She pulled up a chair and sat, looking around for a waitress. "I'm wearing the shoes," Michelle announced, turning so she could lift her foot high enough for Jenner to see. The shoes had been outrageously expensive, over five hundred bucks, but seeing the undiluted delight on Michelle's face as she'd tried them on had made Jenner think they were well worth it. But then Michelle had been oddly terrified to wear them, afraid they'd get scuffed or she'd break a heel, or something. She had often tried them on at home, then put them safely away. This was the shoes' first outing, and Jenner clapped her hands.

"About time," she said.

"Are they hot, or what?" Michelle asked, turning her foot this way and that as she admired the rhinestones on the delicate straps. She lifted her foot even higher, so the two men and woman who also sat at the table could see. Across from the table, a man whistled as Michelle's lifted foot maybe gave him more to admire than just a shoe. She laughed, stuck her tongue out at him, but put her foot back on the floor.

"Next time," she said to the other three, "I'm going to get the matching purse. It was amazing. The leather felt like butter, it was so soft."

Before Jenner could say anything, the cocktail waitress arrived with a loaded tray. As she began passing out the new round, she glanced at Jenner. "What'll you have?"

"A beer," Jenner said. As tired as she was, she was wary of drinking very much; she'd limit herself to the one beer and go home in an hour or so.

"Your tab's up to ninety-four fifty," the waitress said to Michelle, her tone saying that she wanted to see some cash or a credit card before anything else was ordered.

"Put it on her tab," Michelle said carelessly, picking up her colorful drink and tipping the glass in Jenner's direction. "She'll take care of it. That's what she's food gor. I mean, good for." She laughed at her silly mistake, waving her hand so that the contents slopped over the edge of the glass; she stopped to swipe her finger over the rim before sticking it in her mouth. "Oops," she said.

Oops? Was Michelle talking about the spilled drink, or what she'd just said?

Jenner blinked, sitting back in her chair. She almost didn't believe what she'd heard-almost, but not quite. Maybe a tiny part of her had been waiting for it, but then again, maybe not, because this hurt. Michelle, too?

She probably should have seen it coming. Not that she minded always picking up the check now, it was just that she was always expected to do it even when, as now, she hadn't even had a drink yet. And the other three people ... she knew them only because she'd often seen them here, but very casually; she didn't even know their last names. Why should she buy their drinks, too?

The prospect of fun had faded like a cheap T-shirt, fast and ugly.

"Actually, cancel that beer," she said to the waitress. "I can't stay." She readjusted the shoulder strap of her purse as she stood. "I just wanted to stop by and let you know, since you were expecting me," she said to Michelle. "I knew it'd be so loud in here you'd never hear your cell phone ring."

Michelle stared at her, the smile sliding from her face. "What the hell?"

"I'm tired," Jenner said.

"Yeah, because shopping and counting money all day is so exhausting." Michelle laughed at her little joke, and so did the others at the table.

Jenner didn't laugh. "I gotta go," she said, turning on her heel and trying to escape before she said something she wouldn't be able to take back. She and Michelle had been friends a long time, but she could sense that relationship was suddenly teetering on the point of no return, and she didn't want it to tip over. Michelle was half-drunk-maybe three-quarters-and tomorrow she would apologize and they'd go on as before. Jenner hoped that was what would happen, anyway.

She made it to the door and stepped out, into relative coolness and quiet, before Michelle caught her and grabbed her shoulder. "You can't go," Michelle said, no longer laughing, and not sounding quite as tipsy. "I didn't bring any cash with me. You have to pay for our drinks."

Reluctantly Jenner turned and looked Michelle in the eye. Michelle tossed her dark curls, her expression defiant. Behind them, bar patrons were drinking, talking, laughing, dancing. A few squeezed out past them, and some people squeezed in to take their places. Finally Jenner said, "You just expected that I'd be here and that I'd pay for everything."

