored what was passing over his tongue, he looked around with fresh eyes at all the fancy-dancy. Maybe the rich did have a something going on. "So, this is a hell of a place you got."

"The bluff house is going to be even more magnificent."

Jim wandered over to the banks of glass and leaned into the view. "Why would you want to leave this?"

"Because where I'm going is better."

A subtle doorbell-like chiming went off, and Jim glanced down at a phone.

Vin looked over as well. "That's my business line and I have to take it." With his beer in his hand, he headed for a doorway on the opposite side of the room. "Make yourself at home. I'll be right back."

As the guy walked off, Jim laughed to himself. Home here? Riiiiiiight. He felt like he was part of one of those children's quizzes where the kid had to pick out the object that didn't belong: carrot, cucumber, apple, zucchini. Answer: apple. Silk-covered sofa, fine woven rug, workman, crystal decanters. Answer: duh.

"Hi."

Jim closed his eyes. Her voice was still lovely. "Hi."

"I..."

Jim pivoted around and was not surprised to find that her eyes were still sad.

As she struggled for words, he held up his hand to stop her. "You don't have to explain."

"I've...I've never done anything like last night before. I just wanted..."

"Something that was very not him?" Jim shook his head as she grew agitated. "Oh...shit...look, don't cry."

He put down the beer diPietro had poured for him and came forward holding out the napkin. He would have dabbed at her tears himself, but he didn't want to smudge the makeup.

Devina's hand trembled as she took what he offered. "I'm not going to tell him. Ever."

"And he's not finding out from me."

"Thank you." Her eyes drifted over to the phone console, where a light was flashing next to the word study. "I love him. I do...It's just...he's complicated. He's a...complicated man, and I know he cares for me in his own way, but sometimes I feel invisible. And you? You actually saw me."

Yeah, he had. He couldn't deny it.

"The truth is," she murmured, "although I shouldn't have been with you, I don't regret it."

He wasn't so sure of that, given the way she stared up at him like she was waiting for words of wisdom or...absolution. Which he really couldn't give her. He'd never been in a relationship before, so it wasn't like he could offer advice about her and Vin - and he only knew from one-night stands, so what might be shocking to her was all he had experience with when it came to sex.

One thing was clear, though. As this spectacular woman looked at him with those dark, luminescent eyes, he saw the love she had for the man she was with: It was in her heart, radiating out of her.

Man, Vin diPietro was a full-load idiot to fuck this up.

Jim lifted his hand to her face and brushed off one of her tears. "Listen to me. You're going to forget it ever happened. You're going to lock it away and never think about it again, okay? If you don't remember it, it's not real. It didn't happen."

She sniffled a little. "Okay...all right."

"Good girl." Jim tucked a strand of her soft hair behind her ear. "And don't worry, everything's going to be okay."

"How can you be so sure."

And that was when it dawned on him. Maybe this was Vin's crossroads - right here in front of the man, wanting to love him, hoping to get the chance, but losing the fight to stay connected. If the guy could just see what he had, and not as in his real estate or his cars or his statues and marble, but what really mattered, maybe he'd turn his life and soul around.

Devina blotted at one of her tears. "I'm running out of faith, it seems."

"Don't. I'm here to help." Jim took a deep breath. "I'm going to make it okay."

"Oh, God...you're making me cry more." Devina laughed and clasped his hand. "But thank you so much."

Damn...those eyes of hers made him feel as if she'd reached in past his ribs and taken his heart into her delicate palm.

"Your name," he whispered, "suits you."

A blush flared in her cheeks. "In school, I used to hate it. I wanted to be Mary or Julie or something normal."

"No, it's perfect. I can't imagine you being called anything else." Jim glanced down at the phone and saw that the light was off. "He's ended the call."

She dabbed under both eyes. "I must be a mess. Here...let me give you some amuse-bouche. Take them to him and keep him busy in the study while I go fix myself."

As he waited for her to come back from the kitchen, Jim finished his beer and wondered how in the hell he'd found himself in the role of Cupid.

Man, if those four lads even thought about getting him to wear the wings and a diaper while he nocked his arrow, he was so renegotiating his employment contract. And not with words.

Devina returned with a silver tray of bite-size somethings. "The study's down that way. I'll come get you both when I don't look so weepy."

