ules brought backup to their meeting, in the form of his colleague Ric Alvarado.

“How’s your father?” Robin asked to cover his disappointment as he closed his hotel-suite door behind them.

“He’s doing all right,” Ric said. “He’s had to cancel some performances, and he’s not happy about that, but he knows it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Robin was as aware as hell of Jules, who’d traded in his suit and tie for a pair of jeans and a snugly fitting T-shirt that said LIFE IS GOOD. It was hard not to think about the last time Jules was up here in his suite, when they’d stood right over there…

Yeah.

Part of what Ric was saying broke through his distraction. “Performances?” Robin repeated.

“My father’s a jazz pianist,” Ric said.

“Teo Alvarado,” Jules told him.

“No way.” Robin couldn’t believe it. “I was just talking to my sister on the phone, and she told me to try to find him—you know, to hear him play—while I’m here in Sarasota. She adores his stuff. She went on and on about him.”

Actually, what Jane had really gone on and on about was Riptide. She’d finally gone to see a sneak preview of the movie, and she’d loved it. Robin’s performance as a Navy SEAL nicknamed Crash was her new favorite of all of his roles—including the ones he’d had in the films she herself had written and produced.

It made sense that Jane had liked the character, because Robin had been subtly channeling his brother-in-law as he’d played this part. Like Janey’s husband, Cosmo, Crash had a quiet stillness to him, a deep and faithful belief in truth and justice that merged tightly with both honor and integrity. After years of hanging with Cos, Robin had it down pretty accurately.

No doubt about it, this was his new personal favorite role, too. Playing Crash had made him feel strong and clean. Heroic.

A lot like he imagined Jules felt, just living his exemplary life.

Jane hadn’t said anything about the fight they’d had before Robin had left to make the rounds of festivals, so he hadn’t brought it up, either. Little Billy was doing fine, Cosmo was still overseas with his SEAL team, but he was in a place where he could e-mail her daily, so she was a little less anxious.

She did question him about Dolphina—apparently all the tabloids were running photos of the two of them together.

“She’s just a friend,” Robin had told his sister. “Really. She, um, knows.”

That had surprised Jane. That, and the bomb he’d oh-so-casually dropped right after that—telling her that Jules Cassidy was here in town.

Her response had surprised him in return. “Are you self-destructing?” Jane had asked. “Because right now, here in Hollywood? I wasn’t going to say anything, because I was afraid it might jinx you, but the buzz—about you, dumb-ass—is incredible. Maybe you should come home, because you need to experience it to really understand what’s happening.”

“I’m not self-destructing,” Robin protested. “I’m being careful.” And yeah, okay, maybe that was a lie. But he was going to start being more careful—at least for a little while longer.

“Robbie, people are comparing your acting to Marlon Brando and James Dean,” Jane told him. “If you start something with Jules, something that you can’t finish because you still want that recognition, that kind of a career…” She sighed. “You’re going to hurt him more than you already have. And then, when you’re finally ready to be honest about what you really want, he’s going to be gone. You’ll never get him back.”

“Yeah, whoops, someone’s at the door—I gotta go,” Robin had lied, because he’d been too much of a coward to admit that he finally did know what he really wanted.

He wanted it all.

And Robin didn’t want to tell his sister that. He didn’t want to hear a myriad of reasons why he could never make it work, that it was impossible, that no one could ever, really, have everything they wanted. He didn’t want to hear that there had to be sacrifice to appease the gods, there had to be sorrow and loss to truly appreciate true joy and happiness…

Bullshit, Janey.

He could have it all.

Right now Ric was talking about his father’s prognosis and progress as he scanned the room with some kind of electronic device. If that was meant to freak Robin out, well, mission accomplished, bro. Jesus, did they really think someone had bugged his room? And, if someone had, they’d gotten an earful this morning when Robin had taken Janey’s call.

