Obviously she wanted a change of topic, so he let it go. For now.

    "I've been frugal because I've always wanted to be able to retire early." He could have added, while I'm still alive, but didn't.

    "Granted, it's a stunning piece of work, but twenty thousand?"

    "Better than letting some bimbo blonde—"

    "Ahem."

    "What?"

    She pointed to her hair. "What color is this?"

    Oh, hell.

    "But you're not a bimbo. And yours doesn't come from a bottle."

    "It gets help from a bottle."

    "You know what I mean. Anyway, I didn't want that… person to get her grubby mitts on it."

    Gia stopped and laughed. "You've got to be kidding! You spent twenty thousand just for spite?"

    "Not spite. I may not be an artist"—he placed a hand over his heart—"but I have the soul of one." He tapped the box under his arm. "And this—what's the art-speak phrase?—this speaks to me."

    Gia demonstrated the unofficial ASL sign for Gag me with a spoon.

    He put on his best offended expression. "Well, it does."

    Truth was, it had spoken to him by appealing to something deep within. He'd wanted it from the first instant he'd set eyes on it. He'd bought it not so much to save it from the bimbo as to possess it—to put it someplace where he'd see it every day.

    "Really? And just what does it say?"

    They'd reached Houston, the wide, bustling thoroughfare that linked the East and West Sides down here, the street responsible for SoHo's name—south of Houston. Jack raised his free arm to flag a cab.

    "As you can see, it's all wrapped up at the moment, so I can't hear it. But back in the gallery it said, 'Please don't let me go home with that bling-bedizened beotch.' It really did."

    Gia laughed and leaned against him. "I love you."

    "I love you too."

    "And I'd like to make love to you again sometime before I die."

    Uh-oh.

    A cab lurched to a halt before them.

    "You and me both."

    "Then why—?"

    He handed her the box with the tree. "Take this back for me, will you?"

    Concern tightened her features. "You're not coming?"

    "Got some bidness down here."

    She eased herself into the backseat of the cab and looked up at him.

    "Is something wrong?"

    "No… it's just that I've become involved in a situation that could be dangerous to you."

    "Like what?"

    "It's too complicated to get into here and now."

    The cabby looked like a Hotel Rwanda bellhop. Jack handed him a twenty and said, "Sutton Square."

    The guy nodded. Did that mean he knew where it was? Too many cabbies didn't know zilch about the city anymore. At least he had a GPS.

    Gia was still looking up at him. "When, then?"

    "When what?"

    "When can we get into it?"

    He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

    "Soon, Gia. Soon. I promise."

    "I'm back on the pill, if that's what you're worried about, and I'm never going off it again."

    That wasn't it. Or maybe it was. He wished he knew.

    "I'll talk to you later."

    Then he closed the door and the cab took off. Gia's puzzled face in the rear window felt like seppuku—without a second to deliver the coup de grâce.

    It took Henry until two o'clock to track down what Dawn had requested. He finally returned with a box labeled with Arabic script.

    "I suppose this would have been easy to find if I'd known where to look," he said, handing her the box, "but I didn't. I believe this is what you want."

    Dawn tore it open and found a large blue silk scarf within. But not just any scarf. This one had a veil attached. She'd Googled Muslim clothing last night and came across this whack Muslima fashion site that featured something called a pak chadar. It had looked perfect. This morning Henry had gone in search of one.

    She pulled it out and stepped into the powder room for a look. After draping it over her head and shoulders she checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The color intensified the blue of her eyes. She pulled the top front lower to hide her blond hair, then draped the long end of the scarf over her opposite shoulder. Now for the final touch: the veil.

    She stretched it across her nose and her lower face and fastened it on the other side.

    Well, it was totally stupid looking but it did the job. The only things visible were her eyes. On the one-in-a-zillion chance Jerry saw her, he would so not recognize her. He'd think, there's a weird, blue-eyed, white-bread Muslim chick, but that would be it.

    But what if he recognized her eyes? Simple fix: sunglasses.

    She hurried back to her room where she slipped on the wraparound Ray-Bans provided for sunbathing on the roof.

    Another inspection, this time in the bedroom mirror, and wow—totally unrecognizable.

    Am I smart or am I smart?

    Her glee slipped into sad wonder when she remembered facts from her comparative religions course—aced like most of her courses—in social studies. Hundreds of millions of women around the world were totally forced to dress like this. What was wrong with seeing a woman's face or hair? What sort of asshole came up with this bullshit? Could only be a guy, most likely one hung like a light switch. She didn't know why women put up with it. Oh, yeah. Because if they didn't they got stoned to death or something. Nice religion.

    People said the world was getting totally crazy, but truth was, it had always been crazy—at least where women were concerned.

    She ground her teeth. Mom had never talked feminism. She didn't have to—she'd lived it. Completely self-sufficient, without a man or even a family to lean on, she'd built a life for herself and Dawn through sheer guts and determination.

    God, I miss her.

    She shook off the melancholy and hurried back into the great room where Henry waited.

    "Okay. What do you think?"

    He nodded. "Even your own mother wouldn't recog—oh, I'm sorry."

    "It's all right." She was getting out of here and nothing was going to bring her down. But Henry's expression turned grave. "Really, Henry, it's all right. You don't have to—"

    "It's not that," he said. "I believe I'm having second thoughts."

    "About what?"

    "About letting you leave the apartment."

    Dawn stiffened and thought her heart had stopped. No! He couldn't change his mind now. Not when she was so totally mad stoked about getting out.

    "You can't be serious."

    "The Master would be quite upset if he found out. I'll lose my job. Or worse."

    Worse?

    "He's so never going to find out. Not from me, at least. And you're not going to tell him. So… ?"

    "There is Gilda."

    "Today's her afternoon off. No way she can know."

    "Still, I should check with the Master first."

    No-no-no! That downer bastard would totally say no.

    "But you can't find him. And anyway, no one's gonna know. Please, Henry, please. I'm dying here and we've got a perfect solution worked out. Come on, Henry. Please!"

    The word hung between them, then Henry sighed and shrugged.

    "But only for a little while—a very little while. I do not want Gilda to come home to an empty apartment. She will be very upset."

    "Deal. Anything you say, just get me out of here." She wanted to be on the move before he changed his mind again. "Let's go."

    He gestured to her legs. "That doesn't look very Muslimish."

    She looked down at her bare legs and tight training shorts.