hey'd been on the road for nearly two hours, and Paul stole a worried glance at his silent passenger. She was sitting very still and straight, her features carefully composed, but with each passing mile, he could almost feel her dread increasing, her tension mounting, and he felt a pang of remorse for what she was being compelled to do.

In order to avoid giving her any information that might somehow cause her to back out of the trip, he'd spoken to her only once on the telephone since Presidents' Day. During that call, she'd tried to ask him several questions about her father and sister, but he'd insisted she save all that for the drive to Palm Beach. He was ready now to answer her questions, anxious to ease the way for her and reinforce her resolve, but she seemed unable to speak or even meet his eyes when he spoke.

He tried to come up with something encouraging that might come out of this for her. If she were an ordinary young woman who was about to meet her father and sister for the first time, she'd certainly have some hope of future closeness to fortify her for what lay ahead. But Sloan wasn't going to them for sentimental reasons; she was swallowing her pride, acting out of duty, and she was going there to spy on them.

There was scant possibility of any remotely happy ending for her, so Paul invented one, partly to soothe his conscience and partly to lift her spirits. In his fairy-tale scenario, Carter Reynolds turned out to be innocent of any criminal activity, he developed a strong paternal attachment to Sloan, and the two of them ended up caring about each other.

Ignoring the astronomical odds against all that, Paul said, "Sloan, it may not seem like it to you now, but this trip could have a very positive outcome for your entire family." She stopped staring out the windshield and stared at him instead. Since it was the only encouragement she seemed able to give him, Paul forged ahead. "Right now, your father is merely a suspect who we're investigating. You're helping us to get closer to him and to the facts, and once we've done that, we may discover he's completely innocent of any criminal wrongdoing."

"What do you think the chances are of that?"

Paul hesitated. He didn't want to insult her intelligence or repay her trust by completely misleading her. "Slim," he said honestly. "But it is a possibility. Now, let's consider the situation on a more personal level: There's no doubt he's been a sorry excuse for a father, but he clearly has some regrets, or he wouldn't have contacted you. None of us really knows everything that happened to bring an end to your parents' marriage, but based on what you've told me, his mother was the instigator of the divorce proceedings and the custody arrangement. She's the one who came to Florida to bring him back to San Francisco after his father's stroke, correct?"

"Yes, but he went along with her plan."

"True, but he was only in his twenties at the time. He may have gone along with her out of weakness, or immaturity, or cowardice, or because she convinced him it was his sacred familial duty, who knows? Those are mostly character flaws, but they aren't necessarily unforgivable or permanent. All we really know for certain is that she died three months ago, and almost immediately afterward, your father is asking you for a reconciliation."

Sloan realized Paul was truly trying to be helpful, but he was also making her feel uneasy and uncertain when she was already strangling on other emotions she could scarcely contain. She wanted to ask him to stop, but some innate sense of justice or maybe simple curiosity prompted her to pursue his reasoning one step further. "What about my sister? What possible justification could she have for never trying to contact my mother?"

Paul glanced sideways at her. "Maybe she wonders why her own mother never tried to contact her."

"Under the terms of the agreement they forced my mother to sign, she was not allowed to contact my sister."

"Maybe Paris doesn't know that."

Sloan stared hard at him, trying to suppress the first, silly flare of hope she'd felt in decades about a possible family reunion. "You said you had an informant in the household in San Francisco. Do you know any of this for a fact?"

"No. Paris was never of much interest to us. All I know about her is that some people think she's aloof and cold, while others think she's quiet, refined, and elegant. Everyone agrees she's beautiful. She's a nationally ranked tennis player, a five-handicap golfer, and a master at bridge. When she plays in tournaments, she's usually teamed up with your father, who is also a nationally ranked tennis player, an excellent bridge player, and a scratch golfer."

Sloan expressed her sacrilegious disregard of such frivolous accomplishments by rolling her eyes and lifting her shoulders in a Gallic shrug—a gesture that was somehow so prim, and so unexpectedly cute, that Paul had to choke back a startled laugh. "Then there's Edith," he said, mentioning the last surviving member of the family. "She'll be in Palm Beach, too."

"Edith?" Sloan repeated.

"Your great-grandmother on your father's side," Paul explained, and bluntly added, "She's a ninety-five-year-old dragon with a quick temper who terrorizes and intimidates anyone who crosses her path. She's also a notorious cheapskate. She's worth about fifty million dollars, but she reportedly throws a fit if more than one lamp is lit in a room."