Jules wandered over to the sliding-glass windows that lined one entire wall of the suite. The last time he was up here, the drapes had been closed. As Jules gazed past the railing of the balcony and out at the breathtaking view of the harbor, hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans, Robin took it in, too. The water and sky were shades of heavenly brilliance. The green of the palm trees and the white of the sand were equally crisp and clear. It was perfection—as if life here were in high-def. Funny how, with all the hours he’d spent in this suite, he hadn’t noticed that before.

Of course, maybe the fact that Jules was part of the picture today had something to do with it.

“The good news is, he’s going to be okay,” Ric said, shutting off the device. “Room’s clear.” He looked at Robin and explained: “No listening devices.”

“I figured that’s what you were doing. It never occurred to me that—”

“I know.” Jules turned to face him. His outfit may have been casual, but the expression on his face was all business. “Which is why we need to talk about Gordon Burns and exactly what we’re doing here. You better sit down, this could take a while.”

Martell knew that Robin Chadwick was part of tonight’s big charade. It was, after all, Chadwick who’d gotten Jules, Ric, and Annie the invite out to Burns Point.

But it wasn’t until the limo pulled up out front and the movie star walked into Ric’s office that the craziness of the situation smacked Martell in the face.

He’d hung with Annie nearly all afternoon, which hadn’t been all that much fun since, after a brief and closemouthed trip to the CVS, she’d gone up to her room with her dog-thing and shut the door. Martell had actually finished the Waverly brief on his laptop in Ric’s office, despite the fact that sheer boredom made his eyes roll back in his head. He’d fallen asleep at least three times, midsentence, but it was finally done.

But things started heating when Mr. Famous strutted in. He was talking as he entered, Ric right behind him.

“I’m an actor,” Hollywood was saying. “You don’t have to tell me how to do it.”

“Yeah, I do,” Ric said. “I don’t want you to fuck with her.” He looked at Martell. “Where is she?”

She being Annie…“She’s upstairs.”

“You mean, literally?” Robin asked, clearly messing with Ric’s head. “Because that would be dramatic. Getting caught in flagrante in some closet, during the party? I like it.”

“I mean at all,” Ric told him, heavy on the grim.

“Seriously,” Cassidy, the little FBI dude, interjected as he closed the door behind them. “It’s important that we don’t do anything that might offend Gordon Burns. We’re going to be guests in his house. Plus there’s no guarantee that I’ll find what I’m looking for, which means I’ll probably have to go back.”

“I find that kind of funny—the idea that we’ve got to be careful not to offend someone who’s smuggling terrorists into the country,” Robin mused. “Like that’s not offensive. I mean, Jesus.” He held out his hand to Martell. “Hi, I’m Robin. I assume you’re supposed to be here.”

“Martell’s a friend,” Ric told the movie star. “Former police. He’ll be dropping by your hotel suite to check on Annie, frequently, until you leave on Sunday.”

Apparently Ric and Jules hadn’t managed to convince Mr. Big Stuff to wiedersehen the filmfest any earlier. No wonder Ric was pissed.

But Hollywood’s handshake was firm, and his eyes were the same startling blue as his shirt. Martell had always assumed his eye color was digitally enhanced on screen, or at least the result of special contact lenses.

Apparently not.

“Nice to meet you,” Chadwick said, and damn if he didn’t really mean it, too. The man was the best kind of player—or worst, depending upon one’s point of view. His sincerity wasn’t just an act. He meant what he said at the moment that he said it.

Martell knew because, as the saying went, game recognized game.

And Ric was putting Annie not just in his care but in his freaking hotel suite for three days and two nights…?

The fool in question ran upstairs to change, stopping briefly to knock on Annie’s door. “We’re leaving in ten,” Martell heard Ric call to her before he went into his room and closed the door with a bang.

“I’ll be out in a sec.” FBI exited the room, too, taking the garment bag he’d left in the closet earlier, heading into the office bathroom.

Which left Joe Famous wandering around the room, stopping to look at Ric’s framed diplomas and various awards, as Martell packed up his computer. “Wow, Ric went to Dartmouth.”

“May I, uh, offer you some advice?” Martell asked.

Robin turned toward him. “If it’s to tell me to return to California after the party tonight—”

“It’s not.”

