ENYA, AFRICA

FEBRUARY 22, 2005

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Forty-eight grueling hours after poor Narari breathed her last breath, it finally became apparent to Molly that the three other girls were going to survive.

For now, anyway. Women who’d been cut like this often struggled with recurring infections. Serious ones. Childbirth would be difficult, if not flat-out dangerous. And if the men that they married—the men to whom their parents all but sold them—were HIV positive, they, too had a far greater risk of becoming infected.

Risk? For most of them, it was practically a guarantee.

Molly made sure she was in the shower when Narari’s family came to claim her body, because Sister Double-M forbade her to speak to them. She stood there for much longer than she should have, letting the water pound on her head as she cried. Trying, with her tears, to release her anger at Narari’s parents, at the nun, at herself.

For not taking the time to get to know those girls better. For not sensing that they were in danger and urging them to run away.

For not protecting them.

It was a long time before Molly finally turned off the water. Exhausted, she then just stood and let herself drip, not wanting to move, but knowing that eventually she must.

The truth was, there just wasn’t anywhere that she wanted to go right now.

Gina was asleep in their tent. Having a roommate had its pros and cons.

But at least she didn’t have two roommates. They’d reclaimed their quarters from their English guest just this morning, when the busload of priests had retreated to Nairobi.

Molly was sorry she’d missed meeting them. A conversation with someone new would have been nice. But some of the visitors were still quite ill and the hospital facility here couldn’t continue to handle their care.

Gina had told her of the vomit-between-her-toes incident, which had made Molly think of Dave Jones, which was, of course, not the man’s real name.

She’d learned to speak of him only as Jones, even though his real name was Grady Morant, because too many nasty people wanted Morant dead. And although Molly doubted that they would travel all the way from the jungles of South Asia to the gorgeous desolation of this part of Kenya, she’d learned the hard way that evil could have a very long reach.

Because of that, she was training herself to think of him only as Jones, too—during those rare times she actually let herself think about him, of course.

Such as right now.

And, considering that one of her very first interactions with Jones had included his barfing on her running shoes, there was a solid reason why she was thinking about him now.

Unlike Gina’s episode with Father Dieter, the shoes hadn’t been on Molly’s feet at the time of the barfing, thank goodness. Both they and Jones had been in her tent, in a camp much like this one—except for the fact that it was on the other side of the world, on a small, lush, green island in Indonesia.

The American expat and entrepreneur—which was the polite word for black market smuggler—had been sick, and Molly had been a Good Samaritan and taken care of him. With the same exact amount of kindness that she would have shown him even if she hadn’t found him unbelievably attractive.

The flu-related event was the start of what had eventually become a torrid love affair. And, as most torrid love affairs tended to do, it had ended badly.

Still, there had been a time when Molly had looked for Jones wherever she went. She’d expected to turn around one day and see him standing there.

She’d honestly thought he’d find her, that he wouldn’t be able to stay away. He’d loved her. And wherever he was, he loved her still. She believed that with all of her heart.

But, after nearly three long years, she was no longer waiting and watching for him.

And she really only obsessed about him at those moments when a good romantic obsession could be used to blot out the day’s real-life pain.

Such as when a thirteen-year-old child died as the result of misogynistic ignorance.

Molly finished brushing out her hair and stashed her shower supplies back in her locker. She hung her towel out on the line, contemplating which she needed most—food or sleep.

Food won, and she headed for the mess tent.

At this time of early afternoon, it was deserted. Even Sister Helen, the self-anointed queen of the kitchen—terribly sweet but extremely talkative—was nowhere to be found. The solitude was just what Molly needed, and she knew that, despite the fact that their vastly different personalities often clashed, Sister Double-M was responsible for Helen’s disappearing act.

Molly took a tray from the stack and poured herself a glass of tea, then helped herself to bread and some of a divine-smelling vegetable dish that Helen had kept warm for the hospital staff.

It more than made up for the serious lack of chocolate.

She turned to carry her tray to a table and...

The Englishman, Leslie Whoosis, was leaning heavily on his cane just inside the door. Odd, she hadn’t heard it open. It was almost as if he’d materialized there.

She’d only seen him from the distance since he’d arrived in camp. This was their first face-to-face.

And he was exactly as Gina had described him—almost painfully thin, with terrible posture. He was, indeed as Gina said, the poster-child for tragically bad haircuts, with enough sunblock on his face to protect him should he decide to take wing and do a tight orbit around the sun. Glasses with twenty-year-old frames combined with his slightly dazed silence completed the time-traveling anthropology professor look.

