The conversation at dinner seemed more casual, but Kate's questions were pointed. George was prepared for the most important question when it came.

"Do you like children, Mr. Mellis?"

She's desperate for a great-grandson.... She wants that more than anything in the world.

George turned toward Kate in surprise. "Like children? What is a man without sons and daughters? I am afraid that when I marry, my poor wife will be kept very busy. In Greece, a man's worth is measured by the number of children he has sired."

He seems genuine, Kate thought. But, one can't be too careful. Tomorrow I'll have Brad Rogers run a check on his personal finances.

Before Alexandra went to bed, she telephoned Eve. She had told Eve that George Mellis was coming to dinner.

"I can't wait to hear all about it, darling," Eve had said. "You must call me the moment he leaves. I want a full report."

And now Alexandra was reporting. "I think Gran liked him a lot."

Eve felt a small frisson of satisfaction. "What did she say?"

"She asked George a hundred personal questions. He handled himself beautifully."

So he had behaved

"Ah! Are you two lovebirds going to get married?"

"I— He hasn't asked me yet, Eve, but I think he's going to."

She could hear the happiness in Alexandra's voice. "And Gran will approve?"

"Oh, I'm sure she will. She's going to check on George's personal finances, but of course that will be no problem."

Eve felt her heart lurch.

Alexandra was saying, "You know how cautious Gran is."

"Yes," Eve said slowly. "I know."

They were finished. Unless she could think of something quickly.

"Keep me posted," Eve said.

"I will. Good night."

The moment Eve replaced the receiver, she dialed George Mellis's number. He had not reached home yet. She called him every ten minutes, and when he finally answered Eve said, "Can you get your hands on a million dollars in a hurry?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Kate is checking out your finances."

"She knows what my family is worth. She—"

"I'm not talking about your family. I'm talking about you. I told you she's no fool."

There was a silence. "Where would I get hold of a million dollars?"

"I have an idea," Eve told him.

When Kate arrived at her office the following morning, she said to her assistant, "Ask Brad Rogers to run a personal financial check on George Mellis. He's employed by Hanson and Hanson."

"Mr. Rogers is out of town until tomorrow, Mrs. Blackwell. Can it wait until then or—?"

"Tomorrow will be fine."

At the lower end of Manhattan on Wall Street, George Mellis was seated at his desk at the brokerage firm of Hanson and Hanson. The stock exchanges were open, and the huge office was a bedlam of noise and activity. There were 225 employees working at the firm's headquarters: brokers, analysts, accountants, operators and customer representatives, and everyone was working at a feverish speed. Except for George Mellis. He was frozen at his desk, in a panic. What he was about to do would put him in prison if he failed. If he succeeded, he would own the world.

"Aren't you going to answer your phone?"

One of the partners was standing over him, and George realized that his phone had been ringing for—how long? He must

act normally and not do anything that might arouse suspicion. He scooped up the phone.

"George Mellis," and smiled reassuringly at the partner.

George spent the morning taking buy and sell orders, but his mind was on Eve's plan to steal a million dollars. It's simple, George. All you have to do is borrow some stock certificates for one night. You can return them in the morning, and no one will be the wiser.

Every stock brokerage firm has millions of dollars in stocks and bonds stored in its vaults as a convenience to customers. Some of the stock certificates bear the name of the owner, but the vast majority are street-name stocks with a coded CUSIP number—the Committee on Uniform Security Identification Procedures—that identifies the owner. The stock certificates are not negotiable, but George Mellis did not plan to cash them in. He had something else in mind. At Hanson and Hanson, the stocks were kept in a huge vault on the seventh floor in a security area guarded by an armed policeman in front of a gate that could only be opened by a coded plastic access card. George Mellis had no such card. But he knew someone who did.

Helen Thatcher was a lonely widow in her forties. She had a pleasant face and a reasonably good figure, and she was a remarkable cook. She had been married for twenty-three years, and the death of her husband had left a void in her life. She needed a man to take care of her. Her problem was that most of the women who worked at Hanson and Hanson were younger than she, and more attractive to the brokers at the office. No one asked Helen out.

She worked in the accounting department on the floor above George Mellis. From the first time Helen had seen George, she had decided he would make a perfect husband for her. Half a dozen times she had invited him to a home-cooked evening, as she phrased it, and had hinted that he would be served more than dinner, but George had always found an excuse. On this particular morning, when her telephone rang and she said,

"Accounting, Mrs. Thatcher," George Mellis's voice came over the line. "Helen? This is George." His voice was warm, and she thrilled to it. "What can I do for you, George?"

