But this time, the case was preying on her mind, and that was odd. It wasn’t the potential danger that concerned her…she’d been in situations before where, if her true identity had become known, she’d have been a target for extermination. No, it wasn’t the case itself, it was the subject. The woman. Reluctantly she admitted that her brief and unplanned encounter with Rica had been unsettling. In those few moments when Rica hadn’t known she was being observed, she had revealed a hint of weariness and vulnerability that was never obvious in her public persona. Quite unexpectedly, Carter had seen a woman, not a mobster’s daughter, and the image lingered even weeks later.

“So what?” Carter muttered, throwing off the sheet and rising rapidly despite the protest pounding in her head. “She’s still the target. Just the target.”

After a shower dispelled the last of her fuzziness, she dug an old pair of gray chinos out of her suitcase, pulled on a washed-out Red Sox T-shirt, and headed out into the disgustingly gorgeous spring morning. At 7:30 a.m., the streets were still fairly empty. A rollerblader passed her heading west down Commercial Street at literally breakneck speed, the usual bevy of workmen in pickup trucks were clustered around the Coffee Pot Cafe on MacMillan Wharf, and a few preseason tourists ambled along, peering into the still-closed shop windows.

Carter turned east on Commercial without any conscious plan, until, fifteen minutes later, she was leaning against the corner of a building opposite Rica’s new art gallery. To her surprise, she detected shadowy movement through the large plate glass window. She checked the cars parked up the street and saw Rica’s Lexus.

“You’re working early,” Carter mused, grateful there weren’t many people around to see her talking to herself. She hadn’t yet worked out exactly how she was going to reintroduce herself to her target after the premature meeting at Alfonse Pareto’s birthday celebration. No matter how she devised it, Rica was likely to be suspicious. “Well, there’s no time like the present.”

Not one to dwell on a decision made, Carter retraced her steps until she reached the Wired Puppy, one of the specialty coffeehouses in town. She ordered two double espressos and scones. Five minutes later, she tapped on the door of Beaux Arts. At first, she thought her knock would go unanswered, but thirty seconds later Rica came into view. The don’s daughter stopped just on the opposite side of the closed door and frowned at Carter through the glass. Then she shook her head and tapped her watch, as if suggesting that Carter come back later.

Carter held the cardboard carrier containing the coffee and pastries aloft and mouthed the words, “Breakfast.”

“You just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Rica said when she opened the door, holding it ajar with her arm and blocking the entrance to the main gallery.

“Actually, yes. Are you ready for your second espresso?”

“What makes you think I’ve had a first?”

“The sign on your door says the gallery opens at eleven, but it’s not even eight o’clock.” Carter shrugged. “So you’re working at the crack of dawn, and who does that without coffee?”

Rica narrowed her eyes, taking in Carter’s casual clothes and just-showered look. Obviously, she was staying in town. And just as obviously, she hadn’t stumbled on Rica by accident. “Well, I suppose you’re a better choice than Johnny T.”

Carter, through years of practice, hid her surprise despite the spurt of adrenaline that coursed through her. Johnny T. was one of Alfonse Pareto’s musclemen. The fact that Rica referred to him so casually in Carter’s presence was a first step toward trusting her. She made a decision. In her undercover persona as a friend of the “family,” she would be expected to know Johnny T.

“I’m glad you think so. Johnny’s a nice guy, but he lacks for a bit of polish.”

“I don’t need you here. I told my father that.”

Carter tried to decode that information while hoping she looked as if she knew what Rica was talking about. Obviously Rica was not pleased to see her and assumed that she was performing some duty for Rica’s father. She couldn’t imagine… Oh, Christ. She thinks I’ve been sent here to check up on her. A female version of Johnny T. That’s not likely to get me into her good graces.

There were times when the truth was the best approach.

“I’m not working for your father.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that you would tell me if you were?”

“Look, Ms. Pareto…”

“Grechi. It’s Grechi here.”

“Ms. Grechi,” Carter said, extending the package in her hands. “Can we talk about this inside over coffee and scones?”

