he atmosphere at Bell Harbor General Hospital was distinctly festive, despite the fact that the little hospital was under siege by the same frenzied media that had descended on Palm Beach to cover the murder of Edith Reynolds. The attempted murder of Sloan and Paris Reynolds the night before had caused an uproar of grim conjecture and wild theory.

The local TV stations preferred to credit Detective Sloan Reynolds and Officer Jess Jessup with all the acts of courage and daring that night, and to overlook the heroics of two FBI agents who'd participated in the raid that night.

The national media found it very curious, and very exciting, that one of those FBI agents had made headlines only days before during the search and seizure of Noah Maitland's yachts.

The announcement a few minutes ago, shortly after dawn, that Paris Reynolds had regained consciousness signaled the beginning of a celebratory mood. And—it was hoped by the hospital staff—the departure of the throngs of reporters at their doors.

"Mr. Richardson?" A smiling nurse stepped into a private waiting room on the third floor. Lowering her voice so she wouldn't wake up Kimberly and Sloan she said, "Miss Reynolds is awake. If you'd like to see her alone for a few minutes, this is your chance."

Paul stood up. After waiting at the hospital, hour after hour, for Paris to regain consciousness, he suddenly had no idea what to say to her.

He panicked a little when he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he sat down beside her bed, he realized her breathing was strong and even and her color was vastly improved.

He took her hand in his. Her eyes opened, and he watched her register who he was. Now he waited for her to remember what he was—the bastard who had doubted every honest, decent thing she'd done and then committed the final, vicious injustice of accusing her of murdering the great-grandmother she had loved. He felt he deserved the same treatment he received the night she slapped him and slammed the door in his face.

She looked at him, her confusion disappearing completely. She swallowed and made her first effort to speak in two days, and Paul braced himself. Her voice was barely a whisper. "What took you so long?" she asked with the barest trace of one of her smiles.

He gave a hoarse laugh and tightened his hand on hers.

"Was I shot?" she asked.

He nodded, remembering the gruesome way it had looked to him when a stray shot ricocheted off something and grazed her head.

"Who shot me?"

Paul leaned his forehead on their clasped hands, closed his eyes, and told her the truth. "I think I did."

She was very still, and then she began to shake with laughter. "I should have guessed that."

Paul looked into her eyes and tried to smile. "I love you," he said.