"I have a little surprise for you. Can you come down to my office?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid Fm in the middle of—"

"Oh, if you're too busy, never mind. It will keep."

"No, no. I—I'll be right down."

George's phone was ringing again. He ignored it. He picked op a handful of papers and walked toward the bank of elevators. Looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he walked past the elevators and took the backstairs. When he reached the floor above, he checked to make sure Helen had left her office, then casually walked in as though he had business there. If he was caught— But he could not think of that. He opened the middle drawer where he knew Helen kept her access card to the vault. There it was.

He picked it up, slipped it in his pocket, left the office and hurried downstairs. When he reached his desk, Helen was there, looking around for him.

"Sorry," George said. "I was called away for a minute."

"Oh, that's all right. Tell me what the surprise is."

"Well, a little bird told me it's your birthday," George said, "and I want to take you to lunch today." He watched the expression on her face. She was torn between telling him the truth and missing the chance of a lunch date with him.

"That's—very nice of you," she said. "I'd love to have lunch with you."

"All right," he told her. 'I'll meet you at Tony's at one o'clock." It was a date he could have made with her over the telephone, but Helen Thatcher was too thrilled to even question it. He watched as she left. The minute she was gone, George went into action. He had a lot to accomplish before he returned the plastic card. He took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked over to the security area where the guard stood in front of the closed grilled gate.

George inserted the plastic card and the gate opened. As he started inside, the guard said, "I don't think I've seen you here before."

George's heart began to beat faster. He smiled. "No. This isn't my usual territory. One of my customers suddenly decided he wanted to see his stock certificates, so I've got to dig them out. I hope it doesn't take me the whole blasted afternoon."

The guard smiled sympathetically. "Good luck." He watched as George walked into the vault.

The room was concrete, thirty feet by fifteen feet. George walked back to the fireproof file cabinets that contained the stocks and opened the steel drawers. Inside were hundreds of stock certificates that represented shares of every company on the New York and American stock exchanges. The number of shares represented by each certificate was printed on the face of the certificate and ranged from one share to one hundred thousand shares. George went through them swiftly and expertly. He selected certificates of various blue-chip companies, representing a value of one million dollars. He slipped the pieces of paper into his inside jacket pocket, closed the drawer and walked back to the guard.

"That was fast," the guard said.

George shook his head. "The computers came up with the wrong numbers. I'll have to straighten it out in the morning."

"Those damned computers," the guard commiserated. "They'll be the ruination of us all yet."

When George returned to his desk, he found he was soaked with perspiration. But so far so good He picked up the telephone and called Alexandra.

"Darling," he said, "I want to see you and your grandmother tonight."

"I thought you had a business engagement tonight, George."

"I did, but I canceled it. I have something very important to tell you."

At exactly 1:00 p.m. George was in Helen Thatcher's office returning the access card to her desk drawer, while she waited for

him at the restaurant. He desperately wanted to hang on to the card, for he would need it again, but he knew that every card that was not turned in each night was invalidated by the computer the next morning. At ten minutes past one, George was lunching with Helen Thatcher.

He took her hand in his. "I want us to do this more often," George said, looking at her searchingly. "Are you free for lunch tomorrow?"

She beamed. "Oh, yes, George."

When George Mellis walked out of his office that afternoon, he was carrying with him one-million-dollars' worth of stock certificates.

He arrived at the Blackwell house promptly at seven o'clock and was ushered into the library, where Kate and Alexandra were waiting for him.

"Good evening," George said. "I hope this is not an intrusion, but I had to speak to you both." He turned to Kate. "I know this is very old-fashioned of me, Mrs. Blackwell, but I would like your permission for your granddaughter's hand in marriage. I love Alexandra, and I believe she loves me. But it would make both of us happy if you would give us your blessing." He leached into his jacket pocket, brought out the stock certificates and tossed them on the table in front of Kate. "I'm giving her a million dollars as a wedding present.

She won't need any of your money. But we both need your blessing."

Kate glanced down at the stock certificates George had carelessly scattered on the table. She recognized the names of every one of the companies. Alexandra had moved to George, her eyes shining. "Oh, darling!" She turned to her grandmother, her eyes imploring, "Gran?"

Kate looked at the two of them standing together, and there was no way she could deny them. For a brief instant, she envied them. "You have my blessing," she said.

George grinned and walked over to Kate. "May I?" He kissed her on the cheek.

For the next two hours they talked excitedly about wedding plans. "I don't want a large wedding, Gran," Alexandra said. "We don't have to do that, do we?"

