aul was sitting out by the pool, watching the crime team meticulously searching through the bushes at the rear of the house. "They're looking for a weapon," he told Sloan as she sat down on the edge of a chair beside his.

Sloan nodded absently and raked her hair off her forehead.

"Gary Dishler was looking for you," he added. "Maitland's telephoned twice, and he wants you to call him back—immediately. The crime scene team won't let him past the line."

"Gary told me. I'm going to go over there in a few minutes, but I need to talk to you first."

Paul heard the tension in her voice, he saw how pale she was, and he felt guiltier at this moment than he'd felt in years. She was going through hell, and he was about to make it a hundred times worse for her. He had an insane urge to pull her off to the side, tip her chin up, and beg her forgiveness in advance. "Forgive me. You didn't deserve this. I've been so proud of you so many times. I think you're wonderful." "What's up?" he asked.

"I've been tagging along with Paris and Lieutenant Fineman, and also eavesdropping when I can get away with it. Nothing is missing, Paul. No one broke in here, and nothing was stolen except for the diamond ring. I saw the crime team picking up glass from the broken window. Most of it was outside in the shrubbery, not inside. Someone intended to murder her. I believe it was meant to look like a burglary that went bad. And I believe the murderer was someone living in this house. Someone she knew."

He was listening attentively, but his attention shifted to Paris the moment she appeared outside with a tray of soft drinks. "I agree."

"I'm going to become a chief suspect."

His gaze flicked to her. "You? Why you?"

"I'm the long-lost daughter. I come here for the first time, Edith is murdered, and her ring disappears."

"A grudge murder? If you were going to take someone out for that, you'd take good old Carter, who's neglected you until now, or maybe Paris, since she's had all the goodies all these years instead of you."

On one level, Sloan knew he was right, and she felt a little better.

Paul continued watching Paris for a moment as she stopped to talk politely to each crime-scene-team member and to offer him something cool to drink; then he gave Sloan his attention and tried to add on smiling reassurance. "Now, if you were a beneficiary of Edith's, that would be different."

Sloan smiled with the memory. "She wanted to make me one. She called me into the solarium and tried to give me some heirloom jewelry, then started talking about changing her will. I refused to discuss any of it."

Paul's smile faded abruptly. "Did you happen to mention any of that to Paris?"

"I don't think so—yes, I did. It came up at lunch later that day."

His jaw tightened, he turned his head toward Paris, watching her with blazing intensity. His curse was low and infuriated. "Son of a bitch!"

"You can't be thinking what I think you are!" Sloan scoffed.

He seemed not to hear; it was as if every fiber of his being was concentrated on the scene he was watching. "Son of a bitch!"

"You're being ridiculous!" She grabbed his arm to get his attention, and he tore his gaze from Paris.

"Am I?" he mocked bitingly. "Stop being a blind fool about your sister, Sloan. Open your eyes. This is reality: Your sister didn't want you to come here in the first place. I never had the heart to tell you that, but I knew it from our informant."

Sloan brushed that aside. "I know that. Edith told me. For her entire life, Paris was led to believe my mother and I were some sort of trash—worse than that. Of course she felt that way, but not after we met."

"Right," he sneered. "It took Paris less than a day to reverse the feelings of an entire lifetime. In one day, she turned herself into your loving big sister. Doesn't it strike you as a little too 'nice'?"

"No! It doesn't!"

"Then consider this. For thirty years, she's been an emotional slave to her father and great-grandmother, but you walk in here and in less than a week, Great-grandma starts lavishing you with her brand of affection; then she wants to cut you in for part of Paris's share of her money. Not only have you stolen Great-grandma's love and money from Paris, you've also stolen the man she was supposed to marry. And after all that, you think Paris doesn't hate your guts? And while we're on the subject, don't you find it just a little odd that 'sweet, gentle, timid' Paris would fly helicopters for a hobby?"

"You don't understand her—"

"Neither do you," he snapped. "It would take a team of shrinks to figure her out, and I'd be afraid to read their report."

Staggered, Sloan gazed up at him. "You hate her, don't you?"

"Hate her?" He laughed tightly. "Half the time she scares the hell out of me."

"My God, I think she's half in love with you, and you think she's some kind of monster."

"She's either a monster or a saint, and I don't believe in saints. That leaves the monster."

Sloan shook her head, completely bemused and immensely saddened. "I thought you cared about her. I really did." Sloan couldn't stop staring at him, searching his face for some sort of clue as to the man he really was. "I know this assignment is 'business' for you, but sometimes, I'd catch you watching Paris with a funny smile… almost a tender smile."

"She's easy to watch," he said bitterly. "Look at her—" He tipped his head toward Paris, who was chatting with one of the men. "She's beautiful, she's graceful, she's well-bred. She's a little shy until you get to know her, and then she blooms in front of your eyes, and you think you're the reason."

Sloan was becoming more stunned by the moment She hadn't misjudged Paul's attraction to Paris. He was very attracted—and completely against his will. Sloan found that situation encouraging and amusing.

"Tell me something," she said. "If Paris was all the good things you think she is and none of the bad, sick things you think she is, then how would you describe her?" '

Paul's eyes lifted briefly and unwillingly to the subject of their discussion as she reentered the house. "I'd describe her as a miracle."

Sloan stood up, suppressing a smile. "That works for me."

He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I don't believe in miracles."

Shoving her hands into the back pockets of her slacks, Sloan gazed down at the man sitting in the chair. "Paris is just like my mother—they're like little willow trees. They seem fragile and they bend in the breeze, but you can't break them. They won't let you. Somehow they always find a reason, a way, to go on thriving. You start out thinking they're weak and they need sheltering, and they do. But while you're shielding them, they're sheltering you. My mother baffled me forever, and until now I'd never met anyone like her. But my sister Paris is just like her."

Paul looked at her steadily, debating whether he ought to point out the truth, and then he decided to do it. "You're wrong, Sloan," he said quietly. "That's not Paris. That's you."

He got up and walked away, leaving her staring after him in amazement.

"Mr. Richardson?" Paul turned at the sound of the butler's voice. "You have an urgent telephone call from your office."

Paul hurried up to his room and picked up the phone. It was the call he'd been waiting for, and the news was not only good, it had come a day sooner than he'd expected.

"Paul," the other agent said, using terms that would be meaningful only to Paul while he relayed the news that a federal judge had just signed a search warrant authorizing the FBI to search Maitland's boats. "Sorry to bother you on vacation, but we have great news. The client signed the contract. I have it in my hand. Do you want to wait until tomorrow to countersign it? Or shall I bring it down there today?"

"Today. Definitely today. The Reynolds family won't miss me or mind if I'm gone because there's been a death in the family."

"I heard. So sad." The man paused an appropriate moment to sound as if he cared; then he asked Paul whether he wanted only the FBI involved when they boarded the boats today, or whether Paul wanted participation from the Coast Guard and/or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms as well. "There are a couple details about the group policy I wasn't clear on. Do you want an exclusion clause for smokers?"

"No, don't exclude them."

"What about accidental death coverage?"

"Include that, too. That makes it a solid package. No loose ends, no matter what happens. How soon can you get the package put together?"

"We went ahead with plans in the hopes the client would sign the contract. I can have everything ready in an hour or two if I move fast."

"Get moving. I'll meet you out at the job site and show you around personally. The more daylight we have the better."

Paul hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.