“Then yeah,” Robin said. “Offer away.”

Okay, so how to say this tactfully? “You’re going to be spending a lot of time with Annie,” Martell said, “over the next few days.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You may not think so now,” Martell told him, “but you’re going to find yourself attracted to her. She’s, um…special, you know? But she’s Ric’s. She may not know it, and Ric may not even know it, but she is. So, you keep that in mind, right? And you keep your hands off.”

“I will,” Robin promised, a picture of somber integrity. Of course, he wasn’t just a player, he was also an actor—a professional liar—which made his promises mean absolutely nothing.

“I’m serious,” Martell said as Ric came back downstairs, tying his tie. Apparently only potential Oscar nominees could attend a party at Burns Point without a jacket and tie, because FBI came out of the men’s suited up, too. But what a suit. It was Armani, clearly from the A-list side of the man’s closet. Dude looked sharp.

“Serious about what?” Ric asked, but then immediately forgot what he’d been asking about. He apparently even forgot he had a mouth, because he left it dangling open as Annie came downstairs, her dog-thing in her arms.

She looked amazing. She’d gone with the black dress—Martell’s recommendation. It was classy, yet the skirt was short enough to show off her shapely legs, its neckline low enough to give just a hint of cleavage.

But it was her hair and makeup that was making Ric look as if he were going to faint from the shock. Apparently that was what she’d been doing all that time, locked away in her room.

Her golden-brown curls were piled on top of her head, the style simple yet, again, pure class.

And the makeup didn’t necessarily make her look prettier—she was pretty enough to start with. But with her eyes shadowed, her lashes dark with mascara, her lips outlined, and her cheeks accented with whatever shit that was that women wore on their faces, she’d made herself look sophisticated. Elegant.

Like the kind of woman even a movie star might try extra hard to get with.

“You look great.” Robin, naturally, was the first to find his voice as she crouched to put Pierre onto the floor. The dog had caught a whiff of Jules and needed to rush over to greet him.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” Annie told Robin, glancing at Ric, who, fool that he was, had turned away.

As if he were afraid that if he stared at her for too long, he might go blind.

As the silence stretched on, it became clear that none of the geniuses in the room knew quite how to respond to I didn’t want to embarrass you.

Jules was kneeling next to the dog-thing, looking up at Robin as if it were his call. But Robin couldn’t seem to look away from Jules and Pierre.

So Martell told Annie what they all were thinking. “Damn, beeyotch. You hot dot-com to start with, fo’ shizzle. But tonight? You’s onion booty, ya know what I’m saying?”

Annie laughed—mission accomplished—as she looked at him. “Actually, no.”

“Goodness gracious, madam,” he translated in his best Colin Firth. “You are, for certain, always quite attractive. But tonight, your lovely radiance could make a grown man weep.”

She sparkled as she laughed. “Well, thank you,” she told him, then looked over at Ric again. This time the fool actually met her gaze, managing to manufacture a smile while he was at it. Go, team.

“You don’t get to come again,” she added, and it took Martell a second to realize she was talking to him. “To the party?” she clarified.

“Oh,” he said as Jules gave Pierre one last pat and began pulling what looked like architectural drawings from a cardboard tube. “Yeah, no. Gordon Burns makes me throw up in my mouth, so it’s just as good. I’m on backup tonight—you run into any trouble, you give me a call, I’ll come save the day.” In the meantime, he was heading to the hospital, to visit Teo and figure out who they could sue to get the most media coverage.

Still, he moved closer to get a look at what was definitely the floor plan of Gordon Burns’s estate.

“I want everyone to see this,” Jules said. “But it’s really just for Ric and me.” He looked at Ric. “If for some reason I’m unable to slip away—”

Ric nodded. “It’ll be up to me. Not Annie. Or Robin. Your job is to distract Burns,” he reminded them.

“The party’s going to be held here.” FBI pointed to the drawing. “There’s a courtyard—an outdoor patio, surrounded on three sides by the main living area. The entire area overlooks the harbor—which makes surveillance tricky but not impossible. We’ve been watching the setup, and from the number of tables, we’re estimating there’ll be around fifty guests.”