"I agree," George replied. "Love is a private matter."

In the end, they decided on a small ceremony, with a judge marrying them.

"Will your father be coming over for the wedding?" Kate inquired.

George laughed. "You couldn't keep him away. My father, my three brothers and my two sisters will all be here."

"I'll be looking forward to meeting them."

"You'll like them, I know." Then his eyes turned back to Alexandra.

Kate was very touched by the whole evening. She was thrilled for her granddaughter—pleased that she was getting a man who loved her so much. I must remember, Kate thought, to tell Brad not to bother about that financial rundown on George.

Before George left, and he was alone with Alexandra, he said casually, "I don't think it's a good idea to have a million dollars in securities lying around the house. I'll put them in my safe-deposit box for now."

"Would you?" Alexandra asked.

George picked up the certificates and put them back into his jacket pocket.

The following morning George repeated the procedure with Helen Thatcher. While she was on her way downstairs to see him ("I have a little something for you"), he was in her office getting the access card. He gave her a Gucci scarf—"a belated birthday present"—and confirmed his luncheon date with her. This time getting into the vault seemed easier. He replaced the stock certificates, returned the access card and met Helen Thatcher at a nearby restaurant.

She held his hand and said, "George, why don't I fix a nice dinner for the two of us tonight?"

And George replied, 'I'm afraid that's impossible, Helen. I'm getting married."

Three days before the wedding ceremony was to take place, George arrived at the Blackwell house, his face filled with distress. "I've just had terrible news," he said. "My father suffered another heart attack."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Kate said. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I've been on the phone with the family all night. They think he'll pull through, but of course they won't be able to attend the wedding."

"We could go to Athens on our honeymoon and see them," Alexandra suggested.

George stroked her cheek. "I have other plans for our honeymoon, matia mou. No family, just us."

The marriage ceremony was held in the drawing room of the Blackwell mansion. There were fewer than a dozen guests in attendance, among them Vince Barnes, Alice Koppel and Marty Bergheimer. Alexandra had pleaded with her grandmother to let Eve attend the wedding, but Kate was adamant. "Your sister will never be welcome in this house again."

Alexandra's eyes filled with tears. "Gran, you're being cruel. I love you both. Can't you forgive her?"

For an instant, Kate was tempted to blurt out the whole story Eve's disloyalty, but she stopped herself. "I'm doing what I think is best for everyone."

A photographer took pictures of the ceremony, and Kate heard George ask him to make up some extra prints to send to his family. What a considerate man he is, Kate thought.

After the cake-cutting ceremony, George whispered to Alexandra, "Darling, I'm going to have to disappear for an hour

or so."

"Is anything wrong?"

"Of course not. But the only way I could persuade the office to let me take time off for our honeymoon was to promise to finish

up some business for an important client. I won't be long. Our plane doesn't leave until five o'clock."

She smiled. "Hurry back. I don't want to go on our honeymoon without you."

When George arrived at Eve's apartment, she was waiting for him, wearing a filmy negligee. "Did you enjoy your wedding, darling?"

"Yes, thank you. It was small but elegant. It went off without a hitch."

"Do you know why, George? Because of me. Never forget that."

He looked at her and said slowly, "I won't."

"We're partners all the way."

"Of course."

Eve smiled. "Well, well. So you're married to my little sister."

George looked at his watch. "Yes. And I must get back."

"Not yet," Eve told him.

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to make love to me first, darling. I want to fuck my sister's husband.'

Eve had planned the honeymoon. It was expensive, but she told George, "You mustn't stint on anything."

She sold three pieces of jewelry she had acquired from an ardent admirer and gave the money to George.

"I appreciate this, Eve," he said. "I—"

'I'll get it back."

The honeymoon was perfection. George and Alexandra stayed at Round Hill on Montego Bay, in the northern part of Jamaica. The lobby of the hotel was a small, white building set in the center of approximately two dozen beautiful, privately owned bungalows that sprawled down a hill toward the clear, blue sea. The Mellises had the Noel Coward bungalow, with its own swimming pool and a maid to prepare their breakfast, which they ate in the open-air dining room. George rented a small boat and they went sailing and fishing. They swam and read and played backgammon and made love. Alexandra did everything she could think of to please George in bed, and when the heard him moaning at the climax of their lovemaking, she was thrilled that she was able to bring him such pleasure.

On the fifth day, George said, "Alex, I have to drive into Kingston on business. The firm has a branch office there and they asked me to look in on it."