"She sounds delightful," Sloan said dryly; then she had to fight down the uneasy awareness of her own frugality—Sara had called her a miser just last week, and her own mother lamented that Sloan hated to part with money. But then, Sara and Kimberly were both hopeless spendthrifts, Sloan reminded herself bracingly. She, on the other hand, lived on a tight budget because she'd learned the necessity of it in childhood and because her salary as a police detective left her very little money to spare. If she had plenty of money, she'd certainly spend it. Well, some of it.

Satisfied that he'd relieved a little of her anxiety with his best-case scenario, Paul left her pretty much to her own thoughts after that, but as they neared the Palm Beach exit off the highway, he knew he had to bring her back to reality. After his efforts to make her relatives seem human and possibly likable, he now had to remind her that her father was a criminal suspect and her role was to spy on him. "Your father's house is about ten minutes from here," he said. "Earlier, I gave you my best-case scenario. I'm afraid we have to prepare now for a worst-case scenario. Let's go over our stories again, so we can do our jobs."

She turned in her seat, giving her full attention to him. "Okay, go ahead."

"We're going to tell them we met in Fort Lauderdale five months ago, when I was attending an insurance seminar there," he explained, reminding her of the personal details about himself that they might expect her to know. "My father's name is Clifford; my mother's name was Joan. She died several years ago. I was an only child; I grew up in Chicago and graduated from Loyola University. I still live in Chicago and work for Worldwide Underwriters Inc. You and I haven't been able to spend much time together because we live so far apart, and that's why it was so important to us to spend these two weeks together." He flipped on the turn indicator and changed lanes, preparing to take the next Palm Beach exit. "Clear so far?"

Sloan nodded. They'd discussed all this on Presidents' Day, but now her curiosity was piqued. "Is any of that true?"

"No," he said in a flat tone that discouraged any further effort to inquire into his real personal life. "My cover is in place, and it will hold up if Reynolds decides to check me out, but I doubt we'll need it Once your family realizes we haven't known each other long or spent a lot of time together, they won't get suspicious when you don't know everything about me. They won't be particularly interested in me anyway, so they won't ask many questions. I'll be there to come up with answers when they're needed. If I'm not around, say whatever you want but remember to fill me in later. Now, let's go over your background. Have you decided on a suitable career for yourself?"

"Yes."

They'd both agreed that it would be foolish to tell Carter Reynolds that Sloan was a police detective. According to Paul's San Francisco informant, Reynolds hadn't known anything whatsoever about Sloan when he called Kimberly to get her phone number, and there was no reason to think he'd learned anything at all when he called her at work. Paul was still elated about that "I can't get over how lucky we were that your mother didn't have a chance to tell him anything about you the day he called her."

"Luck didn't have anything to do with it My mother was dying to tell him all about me, but he didn't give her the chance because he's heartless and rude. He hasn't called her in thirty years because he doesn't care how she feels or what she thinks. When he finally did call her, he told her he didn't have time to talk, he only had time to get my phone number. As soon as she gave him my direct number at work, he told her he'd call her again sometime when he was less rushed, and he hung up!"

"I see your point."

Sloan didn't mean to dampen his spirits. "You got your lucky break later, when he called me," she said with a smile. "I've quizzed Sara without her realizing it, and she says she remembers exactly how Captain Ingersoll answered my phone and exactly what he said to Carter. Nothing Ingersoll said would have alerted my rather that he'd called the police station or that I'm a cop. That was lucky."

"I was due for a lucky break in this case," Paul said wryly. "Now tell me what career you picked out for yourself."

"In college, I majored in marine biology and then mathematics before I switched to law enforcement, but you said you wanted me to pick a career that Reynolds will regard as frivolous or innocuous. A career in science or mathematics doesn't qualify, and I don't have enough knowledge in either of those fields to pull it off. I was still trying to think of a solution last week while I was waiting for Sara to finish talking to a client—and that's when it hit me—the perfect career."

"Don't keep me in suspense; what is it?"

"For the next two weeks, I'm an interior designer."

"You're right." He laughed. "It's just what I had in mind. Do you know enough about it to pull it off?"

"I know enough about it to bluff." For years, she'd listened to Sara rhapsodizing over furnishings and accessories, and Sloan was reasonably certain she'd absorbed enough jargon and information to fake her way through a few superficial conversations with Carter Reynolds, who would surely find the subject boring, anyway.

"There's one more thing we need to discuss," he said, his voice taking on an implacable quality. "I want to be absolutely certain you're clear on your role in Palm Beach and on the legalities involved if you deviate one inch from it."

Sloan realized exactly where he was going, but she was curious to hear his logic anyway.

"Legally, your father is entitled to a reasonable expectation of privacy in his own home. Because you're going there at my request, you are technically working for the FBI. Since the FBI does not have a search warrant, any evidence you or I discover will be thrown out of court unless it was in plain view and in a place he allows us to be. You may pass along information to me, but you cannot search for it. Am I making this clear? I don't want you to so much as open a drawer unless someone asked you to get something out of it."

