'Turn over,' he whispered.

Her smile enraptured him as she did, so that she faced the head of the bed. And he mounted her from behind, feeling the insertion into her warmth, beginning the stroking, the slow in and out, that he sustained almost forever.

Her moaning stayed in his mind for a long time. By Harry's count he'd come five times in two hours, not bad for a thirty-six-year-old. How, and if, she kept score of her own orgasms he had no idea. What he remembered was her not wanting him to fall asleep there. Just kissing him once more and telling him to go back to his hotel, because in two hours she had to get up and go to work.

12

Wednesday, July 8, 4:32 a.m.

Harry's last glance at the clock. Time crept. If he slept at all, he didn't know. He could still smell Adrianna's perfume, almost masculine, like citrus and smoke. Getting up, going to work in two hours, she'd said. Not just to work like most people, but to the airport and a plane to Zagreb and then into the Croatian backcountry for a story on human rights abuses committed by Croats against Croatian Serbs who had been driven from their homes and slaughtered. It was who she was and what she did.

He remembered, somewhere during their circus, breaking his own rule of not talking about Danny and asking what she knew about the investigation into the bombing of the Assisi bus.

And she'd answered directly, not once, even in tone, accusing him of trying to use her. 'They don't know who did it…'

He'd looked at her in the darkness – her bright eyes watching his, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed – trying to judge if she was telling him the truth. And the truth was, he couldn't tell. So he let it go. In two days he would be gone, and the only time he would see her again would be on television, in her baseball cap and L. L. Bean field jacket, reporting some kind of struggle from somewhere. What mattered now, as he watched her, moved down to caress her breast, encircle its nipple with his tongue, was that he wanted her once more. And once more after that. And then again, until there was nothing left, everything gone from his mind but this thing that was Adrianna. Selfish, yes. But it wasn't entirely one-sided. The idea, after all, had been hers.

Running his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh, he'd heard her whimper as he reached the sticky wetness where her legs came together. Fully aroused, he was easing up, about to mount her, when abruptly she shifted, rolling him over and getting on top, pulling his erection sharply inside her.

Moving back, she dug her feet into the tuft of the bed and then leaned forward, hands on either side of his head, eyes wide open, watching him. Slowly she began her work, sliding up and down the length of him. Masterfully. Her full weight behind each calculated thrust. And then, like a rower listening to the cadence of her coxswain, she picked up the beat. Moving faster and faster. The jockey testing the heart of the creature beneath her. Riding loud and hard and with no mercy. Until she became the thoroughbred herself. Pounding the inside rail. Tasting the Crown and thundering savagely toward the finish. In the blink of an eye she'd made it a new game. What before had been desire had suddenly become a leviathan competition.

Nor had she made a mistake in choosing Harry. Long ago having vowed to master the fine art of 'swordsmanship', he watched her every move, then met her stride for stride. Thrust for thrust. Beast against beast. A heart-stopping, all-out match race. A thousand to one as to who would explode first.

They crossed the line together. A howling, sweating, photo finish of orgasmic pyrotechnics that left them sprawled side by side and gasping for air, wholly spent, their inner workings worn raw. Quivering in the dark.

Harry had no idea why, but in that moment a far-off part of him stood back and wondered if Adrianna had picked him – not because he might be a lead player in a major story and it was secretly her style to establish an early personal relationship – not either because she simply liked to have sex with strangers – but for another reason altogether… because she was afraid of going to Zagreb, because maybe this was one time too many and something would happen and she would die somewhere in the Croatian countryside. Maybe she wanted to breathe as much of life as she could before she went. And Harry just happened to be the one she chose to help her do it.

4:36

Death.

In the dark of room 403 at the Hotel Hassler, there were shutters closed, drapes drawn against the approaching dawn, and yet sleep still did not come to Harry. The world spun, faces danced past.

Adrianna.

The detectives Pio and Roscani.

Jacov Farel.

Father Bardoni, the young priest who was to escort him and Danny's remains to the airport.

Danny.

Death.

Enough! Turning on the light, Harry threw back the covers and got up, going to the small desk by the telephone. Picking up his notes, he reviewed business deals he'd worked in the hours before he'd gone out. A television contract to pick up a series star for a fourth year at an increase of fifty thousand per episode. An agreement for a top screenwriter to do a month's polish on a script that had been rewritten four times already. Writer's fee, five hundred thousand dollars. A deal in the works for two months for a major A-list director to shoot an action film on location in Malta and Bangkok for a flat fee of six million against ten percent of the first dollar box office gross, finally done. Then undone a half hour later because the male star, for reasons unknown, abruptly pulled out. Two hours and half a dozen phone calls later, the star was back in, but by now the director was considering other offers. A call to the star at lunch at a trendy West L.A. restaurant, another to the studio head in his car somewhere in the San Fernando valley, and still another to the director's agent ended in a four-way conference call to the director at home in Malibu. Forty minutes later the director was back on the picture and getting ready to leave for Malta the following morning.

By the time it was over, Harry had negotiated deals worth, give or take, seven and a half million dollars. Five percent of which, roughly three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, went to his firm, Willis, Rosenfeld and Barry. Not too shabby for somebody working on anxiety, autopilot, and very little sleep in a hotel room halfway around the world. It was why he was who he was and doing what he did… and why he was paid what he was paid, plus bonus, plus profit sharing, plus… Harry Addison had gotten out of his hometown in a big way… Suddenly it all felt very hollow and unimportant.

Abruptly he shut out the light and closed his eyes against the dark. When he did, shadows came. He tried to push them away, tried to think of something else. But they came anyway. Shadows moving slowly along a distant iridescent wall, then turning and coming toward him. Ghosts. One, two, three, and then four.

Madeline.

His father.

His mother.

and then

Danny…