"Fine," Alexandra said. "I'll go with you."

He frowned. "I'd love you to, darling, but I'm expecting an overseas call. You'll have to stay and take the message."

Alexandra was disappointed. "Can't the desk take it?"

"It's too important. I can't trust them."

"All right, then. Of course I'll stay."

George rented a car and drove to Kingston. It was late afternoon when he arrived. The streets of the capital city were swarming with colorfully dressed tourists from the cruise ships, shopping at the straw market and in small bazaars. Kingston is a city of commerce, with refineries, warehouses and fisheries, but with its landlocked harbor it is also a city of beautiful old buildings and museums and libraries.

George was interested in none of these things. He was filled with a desperate need that had been building up in him for weeks and had to be satisfied. He walked into the first bar he saw and spoke to the bartender. Five minutes later George was accompanying a fifteen-year-old black prostitute up the stairs of a cheap hotel. He was with her for two hours. When George left the room, he left alone, got into the car and drove back to Mon-tego Bay, where Alexandra told him the urgent telephone call he was expecting had not come through.

The following morning the Kingston newspapers reported that a tourist had beaten up and mutilated a prostitute, and that she was near death.

At Hanson and Hanson, the senior partners were discussing George Mellis. There had been complaints from a number of clients about the way he handled their securities accounts. A decision had been reached to fire him. Now, however, there were second thoughts.

"He's married to one of Kate Blackwell's granddaughters," a senior partner said. "That puts things in a new light."

A second partner added, "it certainly does. If we could acquire the Blackwell account..."

The greed in the air was almost palpable. They decided George Mellis deserved another chance.

When Alexandra and George returned from their honeymoon, Kate told them, "I'd like you to move in here with me. This is an enormous house, and we wouldn't be in one another's way. You—"

George interrupted. "That's very kind of you," he said. "But I think it would be best if Alex and I had our own place."

He had no intention of living under the same roof with the old woman hovering over him, spying on his every move.

"I understand," Kate replied. "In that case, please let me buy a house for you. That will be my wedding present."

George put his arms around Kate and hugged her. "That's very generous of you." His voice was hoarse with emotion. "Alex and I accept with gratitude."

"Thank you, Gran," Alexandra said. "We'll look for a place not too far away."

"Right," George agreed. "We want to be close enough to keep an eye on you. You're a damned attractive woman, you know!"

Within a week they found a beautiful old brownstone near the park, a dozen blocks away from the Blackwell mansion. It was a charming three-story house, with a master bedroom, two guest bedrooms, servants' quarters, a huge old kitchen, a pan-eled dining room, an elegant living room and a library.

"You're going to have to do the decorating by yourself, dar-ling," George told Alexandra.

"I'm all tied up with clients."

The truth was that he spent almost no time at the office, and very little time with clients.

His days were occupied with more interesting matters. The police were receiving a string of assault

reports from male and female prostitutes and lonely women who visited singles' bars.

The victims described their attacker as handsome and cultured, and coming from a foreign background, possibly Latin. Those who were willing to look at police mug shots were unable to come up with an identification.

Eve and George were having lunch in a small downtown restaurant where there was no chance of their being recognized.

"You've got to get Alex to make a new will without Kate knowing about it."

"How the hell do I do that?"

"I'm going to tell you, darling ..."

The following evening George met Alexandra for dinner at Le Plaisir, one of New York's finest French restaurants. He was almost thirty minutes late.

Pierre Jourdan, the owner, escorted him to the table where Alexandra was waiting.

"Forgive me, angel," George said breathlessly. "I was at my attorneys', and you know how they are. They make everything so complicated."

Alexandra asked, "Is anything wrong, George?"

"No. I just changed my will." He took her hands in his. "If anything should happen to me now, everything I have will belong to you."

"Darling, I don't want—"

"Oh, it's not much compared to the Blackwell fortune, but it would keep you very comfortably."

"Nothing's going to happen to you. Not ever."

"Of course not, Alex. But sometimes life plays funny tricks. These things aren't pleasant to face, but it's better to plan ahead and be prepared, don't you think?"

She sat there thoughtfully for a moment. "I should change my will, too, shouldn't I?"

"What for?" He sounded surprised.

"You're my husband. Everything I have is yours."

He withdrew his hand. "Alex, I don't give a damn about your money."

"I know that, George, but you're right. It is better to look ahead and be prepared." Her eyes filled with tears. "I know I'm

an idiot, but I'm so happy that I can't bear to think of anything happening to either of us. I want us to go on forever."

