37

Florida had disappeared hours ago, a tobacco brown smudge swallowed by an azure sea. Distance, darkness, and the pleasant hum of a pressurized cabin relegated Gavallan's worries to another world. Ray Luca wasn't dead. Boris and his blond girlfriend were figments of his imagination. And Howell Dodson and baying hounds were no longer nipping at his heels. Not for the moment, anyway. Flying north by northeast at a speed of 500 knots and an altitude of 42,000 feet, Gavallan's greatest threat lay five feet away, tucked beneath the sheets of a foldout bed.

Why are you here? he asked Cate's sleeping countenance. Why did you follow me to Florida when you could have phoned just as easily? What else is there you're not telling me about your other life? And finally: Who are you really?

Rising, he stepped across the cabin and adjusted the powder blue blanket so that it covered her shoulders. Cate stirred, turning onto her side and bringing her knees closer to her chest. A comma of blue black hair fell across a cheek. Her pale, generous lips parted. The cabin lights were dimmed, the door to the cockpit shut. They were in the otherworld of flight, and the sandpaper silence granted her an immunity he was not willing to extend himself.

God, how he wanted to draw back the sheets and crawl into bed next to her, to run his hands up the hard ridges of her back, to slide them around and cup her breast, to kiss that neck, that wonderfully warm and silk-soft neck, to feel her nipple harden beneath his thumb.

But she doesn't love you anymore. Maybe she never did.

After years of his not feeling a thing, she'd awoken the dead part of him. She'd made his nerves tingle and his heart dance. She'd made him smile at odd moments. Mostly, she'd given him hope.

And then she'd taken it all away. Like that. In the snap of a finger.

They'd met three years earlier at an I-bankers' conference one of the big firms had sponsored at the Four Seasons on Maui, this one to chart the Internet's boundless future. It was a lavish shindig. Suites for the big shots, ocean views for everyone else. Unlimited cocktails at the hotel's numerous bars. Breakfast buffets, whale-watching sails, excursions to the neighboring isles of Molokai and Lanai. Thrown in for respectability's sake were a few lectures by industry specialists on topics of burning import, all to be concluded by 11 A.M. sharp lest someone miss his or her tee time at Kapalua or the jitney into Lahaina.

The conference wasn't his style: all the glad-handling, everyone so buddy-buddy, patting each other on the back when the day before they'd been vowing to rip out the other guy's guts. It was an exercise in ass-kissing, all expenses paid. Like it or not, though, it was a great way to build the name, to fly the firm's banner where all the big shots could see it.

Gavallan had come to give a talk on the banker's role in preparing start-ups for their IPO. The few stalwarts who caught his 9 A.M. speech managed to laugh in the right places, even if it did cause their booze-soaked noggins to ring like the Liberty Bell. Cate was there to deliver a speech on the social ramifications of the Internet, and you can bet not one of the attendees missed her early-morning presentation. She strode to the dais wearing a flowered Hawaiian halter atop a blood red sarong, a white gardenia tucked behind one ear. Her feet were as bare as her midriff. And yes, she'd dared to wear her navel ring.

Today, Gavallan reflected, the outfit would have caused an uproar. Too sexy, too provocative, too disrespectful by half. But this was before the correction. The Nasdaq was making new highs every day. The Dow was puffing like the eighty-year-old geezer it was to keep up. Funding was flowing from venture capitalists like champagne from an excited bottle. This was a celebration of the new economy. A toast to the little engine that could. Graham and Dodd were dead and good riddance to the old blowhards! In short, it was as close to pure bacchanal as Wall Street was ever going to get, in this or any other lifetime.

He'd spotted her by the beach bar the afternoon after she'd given her speech. She'd exchanged her halter and sarong for a black string bikini, and ditched the gardenia in favor of a cycling cap advertising Cinzano. He'd come out of the surf after a mile swim and was still dripping.

"Liked your talk this morning," he'd said, leaning against the bar and asking for a beer. "You're a real believer."

"In the Net, absolutely. In these prices, I'm not so sure. What's your take on things? Is the market really going to keep going up, up, up?"

"For now," he said, seeking out her eyes. "Lot of money on the sidelines waiting to join the parade."

Turning toward him, Cate propped her elbows on the bar and leaned back. "A hundred fifty times earnings is pretty hard to support in the long run, don't you think?"

"Shh!" he said, bringing a finger to his lips. "Trying to upset the apple cart or what?"

"Just saying that reality always catches up to speculation." Cate stole the wedge of lime from Gavallan's beer and bit it between her teeth.

"Not too soon, let's hope. Besides, I didn't hear you mention anything about speculation up there on the podium. 'The Internet is going to radically redefine human existence.' Aren't those your words?"

"Wow. A listener. I'm impressed. You must have been the only guy who wasn't staring at my boobs."

Gavallan choked on his beer, laughing while stumbling back a few steps. "Not necessarily."

"Oh?" Her voice sounded distressed, but her smile confessed her pleasure.

"Just remember, Miss Magnus, when you make money, it's called investing. When you lose it, it's speculation."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Gavallan. At least you don't have to worry as much as the others. You're not a gold digger. Not yet, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got some common sense." She grinned. "You want the B-school verdict?"

"Why not?"

Cate drew a deep breath. "It means that you alone among your peers have demonstrated prescience and restraint in selecting and bringing to market only those companies whose products not only have a sustainable competitive advantage but whose business models promise long-term profitability." She wagged a finger for him to come closer and, when he did, whispered in his ear. "You know how to separate the pyrite from the gold."

Gavallan backed away, his expression bemused yet appreciative. "Sorry if I'm staring. I didn't know Michael Porter had such a nice ass."

"I pay Professor Porter royalties."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure. But that means you'll have to take me away from this slum," she said. "At the hotel, everything's comped. I know a decent place in Kahului. A hole in the wall where the windsurfers hang out. You eat meat, don't you? They have great burgers."

Gavallan took the question as an affront to his dignity. "Where I come from in Texas, them's fighting words."

"I know," she winked. "I read the article in Fortune. Meet me in the lobby at seven."

They feasted on cheeseburgers and mai tais and promised not to say one word about the market. They talked about diving and sailing and designer tequila, consciously steering away from the other's past or anything more frothy than their horoscopes- he was a Scorpio, she a Leo- and their favorite movies- his was Bridge on the River Kwai, hers Anastasia. He stuck fifty cents in the jukebox to hear Junior Brown "a-pickin' and a-grinnin'," and she protested, saying that they didn't have any of Pearl Jam's greatest hits. He said that if he hadn't gone into finance, he would have chosen forestry. She lied as adeptly, saying that greeting cards were her secret passion and that journalism just paid the bills.