Lola scratched at an insect bite on her throat, then she picked at the tape covering the IV needle in the back of her hand. The nurse brought her some vegetable soup, a piece of bread, pudding, and a Coke. When she was through eating, she pushed aside the tray table and thought about Max. She wondered where he’d been taken and when she would see him again. She didn’t have a doubt that he would come to see her before he left the state. They’d been through too much together for him to leave without speaking with her. He’d saved her life and they’d made love. And yes, she knew it wasn’t love for either of them, but it had been an intimate connection that she would never regret. Or forget, especially since he’d been the only man she’d ever had to practically beg for sex. Well, if not beg, she’d certainly had to convince him, for goodness’ sake.

Lola tried to stay awake, sure he would come to her soon, but exhaustion overtook her. As she slept, she dreamed she went to the animal shelter to spring Baby and both of them got trapped inside. In her dream, she pounded on the door and called for Max, but he never arrived.

The sound of a familiar, soft southern voice woke her from her dream. “Lola Faith?”

Her lids fluttered open and she looked toward the end of her hospital bed. She looked into her father’s sunken bloodshot eyes. They were red and watery, as if he hadn’t slept for days. His usually ruddy cheeks were pale, the worry lines on his forehead more pronounced.

Beside him stood her mother, a silk scarf covering her usually perfect bubble of blond hair. One side of the bubble was flat and fuzzy bangs stuck out from her forehead. Bags pulled at the bottoms of her eyes, and her lips were colorless.

Lola burst into tears, and not teeny, wimpy tears, either. Big painful sobs-like the time she’d been eight years old and her daddy had accidently left her at the Texaco. She’d been scared to death when she’d discovered he was gone, and overwhelmed with relief when he’d returned for her ten minutes later. She felt the same way now, at age thirty, only seeing how much suffering she’d caused them made it worse. They both looked like they’d aged ten years since she’d seen them a week ago.

Her mother rushed to the side of her bed and wiped Lola’s tears from her cheeks. “You’re going to be just fine now. Your mama and daddy have come to take you home.”

“They took Baby away from me,” she cried. “An-and put him in the shelter.”

“We’ll get your Baby back.” Her daddy patted her knee though the hospital bedding. “Then you’re going to come home to stay with us for a few days.”

Lola had a million and one things to do. She had a business to run. Yes, she had competent people who could run it in her absence, but Lola Wear, Inc., belonged to her. She wanted to speak with sales and marketing and get the early numbers on the new catalog. They were gearing up for a trade show in three months and she wanted to see the preliminary sketches for their booth. But as she looked at her parents and saw the strain on their faces, she figured they needed to pamper her in order to reassure themselves that she was okay. And perhaps she needed that, too. “Will you make your special macaroni and cheese with the cut-up weenies?”

The corner of her mother’s mouth trembled when she smiled. “And I’ll make you a Karo nut pie.”

Through her tears, Lola smiled, too. Her mother was one of the few people she knew who called pecan pie Karo nut pie. For the first time since she’d left, she finally felt like she was home again, but there was one thing that kept her from truly enjoying her return. One thing missing.

Max. She didn’t have a clue where he was or why he hadn’t contacted her.

“We’ve all been sick with worry,” her mother said. “The Carlyle family reunion is this weekend, remember? I know everyone will be thrilled to see you.”

Lola felt a sudden ache just behind her eyebrows. She’d survived a storm at sea and drug runners, only to face the horrors of Aunt Wynonna’s green pea casserole. And this time she would have to face the horrors alone, because Max had gone MIA.

At the naval air station in Key West, Max was provided a secure phone line to Washington. The fact that General Winter answered was Max’s first inkling of the trouble he was in. The second was the Pavehawk helicopter that picked him up immediately and flew him from the air station to the Pentagon.

At the Pentagon, security showed him to an office on the fourth floor. In the daylight, he knew it had a great view of the Potomac and the Jefferson Memorial. The view of the brilliantly lit monument wasn’t too bad at night either.

Usually Max met the general in a small planning room in the dark recesses of the basement. This was only the second time Max had been invited into this office. Given that and the lateness of the hour, he knew he was in trouble and prepared himself for a royal ass-chewing.