Rica wanted to say no. She hated being manipulated by her father, and the fact that he had sent an attractive woman when she had turned down his offer of Johnny T. infuriated her. As if a woman bodyguard, or spy, or whatever function Carter might be performing would be more acceptable just because Rica might find her attractive. Her father steadfastly refused to acknowledge her lesbianism, until it suited him. Then, when he thought it might get him what he wanted, he tried to use it to his advantage. So what if Carter Wayne was a charming, gorgeous woman…that was supposed to make her accept being spied on?

“I’m sorry. I really am quite busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Rica swung the door closed.

Carter could have blocked the door with her knee or shoulder, but she knew that would only prove to Rica exactly what she already suspected…that Carter was there to strong-arm her into doing something she didn’t want. So instead, she said quickly as the door closed in her face, “He didn’t send me. I swear.”

Through the glass, Rica studied Carter’s face. Her eyes were intense, unwavering. Surprisingly, they were completely unguarded, and Rica almost believed she saw truth in them. Even though she knew better, she found herself opening the door. “My first cup of coffee wasn’t espresso, and it was three hours ago. Come inside.”

“Thanks.”

Carter followed Rica through the surprisingly spacious and impressively well-stocked main gallery to a small office in the rear. That room opened through a set of sliding glass doors onto a ground deck that sat right on the beach. Rica guided her to a small, round gray granite-topped table and matching sling back chairs.

“Whoa,” Carter exclaimed as she sat down. “How did you manage to score this place?”

Rica removed the top from her espresso and sipped it appreciatively. “Good timing.”

Carter handed her a scone. “I thought I got lucky getting a single on Bradford.”

“You bought a house?” Rica said with surprise.

“Office-apartment combination,” Carter replied. She bit into the scone and brushed crumbs from her pants. “Nothing to compare to this, though.”

Carter was serious. Fifty feet away the water shimmered, a perfect mirror for the perfect clouds in the perfect blue sky. The vista was so beautiful it hurt to look at it, and she was finally awake enough to appreciate it. What made the picture memorable, though, was the sunlight glinting on the loose, midnight black waves framing Rica’s face. When the wind caught them and whipped them about her cheeks and neck, Carter had the sudden image of Rica in the throes of passion, her head flung back…

“What kind of an office?”

“Law.” Carter forced herself to focus.

“Oh, I remember now,” Rica said. “You’re an attorney.”

“That’s right.”

“And what is a high-powered Boston attorney doing in a quiet little place like this?”

Carter laughed. “And what is a high-powered New York City art gallery owner doing in a quiet little place like this?”

Rica smiled. “I asked you first.”

Carter had never seen a spontaneous smile from her before, and it nearly stopped her heart. It had always been obvious that Rica was a classically beautiful woman, but she’d never appreciated the sensuous fullness of her mouth or the deep allure of her dark eyes before this moment.

“Are you going to answer the question?”

Carter gave a start and shook her head. “Sorry. Late night. I bought the building some months ago, thinking I’d spend part of the summer over here. I’m just now getting everything set up.”

“Somehow you don’t seem the type to summer in this kind of place.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Come now,” Rica said scornfully. “A woman who spends her time with powerful men, dealing with them on their terms, and winning, I’d wager.” She lifted her hands as if to say that was answer enough.

“What you see isn’t always the whole story,” Carter said, skirting dangerously close to the truth. For some reason, she didn’t want Rica to casually dismiss her as just another player in an unsavory game. Even though that’s exactly who she needed Rica to believe her to be.

Rica stared, momentarily unnerved by the echo of her father’s words of the night before. She couldn’t help but think that they were having an entirely different conversation than the one their words would suggest, but she couldn’t quite understand it. She also couldn’t explain to herself why she didn’t want Carter Wayne to be who she knew her to be. Another handsome, charming liar. She stood abruptly.

“I’m sorry. I have a great deal of work to do.”

Carter rose as well and collected the trash, rolling up the bag and holding it in her fist. “I imagine you do. You have some beautiful pieces on display already.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to join me for dinner this evening?”

“You have quite a different approach than Johnny T., too,” Rica said, turning to walk back inside.

Carter followed. “I thought we already got that settled?”

“No,” Rica said, sitting down behind her desk. “You only said you weren’t sent here by my father. I didn’t say I believed you.”