Sloan suppressed a smile at the fact that Paul felt the need to explain what was elementary legal information. "Actually, I learned a little about this on an episode of Law and Order."

He relaxed a little, but his tone remained emphatic. "As to conversations you might overhear, the same rules apply. Make sure you're somewhere you're allowed to be, and that you had a legitimate reason to be there. It would also help if you happened to be in plain sight of someone at the time. As to telephones, there's to be no eavesdropping on extensions. We're going to play this completely by the book. Got it?"

Sloan nodded. "Got it. The thing is, no matter how scrupulous we are, his lawyers will shower motions to suppress on the court like pamphlets."

"Your job is to make certain you haven't done anything to make a judge feel inclined to grant them. The point to remember is that our primary reason for being here is not to look for evidence. I'm here to keep an eye on him. He spends a lot of time in Palm Beach during the year. I want to know what he does while he's here, where he goes, and who he meets. You're here because it's the only way I could get in and because you may be able to pass along helpful information that you come across. You aren't here to look for that information."

"I understand."

Satisfied, Paul tried to think of something more light-hearted to discuss, and after a moment, he brought up the topic they'd been on before this. "I think passing yourself off as an interior decorator is an inspired choice. Reynolds won't feel threatened in any way. It's perfect."

Sloan nodded, but as the time for her masquerade approached, the idea of faking a career, particularly Sara's, didn't feel perfect at all to Sloan. She was going into unknown territory where she was going to have to interact with lofty strangers, and in hiding her true career, they were not only eliminating a major topic of safe conversation, they were erasing her life.

"Sloan?" Paul prodded as he turned onto a wide boulevard lined with imposing oceanfront mansions. "Are you having second thoughts about being able to pass yourself off as an interior decorator?"

"Interior designer," she corrected him with a sigh. "No, I'll be all right. It's all a matter of taste anyway; so if I make some sort of blunder, they'll just assume I don't have any taste."

"That works for me," he announced cheerfully, annoyingly pleased by the possibility that she might actually disgrace herself in such a way. "After all," he explained, "the more Reynolds underestimates you, the more likely he'll be to let his guard down. Feel free to seem inept, gullible, and even foolish whenever possible. He'll go for it."

"What makes you think he'd believe I'm any of those things?"

"Because, according to our information, that's approximately how he remembers your mother," Paul said, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to tell her that Reynolds had actually referred to Kimberly as "a nitwit."

"a hopeless Pollyanna," and "the quintessential dumb blonde."

"I just know I'm going to hate that man." Drawing a long, calming breath, Sloan said, "What does his opinion of my mother have to do with what he'll believe about me?"

Paul gave her a wry smile. "You look like her."

"I don't think so."

"Well, you do," he said flatly. "Reynolds will think so, too, and he'll naturally assume you are as"—he paused to choose the least offensive of the words Reynolds had used to describe Sloan's mother—"as gullible as she was."

Sloan had the alarming impression that he'd already arrived at some decision about all this, but that he was easing her toward it because she wasn't going to like it.

"I gather you'd like me to reinforce his misconception about my mother's and my intellect, is that right?"

"If you can."

"And since you knew I was probably going to hate this idea, you decided to save it until we were practically in his driveway."

"Exactly," he said unashamedly.

Sloan leaned her head against the headrest, closed her eyes, and indulged in a rare moment of self-pity. "Oh, great. This is just great."

"Look, Sloan, you've come here to do a job, not make Reynolds admire you, right?"

Sloan swallowed. "Right," she sighed, but mentally she cringed as the next two weeks unfolded in her imagination.

He flipped on his turn signal as they approached a palatial Mediterranean-style villa with a flagstone driveway and huge iron gates blocking the entry at the street.

"One last thing before we go in there. I know it's going to be hard, but you must hide your hostility from Reynolds. He's no fool, and he has to believe you want a reconciliation. Can you hide your feelings about him?"

Sloan nodded. "I've been practicing."

"How do you practice a thing like that?" he asked dryly as he turned into the driveway.

"I stand in front of the mirror and think about something awful he's done; then I practice smiling until I actually look happy about it."

Paul laughed aloud and covered her hand in a brief, encouraging squeeze; then he pulled up to the gates. He lowered his side window and reached out to press a button on a brass box mounted on a pedestal beside the car door; then he paused and looked at Sloan. "Smile for the camera," he instructed with a meaningful nod toward the tiny, glass-covered hole in the metal box on the pedestal.

He pressed the button on the box.

"Yes?" a male voice spoke.

"Sloan Reynolds and Paul Richardson," he said.

The gates parted in the center and swung open.