That was a good thing. The bigger the crowd, the easier to slip away and not be missed.

“There’s a local myth,” Jules told them, “that Burns has his entire place wired with cameras and mics, so he can listen in on everyone who comes to Burns Point. That’s not true, which is a shame, because if he did, we would’ve been able to tap into his system. We’ll need to be discreet while we’re there, but any threat of being overheard or watched will come from the old-fashioned way—Burns’s security guards.”

“That’s good to know,” Ric said.

“This is the kitchen, over here.” Jules pointed again at the blueprints. “And this is the servants’ wing.” A hallway led off from the massive kitchen, taking a turn to the right. There were five rooms on either side of the central corridor. Down at the end was a door to a deck, overlooking the back of the garage and a part of the driveway that looked to be a loading area into the kitchen.

“Imagine having five people on staff,” Annie mused. She looked up at Robin. “You probably do, huh?”

“Not when I’m at home,” he said. “I like my privacy. Although now with Riptide doing so well, my manager thinks I need to find a bodyguard. You know, pay someone a christload of money to hang with me when I’m home at night, so I’m never alone. Tag along when I go on location to Thailand or Paris or New Zealand. It’d be a tough job—spending all that time in exotic locations. We’ve had a lot of applicants, but…I’m looking for the right person, someone I really click with.”

“Do you mind if we do this?” Jules pointed to the map, clearly exasperated.

“I take it that’s a no?” Robin countered.

Jules didn’t deign to answer him. “Tonight’s focus is finding Peggy Ryan.” He put her photo next to the blueprints. “We’re looking for any sign of her at all.”

“Which room is hers?” Annie asked.

“This one.” He pointed to the room farthest from the kitchen, closest to that deck. “We know she had a private bath and a single window, facing roughly west. In her last two communications, she’d mentioned being able to see the sunset through that window. She also mentioned how cold it was in her room with the air-conditioning always running. She was definitely trying to tell us something—she repeated that information almost word for word. I suspect we’re going to find some kind of message inside the air-conditioning vent nearest to the window.”

“I’ve got a B-and-E kit made of plastic,” Ric reported. “It won’t get picked up by a metal detector.”

Annie looked at him. “B and E?”

“Breaking and entering,” he explained. “You know, lock pick, screwdriver to remove the a/c vent cover…?”

How did Burns explain the metal detectors to his party guests? Did he just make it part of the festivities, or did he try to disguise it? Here, walk through this Spanish-moss-covered archway so we can take your photo with Mandy the Manatee.

And what about the guests who set off the alarm? Step over here for a cavity search, madam. Joelle will take your drink order while you wait for Mr. Foley to change his latex gloves…

“A plastic screwdriver?” Annie was skeptical.

“Less like a plastic fork,” Martell told her, “and more like a plastic gun.”

“It will get noticed if you’re given a body search,” Jules warned. “So be careful.”

“Always am,” Ric said.

Yeah, right.

Had Martell actually said that aloud? Annie was looking at him as if he had.

But she had more questions for Jules. “Is the plan to go around the side of the house”—she used her finger to point out the route, landing on the servants’ deck—“and access the servants’ wing through here?”

Jules shook his head. “There’re no stairs up or down from that deck.”

She looked at the blueprint more closely. “Isn’t it ground level?”

“Not that part of the house. It’s built on an incline.” He pointed. “The garages are beneath the kitchen and servants’ wing.”

“We’re not exactly dressed for climbing,” Ric chimed in.

“What, no plastic grappling hook and rope that shoots out of the soles of your shoes?” Annie asked.

Ric shot her a look. “Best plan is to keep it simple,” he continued. “Wander down the hall to the kitchen, looking for a men’s room.”

“I agree,” Jules said.

“Where’s Burns’s office?” Ric asked.

