“I know you don’t wear earrings,” Sonny said, as if he’d heard her thought, and dismissed it with a shrug. “What the hell-they went with the necklace. I thought maybe someday you might wanna get your ears done, you know? And if not, hell, I’ll get ‘em made so you can wear ’em without.” Once again he reached for her hands, closed them around the earring box and brought them to his lips. “Can’t wait to see you in ‘em, you know that, don’t you, baby? And nothin’ else…okay, maybe the choker…” Then abruptly he let go of her and leaned back in his chair, swearing under his breath. “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered. “Makin’ myself crazy. Jeez, I hate that you have to be in that damn thing.”

Eve’s heart was pounding so hard, she couldn’t speak. She groped for her champagne, got the end of the straw between her lips and sucked greedily, draining the glass. “I won’t always be wearing this collar,” she said huskily. There… that was better.

Sonny refilled her glass, then lifted his to her in a toast. “I’ll drink to that… Reminds me,” he said, wiping champagne from his lips with a napkin, “your doctor called.”

Eve choked and then had to cope with champagne up her nose. Sonny had to get up and come around behind her and hold her steady while she coughed. She did have the presence of mind to say, “Ouch! Ow!” every time the spasms shook her, and Sonny, deeply concerned, said, “Jeez, don’t do that, baby-you’re gonna wind up in traction.”

“You said…my doctor called?” Eve wheezed when she was once again capable of speech. “What…what’d he want?”

“What? Oh-just said to tell you your appointment’s been changed to tomorrow afternoon. That’s in Savannah, right? You’re gonna need the limo-Sergei can drive you.”

Fortunately for Eve, who was once again carefully sipping champagne through her bendy straw, there came a knock at the door just then, and Sonny, instead of resuming his place across the table from her, said, “Hey-that must be dinner,” and went to admit the waiters. Because how on earth would she have explained the shine in her eyes, the deepening pink flush in her cheeks that could never be mistaken for anything else but joy?

Jake! I’ll see him tomorrow. Tomorrow!


Jake peeled off his headphones and dropped them on the narrow countertop. “I need some air,” he growled, pushing back his chair. He dove through the back doors of the van and kept going. He didn’t intend to stop until he’d reached the top of the nearest dune, where maybe the wind off the Atlantic, harbinger of the first nor‘easter of the season, would be strong enough and cold enough to blow the cobwebs out of his brain.

Brain? What brain? Because as far as he was able to tell, at the moment all he had between his ears was a scrambled mess of rage and frustration… Yeah, okay, admit it-and fear.

“What’s goin’ on?” Birdie joined him on the dune, puffing a little, Jake observed. He’d have to have a talk with Margie-the woman was too good a cook for her husband’s own good.

He shrugged, jerking his shoulders in the manner of someone shaking off an unwelcome burden, and punched words through his tightly clenched teeth. “Couldn’t take it anymore. Had to take a break.”

“Take what? You mean, Cisneros?” Jake snorted. Birdie hunched his shoulders against the chill wind and chuckled. “He is one charming son of a gun when he wants to be, isn’t he?”

Jake didn’t share his partner’s amusement. In his opinion, Cisneros was about as charming as a rattlesnake, and his wordless reply was more snarl than chuckle.

“What?” Birdie shot him a look along his shoulder. “Come on-you’re not afraid she’s falling for it?”

Jake kicked at a hummock of grass with the toe of his shoe. “The way that bastard’s laying it on?” He made a sibilant sound, replete with disgust. “You gotta hand it to him, he sure knows how to push the buttons. Champagne, flowers, candlelight, jewelry, pretty words… Hell, it worked once, didn’t it?”

Birdie was silent for a moment, kicking at his own hunk of grass. Then he shook himself-or maybe shivered-and said, “You don’t think he might have…genuine feelings for her? Hey-” he held up both hands to defend himself against Jake’s snort of derision “-even wise guys fall in love…get married.”

Jake swore bitterly. “If he’s convinced you, what’s he doing to her?”

“Come on…”

“You’re forgetting. Cisneros isn’t just a wise guy, the man’s a classic sociopath. He doesn’t have feelings for people-he uses people. That’s the only value they have for him-to be used. Otherwise he cares about as much for them as you do for that weed you’re stomping to death. If he’s giving her the royal treatment it’s because he wants something from her-period. I just hope she’s smart enough to realize that, is all.”

