his must be one hell of an emergency for you to pull me off the Atlanta job," Jack Robbins said as he closed the door to Noah's office two hours later. "What's up?"

Noah looked up at the stocky, energetic man who was in charge of security for all of Noah's ventures around the world. Like many of the men who headed security for high-profile clients, Robbins was a former FBI agent. At fifty, he was the image of a pleasant, physically fit, easygoing businessman. Beneath that image, he was tough, tenacious, and tireless. Noah regarded him as one of his greatest business assets. He was also the only employee whom Noah allowed to be a friend as well.

"I'm not sure what's up," Noah replied, leaning back in his chair. "It's probably nothing, but I want to make sure it keeps being 'nothing.' Did you know Edith Reynolds was murdered last night?"

"It's been all over the newscasts, but the way I heard it, it was a burglary that went bad."

"I don't think it was." Noah told him who Sloan was and then relayed the information that she had given him. When he was finished, he said, "They're going to be looking for someone to pin this on who had access to the house or was around at the time of the murder."

Robbins frowned in confusion. "You can't think they'll seriously consider you a suspect?"

"I wouldn't give a damn if they did."

"Then why am I here?"

"I don't want them to consider Sloan as one."

Robbins studied his employer in silence for a long moment and began to grin. "So that's the way it is?"

He expected Noah to either deny it or ignore the comment. Instead, Noah nodded. "That's the way it is."

Robbins's smile widened, and he said softly, "I'll be damned."

"Probably. But before you are, I want to make sure they find the real killer, rather than contenting themselves with Sloan because she's the newcomer on the scene. Palm Beach doesn't exactly have a high homicide rate, and the cops aren't used to investigating them."

"If Sloan Reynolds is an heir, she's going to be their logical choice, no matter how inexperienced they are."

"Then let's help them find a better choice." Noah slid a list made up by Sloan across the desk and Robbins picked it up. "Those are the names of the people who were at the house that day and evening. One of them either murdered Edith or they let the murderer inside the house. Use your connections, run them through the system. One of them will turn up dirty if you dig deep enough. I'm afraid the local cops will decide Sloan is their murderer and stop digging. I want you to dig and keep digging until you find dirt, and I want it done fast."

Finished, Noah waited for Jack to stand up and get at the task. "Any questions?" he asked.

"Yeah, one—" his friend said with a grin. "Do you happen to have a picture of this woman?"

Noah misunderstood his reason for asking that. "I don't need you to check Sloan out," he said impatiently. "I want you to check out the others. Sloan couldn't hurt a fly. Hell, she's afraid of guns when they're locked in a room."

"I don't want to check her out; I just want to have a look at the woman who finally got under your skin."

"Get out of here and get busy. I don't even want Sloan's name bandied around in the press as a possible suspect." Despite his last statement, Noah had a sudden impulse to show off the woman he loved, and he reached into his desk drawer. "On the other hand," he said as Robbins stood up, "I don't want your curiosity over Sloan's appearance to distract you from your work." He slid the newspaper story about Sloan's party across the desk. At the top was a wide-angle picture that took in much of the general scene that night. Sloan was in the foreground with her father.

"Blond, huh?" Jack joked. "I thought you liked brunettes."

"I like that blond."

"Where's she from?"

"Bell Harbor. She's an interior designer."

"Whoever designed her exterior did a spectacular job," Jack said admiringly. "I see Senator Meade graced the affair with his crooked political presence."

"Naturally. He and Carter find each other eternally useful," Noah added, but Jack wasn't listening. He slid the clipping toward Noah and pointed to a couple who were dancing in the background.

"Paris, Sloan's sister."

"I know Paris. Who is the guy she's dancing with?"

"A friend of Sloan's who came along with her to lend moral support while she met her family for the first time. He's in the insurance business."

"What's his name?"

"Paul Richardson. Why?"

"I don't know. He—looks familiar."

"Maybe he sold you insurance. Check him out along with all the others on your list."

"Will do."

"Mrs. Snowden will show you up to your room. Do you need a computer to use?"

"No." Jack lifted his briefcase, which contained his laptop computer. "I never leave home without it."