“Second floor.” Jules flipped to a second page, and pointed to a room on the opposite side of the house. “Do not go there. He doesn’t keep paperwork. There’ll be nothing up there—except trouble if you’re found poking around.” He looked at Robin and Annie, too. “Are we clear on that?”

They all nodded.

“Don’t go anywhere alone,” Ric reminded Annie.

“You know, I can get us into the kitchen,” Robin volunteered. “I always sign autographs for the staff at the end of every party.”

“You do?” Jules said.

“Yes. Is that really so hard for you to believe?”

“It’s not. It’s…great,” Jules said. “But it’s hard to imagine that you’ll be allowed down there by yourself. Burns’ll go with you, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Robin said. “Sometimes the host comes with, sometimes I just go off exploring, with one of my handlers.” He gazed at Jules. “Tonight, that can be you.”

Chadwick’s assistants were actually called handlers? Like he was some kind of dancing bear? Martell glanced at Ric, checking in with his boy to see if he thought that was kind of weird, too, but Ric had on his I-wish-I-were-invisible face, which was doubly odd.

Jules, meanwhile, was clearing his throat. “Right. Or Annie. But…if Burns ends up going into the kitchen with us…That’s not going to work unless we can somehow create enough of a distraction to allow me to slip away while you’re signing the staff’s autographs.”

“You think I can’t create a major distraction?” Robin laughed. “You don’t have much faith in me. I’m an actor. I’ve got, like, a degree in creating distractions.”

“This isn’t a game,” Jules said, his voice hard. “You seem to think it is, but it’s not. I’ve got an agent missing and presumed dead. She went into Burns Point and never came back out. She’s either being held there, still, against her will, or her dead body was taken out in the trunk of a car.”

Those weren’t the only options. She could have been chopped into pieces and fed to the fishies. Or buried beneath the basement floor. Or…

“It’s dangerous,” Robin said, getting as much in Jules’s face as Jules was in his. The party boy was gone, replaced by someone with Teflon cojones, someone who put his head down, revved it into high gear, and just blasted through whatever obstacles were thrown in his path. “I get it. And I’m well aware it’s not a game, thanks, since yes, as you’re fond of reminding me, last time I was involved in one of your ‘games,’ I got shot.” He turned to Annie. “By the way, Ric wanted me to describe to you what that feels like. It burns like hell—and that’s before it really starts to fucking hurt. Apparently he doesn’t think very highly of you, because he thinks you’re going to hear that and decide to run back to Buttmonkey, New Hampshire, or wherever you’re from, like you don’t give a damn about what we’re doing here.”

The look Annie gave Ric was a real shriveler, but Robin was far from done.

He got back in Jules’s face. “And by the way, I’m also here because I give a damn—and no, not just about the safety and security of our country, although I care plenty about that—enough, yeah, to volunteer to help when it’s obvious that you can actually use my help, like tonight. But I also care—very much—about you. You know what I’m afraid of most of all? I’m afraid that you’ll disappear from my life again without giving me the chance to say all the things I want to say to you. Jesus, if I’ve got to knife-fight Gordon Burns just to spend time with you, someone find me a fucking K-Bar and bring him on.”

In the silence that followed that outburst, a two-thousand-watt lightbulb went on over Martell’s head, and suddenly it all made sense to him. Suddenly, Ric sending Annie to stay with Robin Chadwick in his hotel suite didn’t seem like such a stupid idea after all.

But now it was Annie’s turn to clear her throat. “Ric and I’ll wait in the limo,” she said brightly. She caught sight of Martell—no doubt he was standing there with his mouth hanging open. “Time to go.”

Martell shouldered his laptop, but managed to linger, waiting for Annie as she hurriedly made sure Pierre had enough food and water to last the evening.

Jules didn’t wait for the room to clear before asking Robin, “Are you completely insane?” He’d lowered his voice—not that there was any chance that they wouldn’t hear him.

Robin didn’t even bother trying not to be overheard. “You won’t talk to me in private, fine. I’ll have this conversation with you in front of your friends. Seeing you again has…Jules, it takes my breath away—how much I just want to be with you.”