Molly wasn’t close enough to tell if Gina’s rather unkind guess was on target—that he had bad breath, too—but she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she were correct. At the very least, he looked as if he reeked of emotional neglect.

“It’s Leslie, right?” she said, finding a smile for him, because it wasn’t his fault that he’d wandered in here during her alone time, an Englishman in perpetual search of tea. “I’m Molly Anderson.”

He didn’t move an inch, and there was something about the way he was clutching his cane that made her notice his hands. They were big and not as pale as she’d expected them to be, not by a long shot. He had long, sturdy fingers that he used to grip that cane so tightly his knuckles were nearly white.

His hands were...

Dear Heavenly Father. She looked hard at his eyes, hidden behind those glasses and...

He lunged toward her, but he was too late. Her tray hit the wooden floor with a smash and a clatter of metal utensils, loud enough to wake the dead.

He swore sharply, David Jones’s still-so-familiar voice coming out of that stranger’s body. “Do you have any idea how unbelievably hard it’s been to get you alone?”

Had she finally started hallucinating?

But he took off his glasses, and she could see his eyes more clearly and... “It’s you,” she breathed, tears welling. “It’s really you.” She reached for him, but he stepped back.

Sisters Helen and Grace were hurrying across the compound, coming to see what the ruckus was, shading their eyes and peering so they could see in through the screens.

“You can’t let on that you know me,” Jones told Molly quickly, his voice low, rough. “You can’t tell anyone—not even your friend the priest during confession, do you understand?”

“Are you in some kind of danger?” she asked him. Dear God, he was so thin. And was the cane necessary or just a prop? “Stand still, will you, so I can—”

“No. Don’t. We can’t...” He backed away again. “If you say anything, Mol, I swear, I’ll vanish, and I will not come back. Unless... if you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—”

“No!” was all she managed to say before Sister Helen opened the door and looked from the mess on the floor to Molly’s stricken expression.

“Oh, dear.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Jones said in a British accent, in a voice that was completely different from his own, as Helen rushed to Molly’s side. “My fault entirely. I brought Miss Anderson some bad news. I didn’t realize just how devastating it would be.”

Molly started crying. It was more than just a good way to hide her laughter at that accent—those were real tears streaming down her face and she couldn’t stop them. Helen led her to one of the tables, helped her sit down.

“Oh, my dear,” the nun said, kneeling in front of her, concern on her round face, holding her hand. “What happened?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Jones answered for her. “Bill Bolten. He found out I was heading to Kenya, and he thought if I happened to run into Miss Anderson that she would want to know that a friend of theirs recently... well, passed. Cat’s out of the bag, right? Fellow name of Grady Morant, who went by the alias of Jones.”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said again, hand to her mouth in genuine sympathy.

Jones leaned closer to the nun, his voice low, but not low enough for Molly to miss hearing. “His plane went down—burned—gas tank exploded... Ghastly mess. Not a prayer that he survived.”

Molly buried her face in her hands, hardly able to think.

“Bill was worried that she might’ve heard it first from someone else,” he said. “But apparently she hadn’t.”

Molly shook her head, no. News did travel fast via the grapevine. Relief workers tended to know other relief workers and... She could well have heard about Jones’s death without him standing right in front of her.

Wouldn’t that have been awful?

“I’m very glad,” Jones continued fervently, sounding like a card-carrying Colin Firth impersonator. “So very glad. You can’t know how glad...” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings, but your... friend was something of a criminal, the way I heard it. He had a price on his head—millions—from some druglord who wanted him dead. Chased him mercilessly, for years. I guess this Jones fellow used to work for him—it’s all very sordid, I’m afraid. And dangerous. He had to be on the move constantly. It was risky just to have a drink with Jones—you might’ve gotten killed in the crossfire. Of course, the big irony here is that the druglord died two weeks before Jones. He never knew it, but he was finally free.”

As he looked at her with those eyes that she’d dreamed about for so many months, Molly understood. Jones was here, now, only because the druglord known as Chai, a dangerous and sadistic bastard who’d spent years hunting him, was finally dead.

“It’s entirely possible that whoever’s taken over business for this druglord,” he continued, “would’ve gone after this Jones, too. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have searched to the ends of the earth for him... Although, when dealing with such dangerous types, it pays to be cautious, I suppose.”

Message received.