Michelle's expression changed to incredulity. "Well, yeah," she said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

Fatigue slammed down on Jenner's shoulders. Was what Michelle expected really any different from her dad, and Dylan, and the endless parade of charities and cons that had stopped calling her only because she'd disconnected her landline? At least Michelle had been there for her in the past, which the others hadn't been. That counted for something. She opened her purse, intending to give Michelle enough cash to pay for her evening. Maybe tomorrow they could get things straightened out. Maybe when Michelle hadn't been drinking she wouldn't be in such a bitchy mood.

"You know," Michelle said, her full mouth twisting in a little sneer, "you've changed since you won that damn money. You used to be fun. You used to think about something besides money, money, money. Now you're just-"

"Your personal ATM machine?" Jenner shot back, her tone scorching as she pulled a stack of bills from her wallet. She had changed? Sure she had. Everyone around her had changed, so was she supposed to remain the same, untouched by what was truly a gigantic shifting of her world? She had to deal with them, so damn straight it had changed her.

Michelle's expression hardened, and her eyes narrowed. "I don't like you very much, anymore. The people who used to be your friends aren't good enough for you now, just because you can buy things."

"You liked me and my money fine when I was spending it on your shoes and jewelry, and your new couch," Jenner pointed out. "You liked me when I bought every single meal we ate out, when we went on vacation together, and when I paid for every round we drank in this place." She took Michelle's hand and slapped the bills into it. "Well, here it is, all I have on me. Have fun."

Michelle's fingers clenched around the money, but the sneer didn't leave her face. "Bitch," she said.

The word stunned Jenner. Even though she'd stood up for herself, she had still been expecting that, tomorrow, she and Michelle would make up. Now, staring at the venom in Michelle's face, hearing it in her tone, something in her realized there was no apology coming tomorrow.

"Good-bye," she managed to say, a choking sadness keeping her tone oddly gentle, then she turned and headed down the sidewalk. She heard the door bang as Michelle went back inside. The immediacy of the sound told her Michelle hadn't paused, hadn't even looked back.

That was that, then. Hurt congealed in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Michelle had been there for years, always ready to laugh and party. They'd consoled each other through breakups with boyfriends, head colds, and past-due bills. They had lived in the same world, but now they didn't.

She unlocked the Camry with the remote and slid into the driver's seat. Her hands trembled as she tried to fit the key into the ignition. She was so tired she wanted only to go home, but she'd just given Michelle every cent she had and she needed to get some cash. She didn't like not having any cash on her. In the past she'd been broke plenty of times, and she didn't like it. She'd very quickly grown accustomed to never being without some money.

There was an ATM in Bird's-very handy for the bar patrons-but she didn't want to go back in there. Sadly she realized she'd probably been to Bird's for the last time, another touchstone in her life that was sliding away into the past. Mentally she searched the area. There was another ATM just a few blocks away, but she didn't like the neighborhood. Instead, because it felt safer, she drove to the nearest branch of her bank-she didn't like paying user fees, either, so she preferred using the bank's-and pulled up to the ATM.

A cool breeze whipped around her as she got out of the car and approached the machine. She'd withdraw a couple of hundred to replace what she'd given Michelle, and that would be more than enough to tide her over the weekend. She tapped in her account number, and PIN.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

She stared at the little screen, blinking at the words as she tried to make sense of them. She knew, roughly, how much she had in her account, but she hadn't balanced it in over a week. Still, there should be around twenty-five thousand, give or take a few hundred.

She was tired, though, and upset; she'd probably punched in the wrong number. She tried again, and this time she was very careful, making certain every number was correct.

The same message flashed on the screen: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

At this hour, the bank was dark and there was no one to help her. She thought a moment, then entered a different request, this time to see her account balance. Probably this machine was malfunctioning, and was giving the same message to everyone who tried to get money from it. For that matter, maybe the machine was empty, and it was telling her it had insufficient funds. The idea was almost funny, and she smiled a little, but then the smile froze on her lips.

Three dollars and twenty-two cents?

She stared at the impossible number. She knew she had more than that, thousands more than that. What had happened?

Automatically she got back in the car and started it, put it in gear. All the way home she turned the situation over in her mind, feeling sick as she worked through details.

Someone-and she had only two someones whom she suspected-had gotten his hands on her checkbook and written himself a check for twenty-five odd thousand. Dylan, or Jerry? It had to be one of them. They knew where she lived, and they were both determined to get something from her. They both wanted their cut of her good fortune, their fair share for-what? Breathing?