Martell felt Annie tug on his arm. Damn, this may have been the weirdest conversation between two men that he’d ever heard, but it was oddly compelling. She finally gave up, retreating out to the limo with Ric as Martell dragged his feet, hanging there on the stoop, needing to hear what on earth Jules was going to say in response to that bomb.

“I can’t do this,” FBI said. “I won’t. Not twenty minutes before we’re due at Burns Point.”

“Yeah, sorry about my timing.” Hollywood was sincere in his apology. “It sucks, as usual. I didn’t mean to make things harder for you. I just…-couldn’t not say anything, okay? So now you know. Either we talk privately after this party, or we talk in front of everyone. Obviously, I don’t give a shit which you pick.”

Robin brushed by Martell in his haste to get into the limo, murmuring, “Sorry to disappoint,” as he passed.

Jules, too, had a host of apologies for Martell as he closed the office door. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a key,” was the first.

“I got it,” Martell said, fishing in his pocket for his overburdened key ring.

“I’m also sorry for the inappropriate—”

“Like any of that was your fault?” Martell locked the deadbolt. “Actors. Always with the high drama. What are you gonna do?”

Jules managed a smile, but he was still standing there, like he had something more to add. And he did. “Robin’s career depends on—”

“I know,” Martell again cut him off. “It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me, man.”

“It’s not my secret,” Jules said, “but thank you.”

“I’m going to have to do this,” Ric breathed in Annie’s ear as she stood near the outside bar on the patio of Burns Point.

She nodded, understanding. He was going to have to slip away and search for Peggy Ryan’s room, because Jules wasn’t going to be able to do it.

It was obvious that Gordon Burns considered Jules—producer Julian Young—to be as much of a celebrity as was Robin Chadwick. From the moment they’d walked in, Burns had commandeered both the actor and the undercover FBI agent, taking them around his crowded living room, introducing them to all of his friends and business associates.

“I think you should wait until Robin, you know, hits on me,” Annie now told Ric. “Make it look like you’re going off somewhere to pout.”

Through the open French doors that led into the house, she heard Jules laugh at something Burns had said. It was possible Jules was an even better actor than Robin—in the limo he’d been beyond tense and terse, but now he seemed believably lighthearted and cheerful.

It was almost as if he’d partaken of the very large drinks Robin had mixed right there in the car. But Robin himself had been the only taker—the movie star’s good spirits could, no doubt, be traced to his still rising blood/alcohol levels.

Or maybe, as he’d announced in front of them all back at the office, his happiness came purely from the fact that he was standing beside Jules.

Beside her, Ric nodded. “You smell really good.”

Annie turned to look at him. He was scanning both the patio and the living room, no doubt memorizing faces of the attendees for identification purposes later on.

He glanced at her. “What? You do. I’m just saying.”

“Do you know how long it took me to put on this fucking makeup?” she asked him.

Her use of the F-word brought wariness to his eyes. He knew he was in trouble. He just didn’t know why. “No,” he said. “Should I?”

“Over an hour,” she declared. “I had to teach myself how to do it—talk about a pain in the butt. Check out my eyes—the liner? Do you know how hard it is to take some little pointy pencil and make a straight line like that? Right near your own eye? Will you at least look at it, please?”

He looked. It was a little disconcerting to have him paying her such close attention, but at least now he didn’t look as much like a former cop working with the FBI, scoping out a suspect’s party.

“Note the mascara,” she said, looking up into Ric’s eyes, with their naturally thick, dark lashes. Bastard. “It clumps, so I had to use my fingers to unclump it, and then of course, I got it all over my face, so I had to wash it off and start over again. And then the lipstick? God forbid it be easy. No, first you have to use this special outliner crap, and the lip goo itself is applied with this impossible little brush.

“So I do all this, and you say…” She paused for emphasis. “You smell good. What you’re smelling is the same hair gel that I use every day,” she told him. “But thanks for noticing.”

“I said you smell really good,” Ric corrected her, “which is actually the accepted way of telling your high school best friend’s little sister—who spent years being way too young for you—that you think she looks unbelievably hot.”