"We will," George murmured.

"I'll talk to Brad Rogers tomorrow about changing my will."

He shrugged. "If that's what you wish, darling." Then, as an afterthought, "Come to think of it, it might be better if my lawyer made the change. He's familiar with my estate. He can coordinate everything."

"Whatever you like. Gran thinks—"

He caressed her cheek. "Let's keep your grandmother out of this. I adore her, but don't you think we should keep our personal affairs personal?"

"You're right, darling. I won't say anything to Gran. Could you make an appointment for me to see your attorney tomorrow?"

"Remind me to call him. Now, I'm starved. Why don't we start with the crab... ?"

One week later George met Eve at her apartment. "Did Alex sign the new will?" Eve asked. 'This morning. She inherits her share of the company next week on her birthday."

The following week, 49 percent of the shares of Kruger-Brent, Ltd., were transferred to Alexandra. George called to tell Eve the news. She said, "Wonderful! Come over tonight.

We'll cele-brate."

"I can't. Kate's giving a birthday party for Alex." There was a silence. "What are they serving?" "How the hell do I know?" "Find out." The line went dead.

Forty-five minutes later George called Eve back. "I don't know why you're so interested in the menu," he said nastily, #since you aren't invited to the party, but it's Coquille Saint-Jacques, Chateaubriand, a bibb lettuce salad, Brie, cappuccino and a birthday cake with Alex's favorite ice cream, Neapolitan. Satisfied?"

"Yes, George. I'll see you tonight."

"No, Eve. There's no way I can walk out in the middle of Alex's—"

"You'll think of something."

Goddamn the bitch! George hung up the phone and looked at his watch. God damn everything! He had an appointment with an important client he had stood up twice already.

Now he was late. He knew the partners were keeping him on only because he had married into the Blackwell family. He could not afford to do anything to jeopardize his position. He had created an image for Alexandra and Kate, and it was imperative that nothing destroy that. Soon he would not need any of them.

He had sent his father a wedding invitation, and the old man had not even bothered to reply. Not one word of congratulations. I never want to see you again, his father had told him. You're dead, you understand? Dead Well, his father was in for a surprise. The prodigal son was going to come to life again.

Alexandra's twenty-third birthday party was a great success. There were forty guests.

She had asked George to invite some of his friends, but he had demurred. "It's your party, Alex," he said. "Let's just have your friends."

The truth was that George had no friends. He was a loner, he told himself proudly.

People who were dependent on other people were weaklings. He watched as Alexandra blew out the candles on her cake and made a silent wish. He knew the wish involved him, and he thought, You should have wished for a longer life, darling. He had to admit that Alexandra was exquisite looking. She was wearing a long white chiffon dress with delicate silver slippers and a diamond necklace, a present from Kate. The large, pear-shaped stones were strung together on a platinum chain, and they sparkled in the candlelight.

Kate looked at them and thought, I remember our first anniversary, when David put that necklace on me and told me how much he loved me.

And George thought, That necklace must be worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

George had been aware all evening that several of Alexandra's female guests were eyeing him, smiling at him invitingly, touching him as they talked to him. Horny bitches, he thought contemptuously. Under other circumstances, he might have been tempted to risk it, but not with Alexandra's friends. They might not dare complain to Alexandra, but there was a chance they could go to the police. No, things were moving along too smoothly to take any unnecessary chances.

At one minute before ten o'clock, George positioned himself near the telephone. When it rang a minute later, he picked it up. "Hello."

"Mr. Mellis?"

"Yes."

"This is your answering service. You asked me to call you at ten o'clock."

Alexandra was standing near him. He looked over at her and frowned. "What time did he call?"

"Is this Mr. Mellis?"

"Yes."

"You left a ten o'clock call, sir."

Alexandra was at his side.

"Very well," he said into the phone. "Tell him I'm on my way. I'll meet him at the Pan Am Clipper Club."

George slammed the phone down.

"What's the matter, darling?"

He turned to Alexandra. "One of the idiot partners is on his way to Singapore and he left some contracts at the office that he needs to take with him. I've got to pick them up and get them to him before his plane leaves."

"Now?" Alexandra's voice was filled with dismay. "Can't someone else do it?"

"I'm the only one they trust," George sighed. "You'd think I was the only capable one in the whole office." He put his arms around her. "I'm sorry, darling. Don't let me spoil your party. You go on and I'll get back as soon as I can."

She managed a smile. "I'll miss you." Alexandra watched him go, then looked around the room to make sure all her guests were enjoying themselves. She wondered what Eve was doing on their birthday.