She'd tagged Dylan for a moocher, but she wasn't sure he'd steal. Even if he did, he wouldn't be bold enough to take it all. He'd steal a few checks, write one here and there for a couple hundred dollars, hoping she wouldn't notice, and if she did then he'd hope she'd cut him some slack instead of going to the cops. That was Dylan.

But her dad ... Jerry Redwine would take all he could get and then he'd run.

She felt that inner door slam that signaled yet another end. She wouldn't hear from him again. He wouldn't call. There would be no more awkward lunches, no more offers to get in on the ground floor of some great opportunity he'd dreamed up. Her latest refusal had evidently convinced him she couldn't be fleeced, so instead he'd stolen from her. He was gone for good this time, because he'd known there was no getting past this.

The certainty that he was the culprit ate through her like acid. How had he done it? He couldn't have gotten her ATM code- and besides, ATMs would dispense only a limited amount of cash from an account-but somehow he must have gotten his hands on her checkbook.

She'd been so careful whenever he was in the house, always taking her purse with her if she went into another room, or locking it in the trunk of the car if she'd known ahead of time that he was coming over. But what if she hadn't known he was there? What if he'd lurked outside, waited until she was in the shower or even in bed asleep, then quietly slipped the lock and let himself in? She could easily see him doing that. In hindsight she realized she should have installed an alarm, but she hadn't wanted to spend any money on a place where she wasn't going to be living much longer, and she'd let it slide. She was still in the habit of avoiding relatively small expenses, because they were outside her experience, and now it had cost her big time.

When she got home she took out her checkbook and carefully went through it, looking at the numbers to make sure none were missing. The books each had twenty-five checks in them, and she kept only one book at a time; the others were in the safe deposit box. She knew what checks she'd written, because she kept a careful record. The blank check on top was the next one in sequence. They were all there ... except for the very last one in the book.

She looked up the last time she'd balanced the account, and carefully began subtracting the amount of each check she'd written. The total was more than she'd thought. She'd had a balance of twenty-seven thousand, four hundred three dollars and twenty-two cents. Jerry had even taken the four hundred. Heck, he'd evidently even done the math himself, to see how much he could write the check to himself for. If he hadn't, if he'd left her a few hundred, it might have taken her days longer to realize what he'd done.

And this was it. He'd finally done it, finally gone past her limit. This was turning out to be a hell of a day. First Michelle, and now Jerry, though actually Jerry had made his move first, even though she'd just found out about it. She hadn't seen him since Wednesday. Two days, then. He'd have left immediately because he wouldn't be certain she wouldn't turn him over to the cops for forgery.

She wouldn't. Let him have the money. Let this mark the complete end. She'd been waiting for this moment from the second she realized she'd won the lottery, wondering how much it would cost her, and now she knew: twenty-seven thousand, four hundred dollars.

She sat in the silent duplex, feeling exhausted and empty, and suddenly she had a moment of clarity. She'd known all along that winning the lottery would change her life, known that some of the changes would be jarring, but she hadn't expected how complete the change would be.

Part Two.

BAD LUCK.

Chapter Six.

Seven years later.

"WE HAVE A SITUATION DEVELOPING," THE FAMILIAR voice said on Cael Traylor's secure, encrypted cell phone.

Cael could put both a name and a face to the voice, because he'd made a point of being able to do so. Finding out what he wanted to know had required a cross-country drive, but driving had kept him off the radar, which he wouldn't have been if he'd flown. Any time his name showed up on a passenger list, certain elements of the U.S. government learned of it. Not Homeland Security, not the State Department, but certain people who handled black ops, such as the man who was currently talking to him on his phone.

"Details," he said briefly, turning off the television and wheeling away from his computer so he could concentrate. He didn't take notes; a paper trail could come back to bite him on the ass. He did take precautions to make certain he was never hung out to dry, but notes weren't part of his routine.

"We've picked up some transmissions from the North Koreans that make us suspect they've established a source for some technology we'd rather they not have."