General Richard Winter sat behind his big mahogany desk, a computer monitor on one corner, a bronze eagle on the other. Max stood before the general at rigid attention. For a half hour, while his tired bones fused, he explained what had taken place since he’d left for Nassau the previous Saturday. Well, maybe not everything. He’d left out a few personal details concerning his behavior with Lola.

The general listened, then launched into a tirade. General Winter was as bald as a bowling ball, had big bushy eyebrows, and wore bifocals. He was the only man Max had ever met who could go on an apoplectic tear without blinking. It was uncanny and designed to inspire fear in men.

“This was supposed to be by the book, Max. Your directive was clear!”

“When the information I’m given is fucked up, there is no book. And as far as I’m concerned, there is only one directive. Get the job done and get the hell out, sir. I did not fail. The intel I was given failed me.”

Whether the general agreed, Max would never know. He continued to blister Max’s ears, though, calling him every name in the book. A few he liked so much he repeated them again and again. His clear favorites were shit-for-brains and asshole. When he was finished, he expected Max to cower, as most men did when faced with such verbal intimidation. He should have known better.

“That’s what I like about you, General Winter, sir,” Max said through a smile. “You take the time for sweet talk before you screw with me.”

From behind the lenses of his bifocals, the general finally blinked. “At ease, Zamora,” he ordered, and Max sat across the deck in an uncomfortable chair-which he figured was the general’s intent. “This is not a joking matter,” he continued, but his voice had lowered a few decimals. “You commandeered a yacht with a civilian on board.”

“I explained that my vision was unclear, and I thought I was the only one aboard.”

“The fact remains that you shanghaied a famous underwear model and have been out of communications for four days. Stranded in the Atlantic, you say.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve created a goddamn incident the government will be hard-pressed to deny.”

“How is that, sir?” he asked, even though he could guess.

“The minute Miss Carlyle was confirmed missing, her disappearance was reported by every news media in the country and half of Europe.”

Yep, that had been his guess.

“Now they’re all going to want her story. She’ll probably be invited to appear on the goddamn Letterman show.” The general leaned forward and stared at Max. “You’ve spent time with her. What approach do we use to keep her quiet?”

“She’s a smart woman. She knows about the Cosellas, and I’ll remind her that she doesn’t want to be tied to anything that happened in the Bahamas. I’ll talk to her.”

“Negative, Max.”

“She’ll listen to me,” he said with a lot more certainty than he felt. Because the fact was, now that she’d had some time away from him to think, he wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t want to press charges against him.

“I want you to stay away from Ms. Carlyle and completely out of this, Max. The bureau is handling the situation.” General Winter stood. Subject closed. Meeting over. “I believe you have something for me?”

Max stood and reached behind him. From the small of his back, he pulled out the map and the ledger he found on the powderboat and tossed the map on the desk. “You’ll find four of Andre Cosella’s drug runners at those coordinates.”

“Dead?”

“I don’t believe so.” Next, he tossed the ledger on the desk. He’d taken a good look at it while still aboard the go-fast. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out what he had and what it meant. The ledger recorded dates, times, position of drug drops, descriptions and quantities, and the names of the rendezvous vessels. It was all written down in plain Spanish, and he’d chosen to pacify the general with this information instead of handing it over to the Coast Guard.

After the public relations the military had suffered recently, this was a plum opportunity to redeem itself to the American people. If they didn’t screw it up-which was always a possibility when dealing with pencil-pushers. “I think you’ll find that interesting, sir.”

General Winter glanced through the bound leather book, then looked up. “This is the reason I put up with you, Max,” he said as he hit a button on his intercom. “You have more lives than a damn cat and more luck than the Irish. Now get out of here and get yourself checked out.”

Max refused the general’s order of medical attention and was escorted from the room by security personnel. He rode an elevator to the VIP parking lot, where a black Cadillac waited for him. Once inside the backseat of car, he leaned his head back and finally relaxed for the first time since he’d sat in the galley of the Dora Mae, eating red snapper with Lola. He didn’t let himself relax completely, though, fearing he’d fall asleep if he did. The lights of D.C. sped past the windows, and the sound of the tires on wet pavement filled the interior of the car, letting him know that it had rained. The sights and sounds were familiar ones and reminded him he was home. Almost.