Eve opened the door to let George in. "You managed," she said. "You're such a clever man."

"I can't stay, Eve. Alex is—"

She took his hand. "Come, darling. I have a surprise for you." She led him into the small dining room. The table was set for two, with beautiful silver and white napery and lighted candles in the center of the table.

"What's this for?"

"It's my birthday, George."

"Of course," he said lamely. "I—I'm afraid I didn't bring you a present."

She stroked his cheek. "Yes you did, love. You'll give it to me later. Sit down."

"Thanks," George said. "I couldn't eat anything. I just had a big dinner."

"Sit down." There was no inflection to her voice.

George looked into her eyes, and sat down.

Dinner consisted of Coquille Saint-Jacques, Chateaubriand, a bibb lettuce salad, Brie, cappuccino and a birthday cake with Neapolitan ice cream.

Eve sat across from him, watching George force the food down. "Alex and I have always shared everything," Eve told him. 'Tonight I'm sharing her birthday dinner. But next year there will be just one of us having a birthday party. The time has come, darling, for my sister to have an accident. And after that, poor old Gran is going to die of grief. It's going to be all ours, George. Now, come into the bedroom and give me my birthday present."

He had been dreading this moment. He was a man, strong and vigorous, and Eve dominated him and made him feel impotent. She had him undress her slowly, and then she undressed him and skillfully excited him to an erection.

"There you are, darling." She got astride him and began slowly moving her hips. "Ah, that feels so good. ... You can't have an orgasm, can you, poor baby? Do you know why?

Because you're a freak. You don't like women, do you, George? You only enjoy hurting them. You'd like to hurt me, wouldn't you? Tell me you'd like to hurt me."

"I'd like to kill you."

Eve laughed. "But you won't, because you want to own the company as much as I do___You'll never hurt me, George, because if anything ever happens to me, a friend of mine is holding a letter that will be delivered to the police."

He did not believe her. "You're bluffing."

Eve raked a long, sharp nail down his naked chest. "There's only one way you can find out, isn't there?" she taunted.

And he suddenly knew she was telling the truth. He was never going to be able to get rid of her! She was always going to be there to taunt him, to enslave him. He could not bear the idea of being at this bitch's mercy for the rest of his life. And something inside him exploded. A red film descended over his eyes, and from that moment on he had no idea what he was doing. It was as though someone outside himself was controlling him.

Everything happened in slow motion. He remembered shoving Eve off him, pulling her legs apart and her cries of pain. He was battering at something over and over, and it was indescribably wonderful. The whole center of his being was racked with a long spasm of unbearable bliss, and then another, and another, and he thought, Oh, God! I've waited so long for this. From somewhere in the far distance, someone was screaming. The red film slowly started to clear, and he looked down. Eve was lying on the bed, covered with blood.

Her nose was smashed in, her body was covered with bruises and cigarette burns and her eyes were swollen shut. Her jaw was broken, and she was whimpering out of the side of her mouth. "Stop it, stop it, stop it..."

George shook his head to clear it. As the reality of the situation hit him, he was filled with sudden panic. There was no way he could ever explain what he had done. He had thrown everything away. Everything!

He leaned over her. "Eve?"

She opened one swollen eye. "Doctor ... Get... a ... doctor-----" Each word was a drop of pain. "Harley ... John Harley."

All George Mellis said on the phone was, "Can you come right away? Eve Blackwell has had an accident."

When Dr. John Harley walked into the room, he took one look at Eve and the blood-spattered bed and walls and said, "Oh, my God!" He felt Eve's fluttering pulse, and turned to George. "Call the police. Tell them we need an ambulance."

Through the mist of pain, Eve whispered, "John ..."

John Harley leaned over the bed. "You're going to be all right. We'll get you to the hospital."

She reached out and found his hand. "No police ..."

"I have to report this. L—"

Her grip tightened. "No ... police ..."

He looked at her shattered cheekbone, her broken jaw and the cigarette burns on her body. "Don't try to talk."

The pain was excruciating, but Eve was fighting for her life. "Please..." It took a long time to get the words out. "Private...

Gran would never ... forgive me___No ... police___Hit...

run ... accident___"

There was no time to argue. Dr. Harley walked over to the telephone and dialed. "This is Dr. Harley." He gave Eve's address. "I want an ambulance sent here immediately. Find Dr.

Keith Webster and ask him to meet me at the hospital. Tell him it's an emergency. Have a room prepared for surgery." He listened a moment, then said, "A hit-and-run accident." He slammed down the receiver.