“Not that that’s anything Jones needs to worry about,” he added. “Considering he’s left his earthly cares behind. Still, I suspect it’s rather hot where he’s gone.”

Yes, it certainly was hot in Kenya right now. Molly covered her mouth, pretending to sob instead of laugh.

“Shhh,” Helen admonished him, thinking, of course, that he was referring to an unearthly heat. “Don’t say such a thing. She loved him.” She turned back to Molly. “This Jones is the man that you spoke of so many times?”

Molly could see from the expression on Jones’s face that Helen had given her away. She might as well go big with the truth.

She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that Helen had at the ready, then met his gaze.

“I loved him very much. I’ll always love him,” she told this man who’d traveled halfway around the world for her, who apparently had waited years for it to be safe enough for him to join her, who had actually thought that, once he arrived, she might send him away.

If you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—just say the word...

“He was a good man,” Molly said, “with a good heart.” Her voice shook, because, dear Lord, there were now tears in his eyes, too. “He deserved forgiveness—I’m positive he’s in heaven.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for him,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be...” He cleared his throat, put his glasses back on. “I’m so sorry to have distressed you, Miss Anderson. And I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Where are my manners?” He held out his hand to her. “Leslie Pollard.”

Even with his glasses on, she could see quite clearly that he’d far rather be kissing her.

But that would have to wait for later, when he came to her tent... No, wait, Gina would be there. Molly would have to go to his.

Later, she told him with her eyes, as she reached out and, for the first time in years, touched the hand of the man that she loved.

She didn’t have to work at all to make her tears appear convincing, and Helen helped her to her feet. “Come, dear, let’s get you to your tent. I’ll bring a tray with something for you to eat.”

As Molly left the mess tent, she looked back at Leslie Pollard, who was already helping Sister Grace clean up the mess she’d made.

Gina was wrong. He didn’t have bad breath at all.

SHEFFIELD PHYSICAL REHAB CENTER, MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

NOVEMBER 13, 2003

NINETEEN MONTHS AGO

Gina found Max in the recreation room.

Sitting at a table by the window, with a cup of coffee, engrossed in a book.

A steamy romance novel, perhaps?

She smiled at the ridiculous idea of Max reading anything that wasn’t directly related to his job as she stopped just outside the door, in the shadows, where he’d have trouble seeing her if he glanced up. She was waiting for her brother to finish up in the men’s room—she didn’t want to disappear on him. And she also didn’t want to walk in there alone, giving Max the opportunity to tell her that the sex they’d shared had been a huge mistake.

It had been the first time since... that other first time, back months ago, before Max had been shot. That it had happened again—here at the rehab facility, no less—had been almost as surprising to her as it obviously had been to him. She didn’t want to debate the issue, although she was prepared to go into battle, if need be.

Because, God, the way he looked at her when he didn’t think she was watching...

It didn’t happen very often. Mostly when he was exhausted, or just waking up.

But Max wanted her, and Gina knew it. She was as sure of that as she was that the sky was blue, and the earth was round.

That knowledge had given her the courage to play out her little seduction scene, day before last. That, and the realization she’d come to during those endless days and nights in the hospital, as Max had hovered close to death.

She loved this man with all of her heart and soul.

And all of those reasons she’d been so ready to walk away from him, to go to Kenya and move on with her life—they so didn’t matter anymore.

So he’d asked someone else—Alyssa Locke, a gorgeous, perfect woman who’d worked with him at the Bureau—to marry him. So what? Alyssa didn’t want him. She’d foolishly turned him down. Her loss.

And Gina’s gain.

Because so what if that meant Gina was getting him on the rebound? She no longer cared that she was Max’s second choice. She wouldn’t care if she was his fifth choice.

Max’s nearly dying had brought it all down to the bottom line for her. Which was that she just wanted to be with him.

And two days ago, she’d proven her theory that sex was the chink in his armor. She now knew that their mutual attraction was going to be her way in. And she was going to use it shamelessly to get what she wanted—a chance to be a part of this man’s life.

And if rebound relationships tended to end because the reboundee bounced away—well, that wasn’t going to happen here. Gina was going to hold on to Max with all of her might.

Across the room, he turned a page of his book.

It was nice to be able to look at him without him looking back at her.

Without him going to DEFCON 1.

He was wearing faded jeans and a subdued second cousin to a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops on his feet. The shirt and sandals were fashion by necessity—his still healing collarbone made it impossible to pull a T-shirt over his head. And he’d actually admitted that tying his sneakers was painful for him.