“Come on,” said Birdie after a moment, sounding unhappy, “you don’t really think she’d fall for it, do you? After what she heard? Knowing what she knows? What, just because he gives her some jewelry?”

Jake snorted, and this time the sound was meant to be laughter. “Some jewelry… That ‘replacement’ he was talking about? The one he said he had made like the one that got stolen? You know what that little bauble consists of? I know, because I took it off of her myself. It’s a pearl necklace-the real thing. Three strands perfectly matched with a diamond clip. Had to cost more’n you and I make in a year, and now she’s got two-a matched set.”

“Big deal,” said Birdie, “she’s only got one neck.” He punched his hands deep into his jacket pockets and shook his head, laughing softly. “All I can say is, I hope she doesn’t ever find out we had this conversation. She didn’t strike me as the type who could be bought with diamonds and pearls.”

She hadn’t struck Jake that way, either, and to be honest, it wasn’t the jewelry he was riled up about. And it wasn’t anything Cisneros had said or done-he was pretty much used to the way the man operated; nothing surprised him anymore. What had done it to him was Eve’s voice, whispery with tears. “Sonny, I wish…” Low and husky… “I won’t always be wearing this collar. ”

As for why that should be, well…he didn’t want to go there himself, much less bring his partner along for the ride. In the years since his divorce, Birdie and Margie Poole had done way more than their share of matchmaking on his behalf and he’d just as soon not give them any new ideas to work with.

So he grunted cynically and said, “I thought all women were the type-yours excepted, of course-you know I firmly believe Margie’s a saint. She’d have to be, to put up with you all these years.” He elbowed his partner, who chuckled in companionable agreement.

But as they started back down the dune together, under the cover of darkness Jake was frowning. The fact that his partner had made a success of his marriage when so many agents’ relationships failed had always been a mystery to him. Now, it seemed like one it might be important for him to solve.

“Seriously,” he said when they were slogging through the sand, making their way back to the side road where they’d parked the van. “Isn’t that what women want? Flowers, gifts… jéwelry?”

Birdie threw him a look. “You really don’t know much about women, do you?”

“That comes as a surprise to you? It’s pretty obvious I don’t know what it takes to make a woman happy. It’s pretty obvious you do. So?”

Birdie hunched his shoulders and muttered uncomfortably. “Hell-don’t put this on me. I’m no expert on women in general. Anyway, there’s no such thing as ‘women in general.’ Far as I can see, they’re all different. One thing I have noticed, though…”

He paused, and Jake prodded, “Yeah?” Birdie turned to face him. “Seems to me, when it comes to gifts, it’s not the cost or what it is that matters, it’s how she feels about the giver. Bottom line? She loves you, she’ll love the gift.”

“Oh, come on.”

Birdie shrugged and walked on. “Okay, maybe there are some women, all they care about is money-there’re men like that, so why not women? But the ones that matter? Why do you suppose mothers go ape over plaster of Paris handprints and cards made out of macaroni? A kid brings his mom a handful of wilted dandelions, she cries every time. Guaranteed.”

“Yeah, but that’s her kid. That’s different. For us-”

“Same principle applies. Hey-I gave Margie a Weedwacker for her birthday once. She was so happy, she cried.”

“Yeah, but that’s Margie. You got a genuine saint.”

Birdie laughed. “You’ll get no argument from me there.”

“You ask me, I think you got the last one, partner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Birdie’s head swiveled toward him, and Jake could feel the speculation in his eyes even if he couldn’t see it. “And even if it were true, not everybody wants a saint. Ever think about that? For instance, would you?”

Jake didn’t say anything. But he was thinking about a certain battered and barefoot bride reeking of garbage and drunk on champagne who could never be called a saint.

Chapter 9

Eve really hadn’t known what to expect; although she didn’t know much about Dr. Matthew Shepherd, she was fairly sure he wasn’t really a practicing G.P., at least not in Savannah, Georgia.

But as it turned out, she’d reckoned without the resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Dr. Shepherd’s offices had been set up in a busy, modern medical complex not far from the hospital, where she’d spent her first two nights as a Bureau undercover informant, and not even the most suspicious and critical eye could have found anything to suggest he hadn’t been in residence there since the day the complex opened.

Quite a few heads turned as the white stretch limo wove its way through the parking lot and eased to a stop at the main entrance. People walking by on their way in and out of the building tried hard to look without seeming to as Sergei, six and a half feet tall and built like Arnold Schwarzenegger, emerged from the driver’s seat and walked around to open the passenger door.