"Thank you, Doctor," George breathed.

Dr. Harley turned to look at Alexandra's husband, his eyes filled with loathing. George's clothes had been hastily donned, but his knuckles were raw, and his hands and face were still spattered with blood. "Don't thank me. I'm doing this for the Blackwells. But on one condition. That you agree to see a psychiatrist."

"I don't need a-"

"Then I'm calling the police, you sonofabitch. You're not fit to be running around loose."

Dr. Harley reached for the telephone again.

"Wait a minute!" George stood there, thinking. He had almost thrown everything away, but now, miraculously, he was being given a second chance. "All right. I'll see a psychiatrist."

In the far distance they heard the wail of a siren.

She was being rushed down a long tunnel, and colored lights were flashing on and off.

Her body felt light and airy, and she thought, I can fly if I want to, and she tried to move her arms, but something was holding them down. She opened her eyes, and she was speeding down a white corridor on a gurney being wheeled by two men in green gowns and caps. I'm starring in a play, Eve thought. I can't remember my lines. What are my lines? When she opened her eyes again, she was in a large white room on an operating table.

A small thin man in a green surgical gown was leaning over her. "My name is Keith Webster. I'm going to operate on

you."

"I don't want to be ugly," Eve whispered. It was difficult to talk. "Don't let me be ... ugly."

"Not a chance," Dr. Webster promised. "I'm going to put you to sleep now. Just relax."

He gave a signal to the anesthesiologist.

George managed to wash the blood off himself and clean up in Eve's bathroom, but he cursed as he glanced at his wrist-watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. He hoped Alexandra was asleep, but when he walked into their living room, she was waiting for him.

"Darling! I've been frantic! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Alex."

She went up to him and hugged him. "I was getting ready to call the police. I thought something terrible had happened."

How right you are, George thought.

"Did you bring him the contracts?"

"Contracts?" He suddenly remembered. "Oh, those. Yes. I did." That seemed like years ago, a lie from the distant past.

"What on earth kept you so late?"

"His plane was delayed," George said glibly. "He wanted me to stay with him. I kept thinking he'd take off at any minute, and then finally it got too late for me to telephone you.

I'm sorry."

"It's all right, now that you're here."

George thought of Eve as she was being carried out on the stretcher. Out of her broken, twisted mouth, she had gasped,

"Go ... home ... nothing ... happened___" But what if Eve died? He would be arrested for murder. If Eve lived, everything would be all right; it would be just as it was before. Eve would forgive him because she needed him.

George lay awake the rest of the night. He was thinking about Eve and the way she had screamed and begged for mercy. He felt her bones crunch again beneath his fists, and he smelled her burning flesh, and at that moment he was very close to loving her.

It was a stroke of great luck that John Harley was able to obtain the services of Keith Webster for Eve. Dr. Webster was one of the foremost plastic surgeons in the world. He had a private practice on Park Avenue and his own clinic in lower Manhattan, where he specialized in taking care of those who had been born with disfigurements. The people who came to the clinic paid only what they could afford. Dr. Webster was used to treating accident cases, but his first sight of Eve Blackwell's battered face had shocked him. He had seen photographs of her in magazines, and to see that much beauty deliberately disfigured filled him with a deep anger.

"Who's responsible for this, John?"

'It was a hit-and-run accident, Keith."

Keith Webster snorted. "And then the driver stopped to strip her and snuff out his cigarette on her behind? What's the real story?"

'I'm afraid I can't discuss it. Can you put her back together again?" 'That's what I do, John, put them back together again."

It was almost noon when Dr. Webster finally said to his assistants, "We're finished. Get her into intensive care. Call me at the slightest sign of anything going wrong."

The operation had taken nine hours.

Eve was moved out of intensive care forty-eight hours later. George went to the hospital.

He had to see Eve, to talk to her, to make sure she was not plotting some terrible vengeance against him.

"I'm Miss Blackwell's attorney," George told the duty nurse. "She asked to see me. I'll only stay a moment."

The nurse took one look at this handsome man and said, "She's not supposed to have visitors, but I'm sure it's all right if you go in."

Eve was in a private room, lying in bed, flat on her back, swathed in bandages, tubes connected to her body like obscene appendages. The only parts of her face visible were her eyes and her lips.

"Hello, Eve ..."

"George ..." Her voice was a scratchy whisper. He had to lean close to hear what she said.

"You didn't... tell Alex?"

"No, of course not." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I came because—"

"I know why you came___We're... going ahead with it.. ."'