He had on his reading glasses, and Gina knew if she approached, he’d quickly take them off. It might’ve been because he couldn’t see her with them on. Or it might’ve been vanity.

A fear of appearing old, perhaps?

She had to figure out exactly why their age difference was such a big problem for him. Of course, talking about it with him would be nice.

Ha. As if he’d ever volunteer to do that.

What was that expression she’d recently heard? Not until snow falls on the hills of hell.

She used to think that Max was good at talking. God knows they’d spent hours on the phone, back when she was struggling to put her life back together, after the hijacking. But it wasn’t until recently that she realized—it wasn’t talking he was good at. He was good at listening.

She’d opened herself up to him, told him her secrets, her dreams, her hopes—and he’d told her very little in return. He loved Jimi Hendrix. His parents had divorced while he was in college. He had a sister with mental health issues. He was too much of a nerd to have had a girlfriend in high school, but while at Princeton, he’d been hot and heavy for three years with a girl named Beverly. They’d split up when he graduated early. She’d married someone else a year later, and had two kids.

Gina was pretty sure he hadn’t told her all of that story, although he had made a point to tell her those kids were both close to Gina’s age.

She now leaned against the door frame, watching as Max used a highlighter to mark a passage in his book. So much for her theory about the romance novel, unless he was taking notes for the next time they were together and naked.

A clatter and raised voice over by the pool table made him look up and she shrank further back.

“Yes! Yes!”

There was a young boy in a special, funky, extra-tall wheelchair, working with one of the female staff members, playing the game. He looked about twelve years old, but Gina suspected he was just small for his age.

He’d dropped his pool cue onto the tile floor and was taking victory laps around the table as he continued to whoop and chant. “Who won? I did! Who won? I did!”

His face was angelic—big brown eyes, rich, dark brown skin. But his arms and hands looked as if he’d done some serious time in hell. He’d been so badly burned, his hands weren’t really hands anymore. What was left of his fingers were twisted and claw-like from thick scar tissue.

“Ajay, Ajay!” the staff member said, laughing. “Shhh! The gentleman is trying to read.”

The boy sat in a position that looked as if he were unable to use his legs—knees over slightly to one side, feet together. But he motored swiftly and expertly over to Max, using a hand control on the right arm of the wheelchair. “I’m in training to be a pool hustler, you know, for when the insurance money runs out? You up for losing twenty bucks?”

Max smiled as he put his book down. “Not right now, thanks. I’ve got a friend coming to visit.”

Gina was that friend to whom he’d referred. Friend. Not girlfriend. Not lover.

But okay. As depressing as that news was, it was good to know where she stood.

As Gina continued to watch, Ajay held out his hand to Max. “I’m Ajay Moseley. Car accident.”

It was clearly a test, and Max passed with flying colors. He took the boy’s misshapen hand without hesitation and shook. “Max Bhagat. Gunshot.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re the big hero everyone’s buzzing about. Mr. FBI—who caught a terrorist bullet to the chest but still managed to take the scumbag down. Snaps.” Ajay sat back in his chair. “So what’s the word on me these days? ‘Poor little Ajay, gon’ die soon, he don’t find hisself a new kidney?’ ” He pretended to sniff and wipe a tear from his eye.

Max shook his head. “Nah. You’re like me. You’ve got yourself a solid Triple-T-K rating around here.”

Ajay sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed for several seconds. “Aiight, dawg,” he finally said. “I’ll bite. What’s a whatsis-K...?”

“Too tough to kill,” Max told him.

Ajay laughed, clearly pleased. “That’s for damn sure.”

The staff member approached. “Ajay, it’s time to go see Kevin.”

“Kevin the torturer,” Ajay said. “Oh, happy day! You meet the Kevster yet, Mr. FBI?” He slipped effortlessly into a California surfer accent. “Dude! Way to go! Push it harder! We both know you’ll be so much happier tomorrow if it hurts so much today that you bleed from your ears, dude!”

Max laughed. “Yeah,” he told him. “I visit his torture chamber twice a day for physical therapy. And the name’s Max.”

“How about a friendly game of pool tomorrow morning?” Ajay said. “Around ten? No need to bring your wallet just yet. At least not until I find out if you’re better’n me.”

The nurse gently pulled his chair away. “I’m sure Mr. Bhagat has things he needs to—”

“Tomorrow morning sounds good,” Max interrupted. “But I’ve got Kevin until ten, and I’ll need a hosing down after. Want to make it ten-thirty? If I survive?”

