“Come on, Fran.”

“Cleaning his pipes. Swear to God.”

“Jesus. If she pulled something like that here . . .”

“She couldn’t, Jim. She’d never get away with it. She’d have to do everybody.”

“I A L M O S T D I D N ’ T R E C O G N I Z E you,” Roz said. “I was trying to remember when I saw you last. When did you shave?”

“About an hour ago.”

“I mean when did you lose the beard, not when did you last run a razor over your face.”

“Same answer,” he said. “It needed a trim, and I got carried away. I feel slightly naked, but I probably would anyway, being suddenly out in public. And Stelli recognized me. She even con

gratulated me. She couldn’t be referring to the indictment, or the shave, so I can only assume she heard about the deal. You told her, right?”

“I did,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself. But if I hadn’t, someone else would have before the evening was out. Word gets around in nothing flat, you know that. When you get home, I’ll bet you’ll have congratulatory messages on your machine. Which reminds me, did Esther call?”

“Right after I got off the phone with you. I swear I’ve never met the woman, but the way she talked you’d have thought at the very least we shacked up once for a week in Cancún.”

“If you’d ever seen her, you’d know how funny that is.”

“Right now,” he said, “she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, as far as I’m concerned. Next to you, of course.” She grinned. “Goes without saying. Oops, here’s somebody.” He turned as a tall silver-haired man, wearing a seersucker suit over a black T-shirt, approached the table. Creighton recognized him, got to his feet.

“John Creighton? I’m Roger Delacroix, I heard your good news and I just wanted to extend my congratulations.” They shook hands, and Delacroix lowered his voice to add, “And my support. I can imagine—no, actually, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I know you’ll come out of it all right.” He sat down, watching as Delacroix rejoined his party at a table on the far side of the room. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said.

“Roger Delacroix.”

“And half the town just saw him come over and shake your hand.”

“Roger fucking Delacroix. I wouldn’t have thought he knew I was alive, and this morning he probably didn’t. But that was a hell of a nice thing he just did, and with no ulterior motive that I can see. I mean, it’s not as though I can swing a couple of votes in Swe-den and get him the Nobel he’s had coming for the past twenty years.”

“I wish somebody could.”

“So do I, especially now. Did you hear what he said at the end?

Just to me, not to the whole room. Not ignoring the murder charge, but acknowledging it and dismissing it. Essentially saying he knows I’m innocent, and how the hell can he?”

“I can think of slightly more than three million reasons.”

“Is that it, do you figure? I can’t possibly be guilty if I’m worth all that money? And speaking of which, you were going to tell me how it got to be three million.”

“I was wondering when we were going to get to that.”

“St. Martin’s bid two point four,” he said, “and that plus fifteen percent comes to exactly two point seven six. Which is nothing to sneeze at, but it’s not where we wound up.”

“I was a pretty good editor,” she said, “but I’ll tell you something. I’m a better agent.”

“And?”

“Before I called Esther,” she said, “I called Joan at St. Martin’s and told her she was the last one standing.”

“At two point four.”

“At two point four, and I reminded her Crown had the right to top that with a bid of . . . what did you just say it came to?”

“Two point seven six.”

“So, I said, I wanted to give her a chance to raise her own bid, because this was her last chance, and I had the sense she really wanted the book—”

“If not, she was bidding like a lunatic for no good reason.”

“—so maybe she’d like to edge it a little bit higher and make it that much harder for Esther to top. She thought about it and said what did I think about two point six.”

“And I bet you thought it was dandy.”

“Now here’s where I’m really proud of myself, sweetie. What I said was it was a step in the right direction, but if she went one notch higher to two point seven, then Esther would have to go over three million dollars to beat her out, and she was a lot less likely to get clearance at that figure.”

“And she went for it.”

“She thanked me. Pour us some more champagne, why don’t you? You want to know the best part?”

“You just told me the best part.”

“No, this is even better. I called Esther, not really thinking she’d top, because you have to remember we haven’t heard from her since it was her floor at one point one. I kept her in the picture, I told her what level we were at, but she never said anything, because what was there for her to say? Now we’re at two point seven and she’s got to say something, and what she said was yes.”

“‘Yes I said yes I will yes.’ ”

“Her exact words. No, as a matter of fact her exact words were I’m glad we wound up where we did, so we can announce a sale in excess of three million dollars. The more they spend, the more important the deal is to everybody, and the more ink they’ll get for it, and the ballsier Esther looks for throwing all those dollars on the table.”