“Nice try.” Annie wasn’t buying. “Right now, though? I’m looking for Wow, your eyeliner is really straight. Way to go. ”

“What I really like are your lips,” he told her, his gaze on her mouth. “You did an amazing job. You look incredible, and you know it.”

“Oh, man,” she said, her insides butterflying despite herself. “You were so close, but you had to blow it. You know it? What is this? Eighth grade? No wonder I’m dumping you for a gay movie star.”

He should have smiled, but he didn’t. He just kept on staring at her mouth. “You scare me to death,” he told her, finally looking into her eyes. “You always have—it started the day we met. Remember?”

Annie nodded. Did he actually think she’d ever forget?

She and her mother and Bruce had just moved to Sarasota. They’d rented a crappy house in a not-very-nice neighborhood—it was the best her mother could do at the time. She’d gotten a job at a store that sold appliances, and eleven-year-old Annie had built a fort in their sandy backyard with cast-off refrigerator boxes.

It had rained the night before, which wasn’t very good for the cardboard, and Annie had gotten right to work after school, shoring up the insides. It was a task that wasn’t particularly easy to do with her arm still in a sling.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Ric continued, “because of your elbow.”

That day, it had been Ric whose elbow was all torn up. Not just his elbow, but his whole lower arm, and his knee, as well. She’d always suspected that his full body slide through the gravel in the school yard had given him one hell of a rug burn on his hip, too, right through his jeans. But if it had, he’d never let on.

He was being chased by a gang of older boys. Skinheads.

Their attack on Ric was random. It could have happened to any one of the Hispanic kids attending Sarasota High. For no apparent reason, on that particular day, they’d targeted him.

He should have gone back into the school and called his mother for a ride home. But as he’d told Annie years later, he simply hadn’t believed he was in danger. Sure, they were harassing him—calling him names and throwing wads of paper at him.

But he’d never expected them to follow him. Or for those wads of paper to turn into rocks.

By then, it was too late to turn back. He’d run. They’d chased. He’d skidded in the gravel as they cut him off, when he’d tried to get to the elementary school, hoping to find protection in the front office.

He’d gotten away from them, leaving the road then, cutting through backyards.

Until he’d gotten to Annie’s and spotted her fort.

He was fast, despite his injuries, and was well ahead of the pack by then, and he’d kept his trail going, out of the yard. He’d circled back, crawling in to hide in the biggest of her boxes.

Which was right where she was using a baseball bat to brace the drooping roof.

They were face-to-face, two total strangers, but he put his finger on his lips, so she swallowed her surprise. It was then that she’d heard it. The sound of all those feet giving chase. All those voices shouting words she’d never heard before coming to Florida. Ese. Spic. Greaser. Cholo.

She’d peered out through one of the windows Bruce had helped her cut in the side of her fortress, holding her breath until they were gone.

“Thanks,” Ric had said.

“Do you need to use our phone?” Annie asked, and it was then they came back. They could hear the voices, cajoling now, as if calling a missing cat. Here ese, ese, ese…

Ric looked out through a peephole. “Go inside your house,” he ordered her. “Go. Now. They know I’m in here. Run. ”

But she hadn’t run. She’d climbed out from her fort and stood out there, at the edge of her yard, with her eyes narrowed and her good hand on her hip. “My uncle’s home and he’s sleeping,” she informed them. “You better not wake him up. He’s a cop and he gets mad when people wake him up.”

The skinhead’s leader was not convinced. “You hiding a friend of ours in your boxes, little girl?”

Annie may not have known what ese meant, or who these mean-looking kids were. All she knew was the boy with the dark brown eyes was in trouble because these kids were definitely not his friends. She glanced at her fort. “Only thing in there is my dog. His name’s Beast. He bites.”

“Bullshit.” The skinhead called her bluff, stomping toward the boxes, so there was nothing to do but scream.

Loud and long and piercing, it made her brother, Bruce, jump up from his video game and come to the kitchen door to see WTF, as he was fond of saying.