Cael didn't ask what that technology was-not yet, anyway. At this point he didn't need to know. If at some point he decided he did need to know, then he wouldn't proceed without that information. "Who's the source?"

"Frank Larkin."

Cael's interest level shot up several degrees. Larkin was a multimillionaire who was one of the behind-the-scene powers in Washington, D.C., with a lot of friends and contacts in high places. He had jumped on the green bandwagon with so-called environmentally friendly businesses and products that were questionable at best, and were probably outright cons. Cael didn't get emotionally involved in causes, but in his opinion it took a particularly sleazy type of bastard to take advantage of people who were trying to do something good.

"He pulls a lot of juice" was all he said, his tone neutral. Because of Larkin's connections, anything they got on him would have to be ironclad-and even then there was no guarantee that anything would ever be done. On the other hand, in a lot of these cases no formal charges were ever brought. The "problem" was taken care of, and would look like a heart attack or a stroke, at least on paper, while the bullet hole in the back of the head would somehow escape the medical examiner's notice.

Cael had done his share of wet work, but that was for another country, in another decade. His true specialty was surveillance, so what he was being called on to do was get the goods on Larkin, not take him out.

"Specifics," he said.

"Larkin is one of a consortium that's expanding into luxury ship cruises. The first ship, the Silver Mist, is scheduled to go into service very shortly. Before that, however, her maiden voyage will be a special two-week charity cruise to Hawaii. The passengers will all be the super-elite, all the proceeds from the cruise will be donated to charity, and there's a huge public relations push going on. Larkin will be the host of the cruise. We think he'll be meeting with the North Koreans while he's in Hawaii, but the place and time won't be set until shortly beforehand. We need to know when and where."

Cael mulled that information over. The computer age had changed espionage; actual prototypes or products didn't have to be stolen. Instead, the specs could be transmitted in the blink of an eye, and the receiving country or agency could proceed from there. The North Koreans were famously paranoid; a face-to-face meet, especially on foreign soil, posed far more risk to them than a simple file transmission.

"Something's off," he said. "Why would the Koreans agree to that? Why the need for a face-to-face meet?"

"We don't know. There may be something else going on that we haven't unraveled yet. What we do know is enough."

Cael gave a mental shrug. In the end, it didn't matter why the Koreans would agree to such a risky move, just that they had. "When's the cruise?"

"Two weeks."

Not much time then. "Can you get me and my people booked? We'll need the suite next to Larkin's."

"How many rooms do you need?"

"Two," he replied. He and Tiffany would take one room, Ryan and Faith the other. In fact, the best arrangement would be Ryan and Faith in the suite adjoining Larkin's. This cruise was just the type of thing they would do, so their presence wouldn't be in any way remarkable. "And I'll need two people embedded in the ship's crew."

"Names."

He provided them, his thoughts already moving ahead. He would also need someone on the security staff, and putting one of his people there at this late date was probably impossible. Therefore, he needed to buy someone who was already on staff. He relayed that requirement, too.

"I'll have everything set up. Get your people ready."

They both hung up. Cael left his chair to get more coffee. He'd been awake and at the computer for more than an hour, but it was barely five o'clock in the morning, California time, too early to call any of his people and put them on alert. Instead, he took his cup out onto the porch and sat in one of the comfortable rocking chairs, stretching his long legs out to prop them on top of the porch railing. Dawn hadn't yet rolled across the mountains to the east of him, but the birds and insects were producing an anticipatory symphony. He listened to them, enjoying the songs and solitude, the soft feel of the early-morning air on his bare chest.

His house was the only one in sight, and he liked it that way. The house itself was two-story, made of timber and rock so that it blended into its surroundings, not so big as to attract notice but large enough that he could be comfortable. The security array was more extensive than normal, but not immediately apparent. He'd installed at least half the precautions himself, so no company would have a set of schematics that could be used to breach his defenses. Maybe he had a touch of paranoia himself, but the way he looked at it, he'd rather spend some extra money than be caught with his pants down. He was in a dangerous business-not as dangerous now as what he'd done before, but in his type of work you didn't win many friends.

