thinking that s.l.u.t would take you in."

Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.

"One trip to the vet," Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. "Just

one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over."

Pleased that he'd had the last word, Michael opened the paper.

There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in

terrorism. Some routine b.i.t.c.hing about the economy. Beneath the fold

in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick

Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP

and axed his lover.

"Here's the guy," Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy's

perusal. "Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and

screaming for Jesus. See, here's my name. Detective Michael

Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it's supposed to be my name. If

you're not interested in current events, why don't you do something

useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch."

Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back

to the paper and wasn't paying attention. Scratching his bare chest,

Michael turned to the Entertainment section.

His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared

at the picture.

It was Emma. She looked-G.o.d, he thought, she looked outrageous. That

shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing

some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her

shoulders in thick, wild waves.

There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to

a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma's face long enough to stare at

the man.

Drew Latimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too.

Positively tucking beaming, Michael thought. He shifted back to Emma,

studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy

came in and dumped a s...o...b..ry pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn't

move.

Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.

RocK PRINCESS ENMA McAvoy

MAMES HER PRINCE

In a secret ceremony two days ago, Emma McAvoy,

daughter of Devastation's Brian McAvoy and author Jane

Palmer, married Drew Latimer, twenty-six, lead singer and

guitarist for the rising rock group, Birdcage Walk. The newlyweds met

on Devastation's recent European tour.

Michael didn't read any more. Couldn't. "Jesus, Emma." He closed his

eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. "Oh, Jesus."

EMmA WAS THRiuED to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show

off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the

loft.

It hadn't mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine

icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the

honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew's new alb.u.m.

She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the