“Ms. LeBlanc,” Ajay said to the staff member, in an exaggerated English accent. “Please check my schedule—” he pronounced it the British way: shed-dule “—and pencil in my morning engagement with my good friend Max.” He grinned. “Later, bro.”

Gina pulled even farther back into the hallway as the boy and the nurse left the room.

But it was too late—Max had spotted her.

“Victor head back to New York?” he asked.

“No, he’s here.” Gina pointed over her shoulder, down the hall to where she’d last seen her brother. “I think he’s flirting with the nurses.” She came into the room. “How are you?”

His eyes were guarded, his expression neutral. “Still sleeping too much.”

“Sleep is good,” she said. “You’ll heal faster.”

And there they were, face to face. Both obviously thinking about the last time they were together, about the way she’d pushed him back in his bed and climbed on top of him and...

Oh, yes, he was definitely thinking about that. He was trying to hide it, but she could tell.

Maybe bringing her brother along to play chaperone had been a bad idea. Maybe if she’d come here by herself, they wouldn’t have had the discussion she’d been dreading. Maybe all she had to do was let Max look into her eyes and see how badly she wanted to make love to him again and hold out her hand and...

“Excuse me.”

Both Gina and Max turned to see that same staff member who’d been playing pool with Ajay standing just inside the door.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman said. “I just... I’m Gail,” she said, coming over to shake their hands. “We haven’t been introduced yet. I work mostly with Ajay.” She had a sweet face, a warm smile. “I just wanted to... Well, it’s a favor and I hope you don’t mind too much, but Ajay has a brother—Rick—who’s always promising to come visit and he’s only shown up maybe once in the past year and a half, and... I just wanted to ask you not to make any plans with Ajay that you can’t keep. I’m sorry, that sounds so insulting. But the disappointment... He puts on such a positive face for the world and... I’m the one who hears him cry at night,” she finished apologetically.

“How old is he?” Max asked.

“Fourteen,” Gail told him. “I’m not sure if it was the accident or the treatments that stunted his growth. All I know is it’s a miracle he’s alive. His entire family was killed—except for Rick, who wasn’t in the car. It’s been three years—he’s been in and out of here. Each time he has a new surgery, he’s back and... He’s had trouble with scarring, and now with his kidney...”

Max nodded. “You can tell him I’ll see him tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

Gail nodded, too, but she was obviously still worried.

“Max’ll be there,” Gina told her. “But I’m sure he won’t mind if you want to call his room, to remind him.”

“Absolutely,” Max said. “If it makes you feel better...”

“Thank you,” Gail said.

“Gee,” Gina said after the nurse had left the room. “This place has some seriously devoted staff. Should I be jealous?”

Stupid question. It opened up all kinds of doors.

“We need to talk about what happened the other day,” Max told her.

“Okay.” She sat down across from him. “Which part do you want to talk about first, Wild Thing? The part where you gave me what’s probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my entire life?”

He closed his eyes. “Gina—”

She leaned forward as she lowered her voice. “Or the part where I first pushed you all the way inside of me, all the way and God, it felt so amazingly—”

“Stop.”

“—good.” Not a chance. Gina reached for his hand. “Ever since I left here, I’ve been thinking about making love to you again. About how great it was. About how just sitting here like this makes me hot for you.”

He didn’t pull his hand away. And when he looked up to meet her gaze, there was heat in his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “And it’s...”

“Working?” she finished for him, laughing, because yes, her words were working. At least they were working for her. If they were in his room right now, she would lock his door.

And he would not argue. She knew it.

At least not very much.

So she pushed him harder. “You know, I thought maybe if we had sex again it would make me stop wanting you so much. But all it’s done is make me want you more.” She leaned closer. Spoke even more softly. “Day and night, Max. I’ve been thinking about you constantly. Sometimes I think even if we could make love every hour on the hour, it still wouldn’t be enough. I want to spend, like, two weeks with you inside me, nonstop.”

Ooh, yeah. Direct hit. Her point-blank approach was both making him uncomfortable and turning him on. Wasn’t this going to be fun?

“But then what?” he asked. “After those two weeks...?”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “Why don’t we try it and find out? What can it hurt—”

“You,” he said, his voice rough. “It could hurt you, and I don’t want to do that. Gina—”

“Hey, there you are.”

Gina looked up to see her brother coming toward them, and Max took the opportunity to pull his hand away. Shoot, Victor had lousy timing. Or maybe it was good timing.