"Roger that." Jim took the tray, prepared to act the waiter and babysit diPietro. "I'll keep him in there."

"Thank you. For everything."

Before he said too much again, Jim took off, carrying the tray with both hands through an endless spread of rooms. When he got to the study, the door was open and diPietro was sitting behind a big marble desk that had a lot of computers on it. The guy wasn't staring at the machines, though. He was turned around and focused on the bank of windows and the twinkling view.

Something small and black was buried in his palm.

Jim knocked on the jamb. "I got some amusements for your mouth."

Vin pivoted around in his chair and tucked the ring box next to the phone. As Heron stood in the study's doorway with a tray in his hands, the guy made an unlikely waiter, and not because of the flannel shirt and the jeans. He simply wasn't the kind to be anyone's servant.

"You know French?" Vin murmured as he nodded at the amuse-bouche.

"She told me what they were."

"Ah." Vin got to his feet and went over. "Devina's a great cook."

"Yeah."

"You try one already?"

"Nah, I'm just going by the smells coming out of your kitchen."

They both took a stuffed mushroom cap. And a tiny sandwich with paper-thin slices of tomato and leaves of basil. And a flat-bellied spoon with caviar and leeks on it.

"So have a seat," Vin said, nodding at the one across from his desk. "Let's talk. I mean, I know you want food...but there's something else, isn't there."

Heron put down the tray but didn't take a load off. Instead, he went over to the windows and looked out at Caldwell.

In the silence, Vin resettled in his leather throne and measured his "guest." Bastard had a jaw like a two-by-four, hard and straight, and he was playing his cards close to the chest: There was no tell in his face whatsoever.

Which suggested the territory they were going to head into was dark and tricky.

As Vin twirled a gold pen around on his blotter and waited for the ask, he wasn't worried about dark and tricky. Most of his money had been made in construction, but he hadn't started out in the legitimate land of boards and nails - and his contacts with the black-market side of Caldwell were still good.

"Take your time, Jim. Money is easier to ask for than...other things." He smiled a little. "You want something that isn't readily available at the local Hannaford, by any chance?"

Heron's eyebrow twitched, but that was about it as he continued searching the lights of the city. "What exactly are you talking about."

"What exactly are you looking for." There was a pause. "I need to know about you."

Vin sat forward in his chair, not sure he'd heard right. "Know about me how?" Heron turned his head and stared downward. "You're about to make a decision. Something significant. Aren't you."

Vin's eyes shot to the black velvet square he'd hidden. "What's in there?" Heron demanded.

"None of your business."

"A ring?"

Vin cursed and reached for what he'd bought at Reinhardt's. As he tucked the box into a drawer, he started to lose his patience. "Look, stop bullshitting around and tell me what you want. It's not dinner and it's not to get to know me. Why don't you assume that there is nothing in this town that is unavailable to me and let's get this over with. What the fuck do you want."

The soft words that came back at him seemed so wrong: "It's not what I want - it's what I'm going to do. I'm here to save your soul."

Vin frowned...and then busted out laughing. This guy with the Grim Reaper tat on his back and the tool belt wanted to save him? Yeah, that made sense.

And PS: Vin's "soul" wasn't drowning.

When he took a break to do some deep breathing, Heron said, "You know, that's exactly how I reacted."

"To what?" Vin said as he rubbed his face.

"Let's just say the call to duty."

"You some kind of religious freak?"

"Nah." Heron finally went around and sat in the chair, his knees falling to the sides, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, why the hell not." Vin found himself echoing Heron's pose, just easing on back and relaxing. At this point, the whole thing was getting so weird, he was beginning to think it didn't matter. "What do you want to know?"

Heron glanced around at the first-edition books and the artwork. "Why do you need all this shit? And I'm not being nasty. I'm never going to live like you, so I'm kind of wondering why anybody has to have it all."

Vin was tempted to blow off the question, and later he would wonder why he didn't. But for some reason he answered truthfully.

"It gives me weight and grounds me. I feel safe with beautiful things around my home." The instant the words were out, he wanted to take them back. "I mean...shit, I don't know. I didn't come from money. I was just an Italian kid over on the north side of town, and my parents were always scraping to get by. I fought my way up because I wanted much better than where I'd been."

