he Ocean View Motel did not actually offer a view of the ocean except to the seagulls roosting on its roof, but it did have a swimming pool, a lounge that was open until two A.M., and cable television. All those facilities were in use at one A.M., when Paul pulled up in front of the main entrance.

The television set in the lobby was tuned to CNN, the sound drowned out by the jukebox in the lounge, where a half dozen people were drinking at the bar and ignoring the dance floor. He walked out a rear door and skirted around the swimming pool, where some teenage boys were playing water volleyball and keeping up a steady stream of friendly macho obscenities.

The telephone in his room was ringing when he let himself inside. Out of habit, not necessity, he let the phone continue to ring while he double-locked the door, checked it, and pulled the draperies over the windows; then he walked over to the bed and answered the phone. The voice on the cellular phone belonged to an agent whom Paul had known for years, one who'd been in Bell Harbor for the last two days helping Paul check out Sloan Reynolds. "Well?" the other agent demanded eagerly. "I saw you with her on the beach at a party. Is she going to cooperate?"

"She'll cooperate," Paul said. Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he leaned over and flipped on the air-conditioner to high, and the smell of cold, moldy air hit him in the face.

"I thought you weren't going to make contact with her until tomorrow morning."

"I changed my mind."

"When?"

"It might have been when she came up behind me and knocked me on my ass. No, I think it was right after that, when she was holding a nine millimeter Glock on me."

His friend let out a guffaw. "She made you? You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not, and if you harbor any hope of my continued friendship, you won't bring it up again." Despite the gruffness of his tone, Paul couldn't help smiling at the remarkable indignities that had been inflicted on him tonight by a naïve, inexperienced female cop who weighed less than one hundred ten pounds.

"I heard three shots tonight. With all her marksmanship medals from the police academy, I'm surprised she didn't at least nick you."

"She wasn't firing at me. She'd cornered what she believed to be an armed assailant on a crowded beach, and she knew her pals were less than three hundred yards away. Rather than taking the risk of disarming me single-handedly, which could have ultimately jeopardized the safety of innocent bystanders, she fired into the air and signaled for help. It was a good call on her part. Prudent, expedient, and imaginative."

He paused to prop a pillow against the headboard and stretch out on the bed before he continued. "By the time her backup arrived a few minutes later, she'd discovered who I am, grasped what I needed her to do, and she assumed the role she needed to play and pulled it off. All things considered," he finished, "she showed remarkable skill and adaptability."

"She sounds like she's perfect for your job then."

Leaning his head back, Paul closed his eyes and battled with his private misgivings. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Are you still worried that once she's in Reynolds's Palm Beach palace, surrounded by all his wealth and rich friends, she'll be tempted to switch sides on you?"

"After talking to her tonight, I'd say that's extremely unlikely."

"Then what's the problem? By your own admission she's smart, she's adaptable, and she's also a better shot than you are." When his friend didn't rise to that bait, he added cheerfully, "I don't think we should hold it against her that she also happens to have great legs and a beautiful face." In the telling silence that followed, the humor vanished from his voice. "Paul, we've ascertained that she's not corrupt, you don't think she's corruptible, and now you've discovered she's clever. What the hell is bothering you, anyway?"

"What bothers me is that she's a Girl Scout. It's fairly obvious she became a cop because she wants to help people. She rescues kites from trees and searches for mongrels in the street; then she stays on duty so she can comfort an old Hispanic woman whose house is burning to the ground. Given a choice between living on peanut butter when she was a kid, or asking her father for money, she chose the peanut butter. She's an idealist to the core, and that is what bothers me about her."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you know what an idealist is?"

"Yes, but I'd like to hear your definition, because until ten seconds ago I thought idealism was a rare virtue."

"Maybe so, but it's not an asset to me in a situation like this. Idealists have a peculiar habit of deciding for themselves what's right and wrong; they listen to their own voices; then they act on their own judgment. Unless idealism has been tempered, it bows to no authority but its own. Idealists are loose cannons in any situation, but in a sensitive operation like this one, a naïve idealist like Sloan Reynolds could become a nuclear warhead."

"I gather from that enlightening flight into philosophy that you're afraid she won't let you tell her what to think?"

"Exactly."

Sara said good night to Jonathan as soon as she reached her front door; then she took a hot shower, trying to steam away the chill of Jess's taunts. Somehow, the verbal combat had broken out between them soon after they'd first met, and she'd fallen into the habit of defending herself with periodic counterattacks. But tonight, he'd gone too far. He'd turned brutal. Worse, there'd been an element of truth in his words, which hurt her even more.

She was toweling her hair dry when her doorbell rang. Puzzled and cautious, she wrapped herself in a long robe, went into the living room, and peeked between the draperies before she went to the door. A Bell Harbor police cruiser was parked at the curb in front of her house. Pete must have decided to continue his party here, she thought with a weary smile, and the others would soon be arriving.

She opened the front door, and her smile abruptly faded. Jess Jessup was standing on her porch, his dark hair tousled as if he'd been running his hands through it—or, more likely, some eager woman on the beach had rumpled his hair after Sara left. Judging by the grim expression on his face, the lady's attentions must have been unsatisfactory. Injecting as much ice into her voice as she could, Sara said scornfully, "If you're not here on official police business, go away and don't ever come back here again. For Sloan's sake, I'll be polite to you if she's with you, but if she's not, you stay away from me!" She wanted to say more, and worse, but she suddenly felt like crying, which made her feel stupid and even angrier.

His brows snapped together as she finished her tirade. "I came here to apologize for the things I said tonight," he said, sounding angry, not apologetic.

"Fine," Sara said coldly. "You've done it. It doesn't change my mind." She started to shove the door closed, but he blocked it with his foot.

"Now what?" she demanded.

"I just realized I didn't come here to apologize." Before she could react, he caught her shoulders and pulled her toward him. "Get your hands off me—" she stormed; then his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hard kiss that was easy to resist—until it softened. Shock and anger and an awful twinge of pleasure made her pulse race, but she stayed perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of struggling or cooperating.

As soon as he released her, Sara stepped back, her right hand groping for the doorknob. "Is assault a turn-on for those bimbos you date?" she demanded, and before he could reply, Sara gave the door a mighty shove that sent it slamming in his face.

Paralyzed, Sara stayed where she was until she heard his car start; then she slowly turned and leaned limply against the front door. Dry-eyed, she stared at the carefully chosen accessories she'd bought for her living room—a beautiful porcelain vase, an antique footstool, a small Louis XIV table. They were cherished items, of fine quality—beautiful symbols of the beautiful life she planned for herself and the children she would someday have.