“No metal-to-metal contact?”

She shook her head. “Clark and Javier, probably even the FBI, would think I’d staged it to appear innocent.”

“Shit. That only goes to show how good Butch and Sundance are.” He plowed his fingers through his hair and, after a litany of curses, said stubbornly, “You can’t be convicted of murdering Jay. Not without more solid evidence than they’ve got.”

“Maybe not, but the circumstantial evidence is compelling. Besides, what do you think a murder trial would do to my career? Not to mention my checking account. Retaining a good defense attorney would deplete my savings in about a week and a half. After the trial, I’d have an enormous debt. Even if I was acquitted, I would have lost a year of my life defending myself, and who would hire me with that taint on my record?

“Just like you, Raley, the moment I woke up with Jay, the life I had lived to that point was over. They used me, just like they used Suzi Monroe to get to you. I’m lucky they kept me alive, a decision which they obviously regret now. I had a good thing going, and they robbed me of it. So, not only do I want the story, and want to see justice done, but I want my payback from these bastards.”

Secretly he admired the fire he saw in her eyes, but he was still afraid for her. Afraid for them both. “Sleep on it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Sleep on it.”

To put an end to the discussion, he went around the room switching out lights, then dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in it, and opened the curtains a crack.

He heard papers rustling and knew she was moving aside the open folders so she could lie down. Fifteen minutes of silence elapsed, then she said, “Butch and Sundance?”

“The only pair of crooks that sprang to mind. We could refer to them as Assassin A and Assassin B, I guess.”

“No, I like Butch and Sundance.”

Another five minutes ticked past, then she asked, “Are you going to sit there all night?”

“For a while longer.”

He waited another forty-five minutes before he felt comfortable enough to give up the vigil. If someone had been out there watching, they likely would have made a move once the lights went out, especially since they were unaware that he and Britt knew they were being hunted.

Still dressed, he felt his way to the second bed and stretched out on it. He set the pistol on the nightstand, then thought better of it and placed it on the bed beside him.

Britt was long asleep. The room was silent except for her soft breathing and the hum of the mercury-vapor light outside in the parking lot. Lying on his back, his head barely denting the hard pillow, he stared up through the darkness. He tried not to think about how narrow the space separating them was, tried not to think about last night.

But he thought about it anyway. Remembered every detail with stark clarity. Insisted to himself that it wasn’t those recollections that gave him an uncompromising erection he couldn’t do a damn thing about.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t shut down. It obstinately seesawed between their predicament and last night’s sexual peccadillo, until finally thoughts of the former were obscured by thoughts of the latter. He surrendered and let his mind drift on a current of erotic recollections.

She must have hollow bones, he thought. He hadn’t realized how dainty she was, how unsubstantial, until she’d been under him and he was too far gone to be gentle. Andre the Giant ravaging Tinker Bell.

On the other hand, the depth of her passion had surprised him. Yeah, she’d been upset, scared out of her wits, in the grip of hysteria, her emotions off the charts, but still…Who would’ve guessed that the cool lady on TV was one and the same with the woman who fucked like-

“Raley?”

Her soft voice stopped his breath. He swallowed, managed to say, “Hmm?”

“I’m staying.”

George air-kissed the teenybopper cocktail waitress good-bye and let himself out of her apartment. He’d given her quite a workout tonight. Or, more truthfully, she’d given him one; as he made his way to his car, he realized how dog tired he was.

It had been one hell of a day. He’d spent all morning at the office, finishing up a contract Les had reminded him was already late. He’d barely had time to scarf down a sandwich lunch before leaving for the funeral. The ceremony would have been bad enough, but added to it was the encounter with Raley Gannon, who had appeared like some chain-rattling ghost.

Jay’s death had resurrected Raley Gannon. There was an irony in there somewhere, but George was too tired to think it through.

He turned his car toward home, hoping to God Miranda would be asleep when he got there. He might even forgo their comfortable bed for the sofa in the study, just to avoid her shit. Their cocktail hour at the country club had been too short, the dinner in the club dining room too long. All through it Les had badgered him about this and that, while Miranda sat there sighing with boredom when she wasn’t gazing at her reflection in the mirror behind their table.

When the meal finally concluded, George asked Les if he would drive Miranda home, saying he needed to return to the office to check his e-mails. He did make a quick stop at the office, but only to pick up condoms, which he kept in his desk drawer, then he spent the next hour with the cocktail waitress who wasn’t only good looking but also one hell of a contortionist.

Their acrobatics in bed had left him sated, almost too weary to drive home. But while his body was languishing, his brain was acting like an overloaded circuit board, sizzling and sparking with a fresh worry every few seconds.

Les and Miranda had dismissed his concern over Raley’s unexpected appearance at the funeral. “He taunted you. So what?” Les had said as he stirred cream into his after-dinner coffee. “If that guy had anything to back up his beef, he would have used it five years ago. He’s history. Forget him.”

But worry continued to gnaw at George, and apparently Pat Wickham was also feeling its bite. He wasn’t as good at hiding his uneasiness as George was. George could choke the little turd for letting Raley catch him staring at them. He’d looked bug-eyed and scared enough to wet himself, and Raley had picked up on it.

George’s cell phone rang. Probably Miranda, checking up on him, although she must have had a good idea where he’d been. He flipped open his phone. “I’m on my way.”

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Candy.”

“Oh, hell, Candy, I thought you were Miranda.”

“I get that a lot,” she said with drollness and good-natured self-deprecation. “Don’t I wish.” Then in a lower, sadder tone, she asked, “Is this a bad time?”

“No. I’m in my car on my way home.”

“Sorry it’s so late, but I wanted to call before the day was over. I hated like hell having to miss the funeral. George, you know that if it weren’t for this-”

“You don’t need to explain, Candy. We all know and understand why you couldn’t make it.”

“I appreciate your understanding. But that doesn’t make me regret it any less. How did it go?”

“I think Jay would have liked it. Except for the organ music. He would have preferred a jazz quartet.”

She laughed.

“The thing you wrote was a highlight. If Jay’s in heaven, he’s blushing.”

“I meant everything I said. He was a good friend. I’m going to miss him.”

“Yeah.” George waited a beat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Guess who showed up?”

“Half the city, I expect.”

“Nearly.”

“Cobb Fordyce, I’m sure.”

“He even brought the wife.”

“He’s a politician,” she said, but without rancor. “He’s got an image to uphold.”

“And Raley Gannon.”

“Seriously?”

“I shit you not. In the flesh.”

“Did you talk to him?”