“What did you say to Joan?”

“That she gave it her best shot, but that frankly I didn’t see how anybody was going to get you away from Crown. And she said evidently two point seven wasn’t enough, and maybe she should have gone to three herself. And we both told each other that three probably wouldn’t have worked either, and I said I’d better get off and call you, because you were probably climbing the walls.”

“As indeed I was.”

“No, because I’d already spoken to you, I wasn’t going to make you wait until I called her. I’m telling you all my secrets, and from now on you’re probably not gonna believe a word I say, are you?” She put a hand on top of his. “Saved by the bell. You don’t have to answer that, because here’s somebody else to congratulate you.”

“O H , D E A R , ” S U S A N S A I D . “It’s beginning to look as though I’ve been stood up, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t believe that,” Jay McGann said. “Whoever he is, the man’s probably dead.”

“Or kidnapped by terrorists,” Lowell Cooke offered. “Or he’s a damned fool. Which is what I feel like, because I’m afraid we have to desert you.”

She’d seen this coming. When McGann had ordered the last round of drinks, Cooke had reminded them that they had to roll, that they were running late.

“I’ve enjoyed this,” she said.

“So have we,” Cooke said, “but his wife’ll kill me if I don’t get him home to her in a hurry. Mine’ll kill me anyway. Susan, tell me your last name again, I’ve got a mind like a sieve.”

“Pomerance.”

“And the name of your gallery?”

“The Susan Pomerance Gallery.”

“Duh,” Cooke said, and McGann asked what hours she was open. She told him, and added that she could certainly arrange a private appointment after hours if that would be more convenient.

He said he wouldn’t want to put her to the trouble, sending a little message with his eyes, and she said it wouldn’t be any trouble, and sent the message right back to him.

And they were gone, and Jesus she was hot, and the bartender really did look awfully cute, but she didn’t intend to waste half the night waiting for him. She took a wee sip of her Cosmo, then turned to survey the room.

She looked, not for the first time, at the big man at the center table on the rear wall. She’d noticed him when he came in, noted with approval the athletic stride, the strong jawline, the don’t-care masculinity of his corduroy jacket and black jeans. But he was with a woman, and they were drinking champagne and talking a mile a minute, so she’d put him out of her mind.

Then the word filtered down the bar that he was John Creighton, John Blair Creighton, which made him the man who’d gone home with Marilyn Fairchild and strangled her. But that wasn’t the news, she learned. The news was that he’d just signed a book contract for over three million dollars.

She wouldn’t have recognized him, he’d had a beard in the photo that ran in the newspapers, but she could see now that it was the same face, the same strong presence.

She looked at him now, saw him moving his hands as he talked, and she could feel those hands on her body, taking hold of her, turning her, positioning her the way he wanted her. Taking her from behind, splitting her like a melon, his big hands gripping her shoulders, then moving to grip the sides of her head, then settling on her throat . . .

But he was with someone. Her eyes moved from him, and found those of a man a table away from Creighton. She’d seen him before and known he looked familiar, but now she was able to place him. And he was looking back at her.

She held his gaze, just for a moment, then turned for another sip of her drink.

J I M G A L V I N W A S S A Y I N G something, but Fran Buckram had stopped paying attention when the two men at the bar left and the woman in the black dress remained behind. He watched her, trying to figure her out, and then she caught him, her eyes locking on his. It was such a damned cliché, eyes finding each other across a crowded room, but he felt something. Fifty-three years old (a youthful fifty-three, you could say, but when you used the word youthful it meant you had to) and he could feel it just the same, a stirring, a quiver of excitement.

He was on his feet without having consciously decided to get up. Jim had stopped in midsentence and was looking up expec-tantly, waiting for an explanation. Well, he’d have to wait.

He walked straight across the room to her, threading his way among tables, pulling himself up short to avoid bumping a waiter with a tray. She had turned away from him, she was facing forward, drinking her drink. He stood at her shoulder, close enough to breathe her perfume, and groped for an opening line.

“They’re not coming back,” she said, without raising her eyes from her glass. “Have a seat.”

“I’ve been sitting all night.”

She turned to him, smiled. “Me, too,” she said.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t really want another drink,” she said, and he felt rejected for an instant before she smiled again and extended her hand.

“I’m Susan Pomerance.”

Her hand was warm and soft, her grip firm. “Fran Buckram.”

“I know. You were pointed out to me.”