He had a feeling of indescribable relief. "I'm sorry about this, Eve. I really am. I—"

"Have someone call Alex ... and tell her I've gone away ... on a trip ... back in a few ...

weeks ..."

"All right."

Two bloodshot eyes looked up at him. "George ... do me a favor."

"Yes?"

"Die painfully...."

She slept. When she awakened, Dr. Keith Webster was at her bedside.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was gentle and soothing.

"Very tired ... What was the ... matter with me?"

Dr. Webster hesitated. The X rays had shown a fractured zygoma and a blowout fracture. There was a depressed zygomatic arch impinging on the temporal muscle, so that she was unable to open or close her mouth without pain. Her nose was broken. There were two broken ribs and deep cigarette burns on her posterior and on the soles of her feet.

"What?" Eve repeated.

Dr. Webster said, as gently as possible, "You had a fractured cheekbone. Your nose was broken. The bony floor where your eye sits had been shifted. There was pressure on the muscle that opens and closes your mouth. There were cigarette burns. Everything has been taken care of."

"I want to see a mirror," Eve whispered.

That was the last thing he would allow. "I'm sorry," he smiled. "We're fresh out."

She was afraid to ask the next question. "How am I—how am I going to look when these bandages come ofF?"

"You're going to look terrific. Exactly the way you did before your accident."

"I don't believe you."

"You'll see. Now, do you want to tell me what happened? I have to write up a police report."

There was a long silence. "I was hit by a truck."

Dr. Keith Webster wondered again how anyone could have tried to destroy this fragile beauty, but he had long since given up pondering the vagaries of the human race and its capacity for cruelty. "I'll need a name," he said gently. "Who did it?"

"Mack."

"And the last name?"

"Truck."

Dr. Webster was puzzled by the conspiracy of silence. First John Harley, now Eve Blackwell

"In cases of criminal assault," Keith Webster told Eve, "I'm required by law to file a police report."

Eve reached out for his hand and grasped it and held it tightly. "Please, if my grandmother or sister knew, it would kill them. If you tell the police ... the newspapers will know. You nustn't... please___"

"I can't report it as a hit-and-run accident. Ladies don't usually run out in the street without any clothes on."

"Please!"

He looked down at her, and was filled with pity. "I suppose you could have tripped and fallen down the stairs of your home."

She squeezed his hand tighter. "That's exactly what happened ..."

Dr. Webster sighed. "That's what I thought."

Dr. Keith Webster visited Eve every day after that, sometimes stopping by two or three times a day. He brought her flowers and small presents from the hospital gift shop. Each day Eve would ask him anxiously, "I just he here all day. Why isn't anyone doing anything?"

"My partner's working on you," Dr. Webster told her.

"Your partner?"

"Mother Nature. Under all those frightening-looking ban-dages, you're healing beautifully."

Every few days he would remove the bandages and examine her.

"Let me have a mirror," Eve pleaded. But his answer was always the same: "Not yet."

He was the only company Eve had, and she began to look

forward to his visits. He was an unprepossessing man, small and thin, with sandy, sparse hair and myopic brown eyes that costantly blinked. He was shy in Eve's presence, and it

amused her.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I—I don't know. I guess I wouldn't make a very good husband. I'm on emergency call a lot."

"But you must have a girl friend."

He was actually blushing. "Well, you know ..."

"Tell me," Eve teased him.

"I don't have a regular girl friend."

"I'll bet all the nurses are crazy about you."

"No. I'm afraid I'm not a very romantic kind of person."

To say the least, Eve thought. And yet, when she discussed Keith Webster with the nurses and interns who came in to perform various indignities on her body, they spoke of him as though he were some kind of god.

'The man is a miracle worker," one intern said. "There's nothing he can't do with a human face."

They told her about bis work with deformed children and criminals, but when Eve asked Keith Webster about it, he dismissed the subject with, "Unfortunately, the world judges people by their looks. I try to help those who were born with physical deficiencies. It can make a big difference in their lives."

Eve was puzzled by him. He was not doing it for the money or the glory. He was totally selfless. She had never met anyone lik him, and she wondered what motivated him. But it was an idle curiosity. She had no interest in Keith Webster, except for what he could do for her.

Fifteen days after Eve checked into the hospital, she was moved to a private clinic in upstate New York.

"You'll be more comfortable here," Dr. Webster assured her.

Eve knew it was much farther for him to travel to see her, and yet he still appeared every day.

"Don't you have any other patients?" Eve asked.

"Not like you."