"Well, you're waaaaaay up, all right." Heron glanced at the computers. "So you must work a lot."

"All the time."

"Guess that means you've earned this amazing view."

Vin swung his chair around. "Yeah. Been looking at it a lot lately."

"You going to miss it when you move?"

"I'll have the river to stare out at. And that house you and your boys are building is going to be spectacular. I like spectacular things."

"That beer was probably the best one I've ever had."

Vin focused on the guy's reflection in the darkened glass. "Is Heron your real name?" The guy smiled a little.

"Of course it is."

Vin glanced over his shoulder. "What other languages do you know aside from French?"

"Who says I know it?"

"The fact that you don't have a clue about exotic beer makes me doubt you're a foodie and into gourmet lingo. And Devina wouldn't have translated amuse-bouche because it would be rude to think you didn't know what it meant. Therefore, I assume you know the language."

Heron drummed his fingers on his knee as he seemed to think things over. "Tell me what's in that box you hid in the drawer and maybe I'll answer you."

"Anyone ever say they had to drag things out of you?"

"All the time."

Figuring it was no real revelation - because, really, when was Heron going to have anything to do with Devina? - Vin got the Reinhardt box back out and popped the lid. As he turned the thing around so Heron could see what was in it, the guy let out a low whistle.

Vin just shrugged. "Like I said, I'm into beautiful things. I bought it last night."

"Christ, what a sparkler. When you going to pop the Q?"

"Don't know."

"What are you waiting for?"

Vin snapped the box shut. "You've asked more than one question. My turn. French?

"Oui ou non??"

"Je parle un peu. Et vous?"

"Je peu. Et"

"I've done some real estate deals north of the border, so I speak it. Your accent is not Canadian, though. It's European. How long were you in the military?"

"Who said I was?"

"Just a guess."

"Maybe I went to college overseas."

Vin regarded the guy steadily. "Not your style, I wouldn't think. You don't take orders well, and I can't imagine you'd be content behind a school desk for four years."

"Why would I go into the service if I don't take orders?"

"Because they let you do something on your own." Vin smiled as the guy's face remained utterly closed. "They let you work by yourself, didn't they, Jim. What else did they teach you?" Silence expanded to fill not just the room, but the whole duplex.

"Jim, you do realize that the more you stay quiet, the more I make up my own mind about your military haircut and that tattoo on your back. I showed you what you wanted to see - seems only fair you return the favor. More to the point, those are the rules of the game."

Jim leaned in slowly, his pale eyes as dead as stone. "If I tell you anything, I'd have to kill you, Vin. And that would be a buzz kill for the both of us."

So that tat wasn't just something the guy had seen on a wall in some two-bit piercing and body art parlor and gotten it inked onto himself because he thought it was cool. Jim was the real deal.

"I am so curious about you," Vin murmured.

"I suggest you get over that."

"Sorry, my friend. I'm a tenacious motherfucker. Lest you think I just won the lottery to get all this crap you're gawking at."

There was a pause, and then Jim's face broke into a small smile. "So you want me to think you have balls, do you."

"Believe it, my man. And word to the wise, they're as big as church bells."

Jim settled back in his chair. "Oh, really. Then why are you sitting on that ring?"

Vin narrowed his eyes, anger flaring. "You want to know why."

"Yeah. She's an incredibly gorgeous woman and she looks at you like you're a god."

Vin tilted his head to one side and spoke what had been banging around his head since the night before. "My Devina went out last evening wearing a blue dress. When she came home, she immediately changed out of it and took a shower. This morning, I pulled the thing out of the dry-cleaning hamper and there was a black smudge on the back of it - like she'd been sitting somewhere other than on a neat and tidy chair in a bar. But more than that, Jim, when I lifted the dress to my nose, I smelled something on the fabric that was a lot like men's cologne."

Vin measured every single one of the guy's facial muscles. Not one of them moved.

Vin sat forward in his chair. "I don't need to tell you that it wasn't my cologne, do I. And it might interest you to know that it smells a hell of a lot like yours - not that I think you were with her, but a man wonders when his woman's clothes smell like someone else, doesn't he. So you see, it's not because I don't have balls. It's because I wonder who else's she's been touching."