“Hey,” he’d shouted in his puberty-lowered voice, which spooked the skinheads into thinking it was her cop uncle coming outside to arrest them.

They turned and ran away, startled, too, by Ric, who’d launched himself at them, brandishing that baseball bat as soon as she’d started to scream. Even back then, he’d been willing to sacrifice his own safety for hers.

“You’ve always taken crazy risks,” Ric told her now.

“I helped save your butt,” Annie pointed out.

“More than once,” he agreed. “But you don’t really think things through. And when I’m with you, sometimes it feels like I start doing the same, like it’s contagious.”

“So what are you saying?” She struggled to understand. “That somehow it’s my fault that you’re here right now?” Standing on the patio in the home of a dangerous man who was believed to be responsible for smuggling terrorists into the United States…

“I’m saying that I can’t trust myself to make the right decisions when I’m around you,” Ric admitted. “Annie, God, it’s crazy, the way you make me feel—like the world’s going to end, and it’s up to me to save it, and I’ve got to pull either the yellow wire or the blue, only I have no clue what’s the right thing to do.” He laughed. “And there you are, just reaching for one of the wires, ready to gamble, because doing something’s better than doing nothing at all, and when I’m with you, I believe it’s true, but when I’m not, I know it’s not and, Christ, it’s driving me fucking nuts.”

“I’m sorry,” Annie said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “After tonight, you won’t have to worry about me.”

“Yeah,” he said, “like that’s going to happen.”

“At least I won’t be annoying you with my contagious recklessness,” she said.

“That came out wrong,” he said, but he didn’t try to explain what he’d really meant.

She could see Robin through the French doors. He was looking for her, an extra glass of champagne in his hands, ready to do his part to get her to safety—and to keep her from driving Ric fucking nuts. She had about twenty seconds before he spotted her and worked his way over. “Just be careful,” she told Ric. “All right?”

He saw Robin coming, too, and was as aware as she that this was probably going to be their last chance to speak face-to-face, until God knew when. “I really liked having you around these past few weeks.”

“Apparently not enough to keep me on,” she countered.

Ric shook his head. “I want you safe.”

“You got it,” Annie said, and she kissed him.

It was funny, actually. It was a textbook illustration of her so-called failure to think things through, of her tendency to just act without real regard for the consequences.

It was meant to be a kiss goodbye, a last farewell to the ridiculous attraction Annie still felt for him, a swift press of her lips against his.

And yeah. Wrapping her arms around his neck and letting him sweep his tongue into her mouth was not the going definition of swift. Of course, this was their second kiss, the first being really quite brief and heart-wrenchingly tender. Her mistake, apparently, lay in not retreating in that moment when she’d gazed into his eyes, as time seemed to hang, a heartbeat stretched on and endlessly on. Instead, she’d moved toward him, or maybe he’d pulled her close. Either way, the outcome was this disaster in which she found herself pressed tightly against him as she tried to inhale him.

If there was any good news at all, it was that he was holding her as tightly as she held him. That he was kissing her back as hungrily, as if he, too, had been dying to kiss her again since that ill-fated night in the Palm Gardens parking lot.

As if he hadn’t gone and kissed Lillian Lavelle—the aging porn star—the very same way he’d kissed Annie that very same night.

And that was the end of that. Kiss over. Temporary insanity done and done.

Robin had slowed his steps, clearly uncertain as to whether now was the right time to approach.

“Is that for me?” Annie asked the movie star. Without waiting for his answer, she took one of the glasses from his hand and knocked it back. It was not the way to drink fine champagne, but what the hell.

“Annie,” Ric said. He was no doubt about to launch into an apology or some kind of heavy explanation that would make her end up feeling even worse than she already did.

But she could see Jules through the open French doors, still deep in conversation with Gordon Burns, on the far side of the living room. “It’s time to go save the world,” she told Ric. “Be careful, okay?”

He was just standing there, staring at her, and she finally had to turn away.

“Come on,” she told Robin, holding out her empty glass. “Let’s go find me a refill.”