“Hey, Max,” Vic said.

Max stayed in his seat as he shook Victor’s hand. Of course, he still kept his cane nearby. He might have been feeling unsteady on his feet.

Or maybe he didn’t stand for a different reason.

Gina could only hope.

Vic, of course, clasped Max’s hand, obviously sizing him up, doing that macho squeeze thing that drove Gina nuts. “He’s younger than I remember,” he said to Gina. Perfect. Thank you so much, Victor. Then, back to Max, “We met—very briefly—a few years ago. Looks like being shot has agreed with you.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Gina told the man who had just moved into first place as the most stupid of her three very stupid brothers.

“What?” Vic shrugged as he dragged over a chair. “I’m just saying—Max looks good. You know, for an older guy. What’d, ya lose weight while you were in the hospital?”

“Yes, Victor,” Gina said. “They call it the Almost Dying Diet.” She turned to Max. “My brother is an idiot.”

“It’s all right,” he said, flexing his fingers—no doubt checking to make sure Victor hadn’t broken his hand. “Still living in Manhattan, Vic?”

“Nah, the office moved to Jersey about a year after 9/11. The commute was killing me, so I finally loaded up the old U-Haul and crossed the river,” Victor said. “I’m in frickin’ Hackensack. I wake up most mornings and wonder how the hell did this happen?”

“I know the feeling,” Max said. It was a comment that was so aimed at her, but Gina refused to accept it.

“You could look for a new job,” she suggested to her brother.

“In this market? I don’t think so.” Vic shook his head. “With my luck, word would get out I was looking and I’d be given notice. We’re not all lucky enough to have some big airline lawsuit settlement in our savings account, Geen.”

“Lucky?” Max repeated, incredulity dripping from that single word.

Gina knew he was thinking that Victor actually believed it was lucky that terrorists had hijacked the airliner that her college jazz band had taken on their European tour. That the money she’d received as a settlement from the airline made the entire ordeal worthwhile.

She touched Max’s arm. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

Victor was oblivious to the fact that he’d just jumped, with both feet, on one of Max’s buttons. “Besides, I bought the condo when interest rates were low. I couldn’t get those numbers anymore.”

The muscles in the sides of Max’s face were jumping as he clenched his teeth.

“It’s all right,” Gina said softly. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He didn’t say the words—he wouldn’t dare admit it—but she knew that everything about her experience on that hijacked plane still bothered him.

Very much.

Mr. Clueless was checking his watch. “We should probably take off,” her brother announced as he pushed himself to his feet. “We’re meeting a coupla college friends down in Fairfax.” He held out his hand again. “Max. Nice seeing you again, even though it is a little creepy that you and my baby sister are—”

“Thank you, Victor,” Gina interrupted.

He shrugged. “I’m just saying. Just being honest. You’re always saying ‘be honest’—”

“Go be honest out in the hall. I’ll catch up to you in a sec,” she ordered.

“Feel better, man,” Vic called as he sauntered out.

“If he doesn’t go home soon,” Gina said, “I may be facing homicide charges. You should hear some of the things he’s asked Jules.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s been trying to get him to admit he’s not really gay. ‘Catherine Zeta-Jones, man,’ ” she imitated her brother’s voice. “ ‘You come home from work and she’s naked on your bed—are you really saying you’re going to walk away from that magic? And if you do say it, you expect me to believe you?’ ”

Max smiled, but it was still pretty grim. “You should’ve just let me kill him for you.”

“It still really freaks you out,” Gina asked. “Doesn’t it? What happened to me on the plane.” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You should’ve seen how tense you got when he made that stupid comment about the settlement. We really should talk about it sometime. Like, in two weeks...?”

She’d hoped her reference to their earlier conversation would make him smile again, but he just ground his teeth even harder.

She leaned across the table to kiss him. He didn’t exactly respond, but he didn’t pull away either.

“His plane leaves at twelve-thirty tomorrow,” Gina told him. “I’ll be dropping him at the airport in the morning. I’ll meet you in your room after your pool game. You won’t have any trouble recognizing me—I’ll be the soon-to-be-naked woman sitting on your bed holding a picnic lunch.”

She kissed him again, and headed for the door before he could argue.

It was, of course, entirely possible that he wouldn’t show up. That he would—how had Victor said it?—just walk away from that magic.

But Gina looked back and saw that heat in his eyes.

And she knew he’d be there.