Trust was the keystone in his relationships, both professional and personal. Professionally, he didn't trust the people he worked for, but he did the people he worked with. He had a good group assembled. They didn't work together exclusively, but more and more the others were turning down jobs that hadn't come through him.

He hadn't set out to be the head of anything. For that matter, he hadn't set out to work in the world of black ops. A combination of birth, circumstance, and natural talent had gradually led him to where he was now, and he had to admit the job was a good fit.

He'd been born in Israel to American parents. His mother was a nonpracticing Jew; his father a laid-back Mississippi Delta boy who didn't give a hoot one way or the other. The fact that his mother didn't practice the religion she'd been born into was a sore spot with Cael. "If you aren't willing to follow the customs that pertain to you," he'd once groused to her, "why the hell couldn't you have left my foreskin out of it?"

"Stop complaining," she'd retorted. "You didn't need it."

"But I might have wanted it, and now I'll never know, will I?"

Just as a matter of principle, he didn't like the fact that one of his body parts had been removed without his permission.

He'd lived in Israel until he was ten, and had grown up speaking three languages: Hebrew, English, and Southern. Later on he'd added Spanish and German, with a smattering of Japanese that he was gradually expanding. Moving to the United States had been a big culture shock to him, but one he liked. He may have spent his first ten years in Israel, but he'd always been aware that he was an American. This was where he belonged.

Even so, he retained a deep fondness for Israel, and because he'd been born there he had dual citizenship. When he was eighteen he'd decided he wanted adventure, and he'd served a stint in the Israeli army, where he'd exhibited certain talents that brought him to the attention of Mossad. He'd done some jobs for them, before maturity and a desire to live brought him back to America, where he'd belatedly gotten a college degree in business administration.

There was no getting away from fate, he mused. His degree had come in handy, with the string of car washes, Laundromats, and other cash-rich businesses he owned. He'd built a fortune for himself-smallish, but still a fortune. The truth, however, was that those cash-rich businesses provided a convenient way for him to launder the money he earned from his real livelihood, which was mostly finding out things that other people wanted to keep hidden. The people who paid him didn't exactly provide 1099s at the end of the year, and he had to have some way to account for his money to the IRS. He did have some of it salted away in Switzerland, but the whole point of money, to him, was to put it to work. To do that, he had to have it in the United States. Thus the low-rent businesses, which had turned out to be a gold mine. No matter what, people washed their cars and clothes.

While he'd nursed his coffee, dawn had gradually arrived. He could see the mountains now, the deep green forest around him, see the birds that sang. His stomach reminded him that he'd been up for hours, and it was time for breakfast. After breakfast, he'd start calling his people, and get a plan put in place.

CRYSTAL CHANDELIERS GLITTERED OVERHEAD; in fact the entire ballroom seemed to glitter, from the chandeliers to the crystal glasses on the tables, to the jewelry decorating hair and ears, throats and hands, to the sequins and crystals on gowns and shoes and evening bags. Everything glittered.

Jenner stifled a sigh. She was so damn tired of glitter, so bored with these endless charity functions even when they were for a good cause. Why couldn't she just write a check and be done with it?

Even if she'd enjoyed the social aspect of these things, wine tasting, followed by an expensive dinner, which was then followed by an auction for overvalued objects she didn't want or need wasn't Jenner's idea of fun, and yet here she was. Again.

It was Sydney's fault, of course. Sydney Hazlett was Jenner's only real friend among the south Florida elite, and Syd often begged Jenner to attend these things to give her support and backup; in an odd reversal of circumstance, nature-whatever-the young woman who had been born to a life of luxury, coddled and catered to all her life, suffered from an almost paralyzing lack of confidence, while Jenner, who had come from nothing, could stare down anyone and shrug off any slight, which meant the one doing the slighting was, at best, unimportant to her.

That was how Jenner had survived these seven years after leaving Chicago. She had to admit that, by and large, people here had been polite, even gracious, but they hadn't welcomed her into their inner circles. She had many acquaintances, but only one friend, and that was Syd.

According to Syd, her attendance was mandatory, which meant Jenner's was, too. So as much as she wished she could just write a check to the children's hospital and call it done, she had to endure these tedious events-and she'd still end up writing a check.