"Ohhhhh, Mama," he'd moaned.

A glass had toppled over on her new satin quilt, spilling champagne as he'd shifted his big body, but neither of them had minded. He'd risen up from the floor, flipped her over, and plunged that slick sucker home in one muscular thrust that had hurt like hell. Mona had treasured the fierce burn in her furnace that had lasted for hours. She clicked her tongue.

The baptism of the bedroom was on her mind as she got out of the car. There were no workers or decorators to greet her today, not even a housekeeper to open the door. Grand and lifeless, the house was frightening. She'd never imagined having to stay there alone. She opened the heavy wooden door and deactivated the alarm system. Then she switched on the huge hall chandelier and sconces that glittered with enough crystal to dazzle a Las Vegas hotel owner. "Oh Mama," she muttered.

The hall galley had a pink marble floor and pink marble columns; the staircase was deeply carved mahogany, dark as bittersweet chocolate and shiny with new polish. Struggling through her misery for a breath of good air, Mona trudged up to the master suite at the top of the stairs. It consisted of a honey-colored, wood-paneled study, dressing room, and bathroom for Mitch, and a large, lovely bedroom overlooking the pond with a four-poster bed, dressing room, and a large bathroom for her. She headed straight for the bath.

An hour and a half later, Mona infiltrated the Head Trauma ICU at North Fork Hospital without incident. She was wearing a dashing turquoise Dior suit with a short jacket that nipped in at the waist and plunged low in the neckline. A touch of crisp white eyelet showed at her cleavage. The fact that it wasn't clear whether she was wearing a blouse or bra invited second glances. The suit skirt was pegged so tightly, she could hardly get in and out of the Jag much less hobble down the long hospital corridor from one wing to another. Every single thing was a misery to her, but her burnished shoulder-length curls and Nicole Kidman-esque finely sculpted features drew many admiring glances and not a single difficult question. She was thirty-eight but looked every bit as fresh as Mitch's twenty-five-year-old daughter, Marsha.

With very little effort, she located Mitch's room. There, all alone, she faced her lifeless intended and the bank of noisy machines for the first time. "Holy shit," she murmured.

One of Mitch's eyes was closed, the other was open just a slit. Frowning at the tubes and plastic bags collecting his revolting bodily fluids, Mona suddenly had the thought that she had overdressed for the occasion.

"Baby? I'm here." She moved with trepidation closer to the bed, tilting her head one way and then the other.

"Who knocks your socks off?" she queried softly. Like Grace Kelly trying to get Cary Grant's attention in To Catch a Thief, she struck a seductive pose in the lovely Dior suit, then answered the question.

"Mona does." Mona tried to keep her feet moving. But she was afraid to get any closer than the sick man's feet in case what Mitch had was catching. Mona was an asthmatic, a very allergic person. She couldn't afford to take any chances. From the foot of the bed, she leaned over to display her famous cleavage.

"Mona's here for you. Honey, wake up. I've come to take you home." She held her breath.

Mitch didn't move a muscle. Not a hair. Nothing. Maybe his hand twitched a little. Mona's lips twitched; her eyelid, too. This was more than scary. It occurred to her that the machine making all the noise was actually breathing for him or making his heart beat, one or the other, maybe both. She didn't know anything about these things.

She straightened up and looked around for a little support here. A doctor, a nurse. A chair. It was disgusting. There wasn't a chair to sit on. Not even a stool! The place was a hellhole. Her heart started beating faster. That wasn't good for her asthma. She wasn't supposed to get upset, and having Mitch in a place like this was a complete disgrace. He'd hate it. The room had a fucking picture window in it. How much could she do to cheer him up with the whole world watching? She looked closer at the machinery. Was that big white one breathing for him, or what? She looked around for an answer, but none was forthcoming. She was very afraid.

"Honey, can you hear me?" she whispered.

No answer.

"Oh Mitch, do you have any idea what's going on?" She took a step closer. His face was bloodless. His eyes were pretty much closed. She had to get those eyes open.

"Cassie's on the rampage. You have to get out of here. Listen, wake up. I'm not kidding here. Oh baby, I love you so much. Don't leave me."

It seemed pretty hopeless. No part of Mitch moved except the lid of one of his eyes. For a second it looked as if he winked at her. She turned to the window, seeking help. When she turned back to him she was certain that he winked at her again. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

"Wake up, honey," she urged. "You have to get out of here. Did Cassie hurt you, baby? Tell Mona."

Nothing but the winking. It was terrible to watch.

"Honey, I mean it. This is serious. Wake UP!" Mona tried and tried, but no matter what she did, Mitch refused to get up and walk out.

CHAPTER 26

"YOU HAVE TO MAKE A DECISION about the car," Ogden announced at breakfast the ne xt day.

Ogden Schwab had been a handsome man in his youth, tall and slender with sharp blue eyes and wavy brown hair. But now he was very thin, almost emaciated, because of his swallowing problem caused by a disease called acalasia, which interrupts the usual smooth undulations of the esophagus, so the food just stalls midway to the stomach. Every swallow is touch and go. No one but the Rau family had bothered to nag him about anything since his wife Trudy had died thirteen years ago, so his clothes didn't always match either the season or each other. Likewise, the bath issue. Back in the 1950s a doctor had told him that he shouldn't bathe every day because of his dry skin. None of the thousands of advances in skin care products since then had been the slightest bit effective in persuading him that it was now safe to go into the water.

He was spry at seventy-six, though, and never let his little peculiarities stop him from making himself useful in every way he could. He kept up with politics and the stock market on CNN, and took a keen interest in the affairs of his son, Charlie.

"What do you say, son?"

"About what?" Charlie poured himself some of the nasty coffee that was one of his father's many morning rituals. This important one he couldn't seem to get right no matter what he tried. Every day there was a major complication with the coffee process. Ogden would set up the machine wrong, so that the little drip hole that should be closed was open. Whenever the carafe was not in place-which was often-hot water flooded the filter and kept right on going. The coffee poured out on the hot plate and hissed like an angry cat. Alternatively, if the hole was stuck in the closed position, the grounds became a tidal wave of sludge that poured over the top, flooding the counter. Whenever coffee actually made it into the carafe, it tasted like a mouthful of dirt. Today the coffee was the color of tea. Maybe it was tea.

"About getting a new car from Taj."

"What's wrong with my old one?" Charlie asked. He wasn't in the mood for car talk after last night. During their game, he'd encouraged Taj to brush up, brush up, with his racket in hopes that it would eventually connect with enough spin to get the ball over the net. Taj was always leaping around the court energetically chasing down the balls, but he had no force behind his swing at all. Who would have guessed that yesterday he'd acquired a new power racket that could make any hopeless child a Safin? Taj had brushed up on the ball just when Charlie wasn't looking and hit him in the eye. Then he wanted to sell him a car because his old one was such a piece of shit.