For the first time since the terrifying days leading to and then following her decision to divorce David, loneliness seemed overwhelming. It came suddenly, like a bad cramp. Doubled over with the pain of it, arms across her belly, she rocked herself back and forth, entombed in the darkness of her own desolation. She kept saying to herself, Dammit, dammit, I thought I was done with this. I thought I was stronger. I thought I’d taught myself not to need.

And so she had, until tonight, when a stranger’s touch had awakened her to her own reality, like a bright light turned on in a room where she’d grown accustomed to darkness. Once before such a thing had happened to her, and her life had been forever changed.

A knock on the door and a muffled, “Room service,” jolted her badly. Trembling, she went to eye the hotel waiter’s starched white coat through the peephole. She instructed him to leave the tray outside the door, and only after he’d gone and she’d verified that the hallway was completely deserted did she unlatch the safety bar and open the door long enough to snatch the tray and carry it inside.

She wolfed down the hamburger without tasting it, left the French fries untouched, then prepared for bed, taking meticulous care to floss and brush and cleanse as she always did; she’d always found routine reassuring. After that, she put on the peach-colored silk pajamas she only wore on those rare occasions when she slept away from home and crawled between the starched and tucked hotel sheets. With the pillows from both beds stacked high behind her shoulders and the light burning brightly over the nightstand, she channel-surfed until her eyes burned and her head ached. Then, at least, she could welcome the darkness with relief rather than dread. But she didn’t find solace in it, nor sleep, either.

Sometime in the dead of night, it came to her and she threw back the covers and sat up, clutching the edge of the bed. Clammy. Trembling. And one thought in her mind: wet wool.

That was what was wrong. She’d smelled it. She’d felt it. His coat had been wet. And yet he’d told her he’d been on his way out. Hadn’t he? Yes, she was sure he’d said so. On his way out to get something to eat, that was it. Tom Hawkins had lied to her. Why?

His story about “happening along” at just the right moment-had that been a lie, too? And if he hadn’t just “happened” to be there, it followed that he must have been there for a purpose. Was the purpose something to do with her, or her attacker?

It has to be something to do with the painting, she thought. It has to be.

Slowly, she turned to look at it, propped against the head of the other bed, the graceful figures only faint pale shapes in the almost darkness. He was there at the auction, she thought, forcing her plodding thoughts along dim and scary paths. He’d seemed so nice, so helpful. And tonight, he’d just happened to be here, out of all the hotels in the city, in time to save her painting, if not actually her life. Such an amazing coincidence.

She got up, padded barefoot around the foot of her bed and made her way to the other one, where she shoved the discarded wrappings aside and sat facing the painting with one leg drawn up on the unrumpled spread.

She thought about the man Campbell-he’d wanted the painting badly. So did the man in her room tonight.

And what about Tom Hawkins? He’d been there at the auction, where Campbell was. And he’d been here tonight, where Campbell-or whoever-was. Was it Campbell he wanted, or the painting? Was he a cop, or wasn’t he?

Not in this jurisdiction. What an odd answer that was, now that she thought about it. What kind of law enforcement officer would be tracking a man-or a painting-out of his jurisdiction? If the damn thing was stolen, why didn’t he just say so? And most of all, why would he lie about so simple a thing as whether he’d been coming or going?

She knew there wasn’t any use going back to bed, not then. She sat in the armchair, curled up and wrapped in the bedspread, gazing out the window at the floodlit Washington Monument until her eyes ached and the vision blurred.

Tomorrow, she vowed. Tomorrow I’m going to find out about that painting, once and for all.

She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of Tom Hawkins, either. Whoever he was.

Chapter 5

“Emma? Sorry to call so late…”

“Tom? Oh, my goodness. Tom, is it really you?”

With the phone pressed painfully against his ear, Hawk listened to the compassionate, gentle voice he hadn’t heard in so long and remembered so well. Jen’s voice. “It’s me, Emma. I hope I didn’t wake you.” The voice hadn’t sounded at all sleepy, but then that was Emma.

“Oh, Tom, what a lovely surprise! No-no, as a matter of fact, I was waiting up for Frank. He’s grading papers-spring break starts next week. He should be home any time. Oh, he’ll just hate that he missed you. Where are you? Are you in town?”

“I’m in town, but-”

“Oh, how wonderful. Can you come for a visit? We’d both love to see you.”

“I wish I could, but it’s business, and I’m pretty tied up. I just called…” He paused to take a breath, both because the ache in his chest needed easing, and because the fact was, he didn’t know why he’d called, “…to say hello.”

“We’ve missed you, Tom.” The voice had grown softer. The sadness in it leaked from the receiver and into his soul. “It’s been so long. Seven years…”

“It was yesterday!” He regretted, but was unable to blunt, the harshness in his tone.

There was a pause, and then, “I wish you’d come home. Tom. I think…perhaps you need to.”

“Emma…” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

“Jennifer wouldn’t have wanted this for you. You know she wouldn’t. It’s time, Tom.” There was a pause and then a whispered, “Time to say goodbye.” And he knew she was crying.

“Soon,” he growled, his voice guttural with pain. “I’ll come for a visit. I promise. Listen, say hello to Frank for me, will you?”

“Of course I will. Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you called. I just wish-”

“Good night, Emma.”

“Tom? Be good to yourself…”

He gave her the chuckle she wanted and hung up. Groped for his cigarettes, lit one and pulled the smoke past the band of pain around his chest, held it until he felt the slightest easing, then exhaled on a long sigh. He sat quietly smoking, staring out at the city lights-Arlington, not Washington; his fifth-floor room was on the opposite side of the hotel, the best he’d been able to do at the last minute-and let memory carry him back to a long-ago summer afternoon…

Voices and laughter, whoops and splashes, the smell of charred meat drifting up to his bedroom window from the yard that backed up against his. A slender, dark-haired woman waving to him, calling to him: “Hi, we’re your new neighbors-the Hostetlers. That’s our daughter, Jennifer, there in the pool. Would you like to come over for a swim? Jenny would love some company…”

Even now the memory could make him smile, remembering the way his thirteen-year-old hormones had stirred at the sight of that dark head emerging from the water, sleek as an otter…the perfect, sunburned oval she’d turned to him, with a look of utter disdain…the way she’d pranced the length of the diving board, so proud of her budding body, to execute the most glorious cannonball he’d ever seen. Love at first sight, that’s what it had been.

Time to say goodbye…

Hawk shook his head, a small, silent rejection, drew on his cigarette one last time and stubbed it out. Emma was right, he knew that. Seven years was long enough. But try telling that to his heart. His heart seemed to have its own timetable, and about all he could do was wait for it to reach the same conclusion. He’d know the moment it happened, he was sure of that. He’d feel it.

And until then… He stood and stretched, then pulled off his shoes and lay down on top of the bedspread, flat on his back with his hands laced across his midsection. Until then, he had a job to do, and days to get through, one at a time. Tomorrow was a new day, and it was shaping up to be an interesting one, at that.

He’d pretty much accepted that his mission now had two objectives. The first-and still the most critical, of course-was to recover that painting and the vital piece of information Jarek Singh had hidden inside it. The second and probably the more difficult task was to protect Jane Carlysle.

Hawk programmed himself for sleep the way he’d learned to do as a boy of sixteen, and then perfected seven years ago, first clearing his mind, making it a blank screen on which he projected a pleasant, relaxing vision. Most often the vision he chose had something to do with the sea, a calm sea with sunlight streaming through clouds, sparkling on gently rocking swells…the cries of seagulls and the swish and murmur of waves washing on warm sands.

Tonight, though, for some reason, the image that came to fill the screen in his mind and refused to leave, no matter how hard he tried to supplant it, was…a face. A woman’s face. A nice face with a kind smile and sea-gray eyes with telltale laugh lines at the corners, eyes that could light with sudden joy, the way the sea does when the sunlight hits it a certain way…or go dark and deep with sadness, anger or fear. Jane Cartyste’s face.

He found it an oddly comforting vision.


Jane woke to find sunshine streaming through her uncurtained window, and beyond it a soft spring sky with only a few fat puffy clouds scurrying in pursuit of the cold front that had blown through in the night.

How different things always look in the morning, she thought, buoyed by thoughts of spring. But she was a naturally optimistic and msilient person; like bad dreams, the night’s doubts and fears had vanished with the daylight, leaving her with only an edgy sense of anticipation and excitement.

The first thing she did, after the morning mists and cobwebs had cleared, was reach for the phone. A check-in call to the girls was long overdue. They were full of the anticipated questions and reproaches, the loudest of which were in response to being roused at seven-thirty on a weekend morning.

Maybe she was only under the influence of the champagne sunshine, but Jane found that she had no trouble coming up with the necessary lies and reassurances that had been beyond her capabilities last night. Since lying had never been one of her talents, she was surprised and relieved that hers were so readily accepted. She thought it probably had a lot to do with the fact that Tracy was nursing a homework hangover and Lynn’s head was swimming with the details of her latest scheme to postpone her final year of college.

“Eurail Youthpasses, Mom. Kevin says that’s the only way to go. You can go anywhere, for three months. You have to go with a companion, so that’s okay, and we can extend it, if-”

“Hey, wait, who said anything about extending?”

“How was the auction, Mom?” That was Tracy, with a yawn that sounded as if it could have sucked in the whole phone. It was followed by a sleepy snicker. “Meet lots of cute guys?”

Knowing that it was safe because they’d never believe her anyway, Jane told the truth. “A couple, actually.” She paused for a chorus of “Ha-ha’s” and “Yeah, rights,” then added her diversion. “I bought some things.”

More yawns, politely smothered this time. Then a duet: “Hmm…really?” “What’d you buy?”

“Just some small stuff.” They’d never understand about the Roy Rogers six-shooter. She wasn’t sure she did, herself. “A painting-kind of nice, I think you’ll like it. I’m going to have it appraised this morning. A gallery in Georgetown-somebody Connie knows.”

“Do you think it might be valuable?” That was Lynn, the analytical one. Jane could almost see her, suddenly sitting up straighter, back against piled pillows, her interest hooked by the tantalizing thought of money. She was David’s daughter, alas, but a darling in so many ways that it was easy enough to overlook one small avaricious streak.

“Oh, no, not really,” she said quickly, anxious to head that idea off at the pass. “I didn’t pay much for it. I’d just kind of like to know what it’s worth.”

“Good idea. Kev says you should have everything in your household appraised anyway-for the insurance. He’s got all his mom and dad’s stuff on their computer. You should do that, Mom. Kev could probably do it for you. There’s this neat program-”

“So, when are you coming home?” Tracy, of course, trying to sound casual, though Jane could almost see her daughter’s forehead creasing with anxiety, worrying about dwindling refrigerator stores. With a few more months yet to fledge, she seemed content for now to cling to the safety of the nest, feathers fluffed, plaintively chirping. Which was okay with Jane; she wasn’t in any great hurry to see her last baby fly away. One at a time was about all she could handle.