"I'm sure that's been hard."

Isabelle shrugged. "There was really no choice, you know? There aren't many good jobs in Puerto Rico. No way to really get ahead. You have to come here. But my boyfriend didn't want to leave his friends." Her expression turned sad. "What could I do?"

"When did you decide to come here?"

She looked up at him curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered," he answered, taking a bite of his food. Trying to sound as if it had been just an innocent question anyone might ask.

"About a month ago. My boyfriend and I had a fight, and I was talking to Selma on the phone about it."

"Is she the one who invited you to come and stay with them?"

Isabelle nodded. "Yes. Of course. She said not to worry about my boyfriend. That I would meet someone nice here." She gazed at Gillette for a moment, then looked away again.

Gillette watched her look away, then down into her lap. Suddenly he wanted to reach out and touch her soft skin. Wanted to inhale her beauty. "Isabelle, I-"

She looked up and broke into a grin.

As if he'd done something amusing. "What is it?" he asked.

She leaned over the table and lightly wiped one corner of his mouth with her finger. Then held it up so he could see. "Mashed potatoes."

Gillette smiled slightly. "I forgot to tell you about my eating disorder."

"Oh?"

"I don't always get everything into my mouth."

She laughed, wiping off her finger with her napkin. "Why aren't you drinking a gla.s.s of wine with me?" she asked. "Is it because you have to work tomorrow? Or do you never never drink?" drink?"

"I don't drink," Gillette answered. Now he was committed to not having any. Disappointing, but best. "I know a lot of people enjoy it, and I have no problem with that. But for me, it's just not-" He interrupted himself, spotting a familiar figure moving through the tables. For several moments he watched her approach over Isabelle's shoulder. As she neared them, he stood up. Dropping his napkin on the table.

Before Gillette could step into the aisle, Stiles whisked past him and moved toward the woman. At the same time a busboy put down his tray and fell in behind her.

"Can I help you?" Stiles asked smoothly, folding his arms across his broad chest. Putting himself directly between Gillette and the woman.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman snapped.

Stiles took a hard look at her, his expression morphing into one of recognition. "Sure. You're Faith Ca.s.sidy."

"That's right. Now, let me past so I can speak with Christian."

Stiles shook his head. "Can't do it."

"Christian and I know each other. Let me past," she insisted.

"Sorry."

Gillette tapped Stiles on the shoulder. "It's all right, Quentin. You can let her past."

"No, I can't. Not until we check her out and make sure she isn't carrying anything," Stiles said firmly. He nodded at the busboy, who was standing behind her. Obviously, he was one of Stiles's men.

"She's clean," the man confirmed after he'd patted her down.

Faith rolled her eyes, indignant at having to undergo the search. "What's going on, Christian?" she demanded.

Stiles moved aside so Gillette could pa.s.s.

"There've been a few incidents," Gillette explained. "We had to tighten security."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but you could have told him I'm no threat."

"I could have," he agreed.

"But?"

"But he's in charge. What he says goes."

"Oh, G.o.d," she groaned, looking past him at Isabelle, an annoyed expression contorting her face. "You certainly get around."

"She's a friend," he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Sure she is," Faith said sarcastically. "I thought we we were going out when I got back from L.A. Or was our night no big deal? I thought it meant something to you. It did to me." were going out when I got back from L.A. Or was our night no big deal? I thought it meant something to you. It did to me."

"I thought you were going to call," he said, avoiding her question.

Faith hesitated. "Yeah, well."

Gillette noticed people at the tables around them staring at her, whispering to one another and pointing. There was no privacy for a celebrity like Faith. "How did you know I was here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you landed at LaGuardia, hopped off the plane, and just happened to decide on the Jetway to come straight to the back of the Waldorf dining room. How did you know I was here?" he repeated.

"I called your office and your a.s.sistant told me," Faith murmured.

"My a.s.sistant went home before I left. You hadn't called at that point. Besides, I didn't tell her I was coming here."

"All right," Faith said, groaning. "I don't know who she was. I don't remember her name."

"Was it Marcie Reed?"

"Where were you tonight, Troy?" Melissa asked angrily, hands on her hips. "It's eleven o'clock."

Mason closed the door of their penthouse apartment, removed his coat, and dropped it deliberately on a chair. Buying time. Trying to think. He'd been with Vicky for the last few hours, over at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue, and he was exhausted. He should have used the time in the taxi on the way home to come up with an alibi, but he'd pa.s.sed out as soon as he'd eased onto the backseat of the cab. The driver had been forced to shake him awake after pulling up in front of the apartment building.

"Tell me, Troy!"

Mason grimaced. "Shhhh. You'll wake up the baby, honey," he said, moving toward her.

"I called Apex three times," Melissa said, ignoring him. "Everyone I talked to said you'd left a long time ago."

He tried to slip his arms around her, but she stepped back and turned away. Facing the sliding doors to the s.p.a.cious balcony that overlooked Manhattan from forty-two stories up. "I had a business dinner."

"I bet. Who'd you eat?"

He shook his head and let out a long, frustrated breath. Why was he so driven to have s.e.x with other women? Melissa was beautiful. She had a lovely face and, even at thirty-seven, an incredible body. And she was completely uninhibited. She craved s.e.x and gave him anything he wanted. So why look elsewhere? He'd never be able to answer that question. He'd been asking himself the same thing over and over again for years, and he was no closer to an answer today than he had been the first time he'd asked himself.

He slipped his arms around her. This time she didn't move away. Just let her head fall back against his shoulder.

"Why am I not enough?" she whispered.

"You are, baby. I told you. I had dinner tonight."

"Don't lie to me, Troy," Melissa pleaded, turning to face him.

"I was at Carmine's with the CEO of this company I might buy."

"So, I'd see that receipt on the next Visa statement."

"I put it on the Apex corporate card I just got today."

Melissa shook her head. "You told me the other morning they weren't going to give you a corporate card. Remember? You were irritated because you were going to have to fill out all this paperwork to get reimbursed."

"I told Strazzi I didn't have time for that bulls.h.i.t, so he finally gave me one."

Melissa rolled her eyes. "Sure he did."

"Honey, I-"

Someone rang the doorbell.

Strange, Mason thought. The doorman should have buzzed to let them know someone was coming up. "Yes?" he called.

"Pizza delivery."

Mason looked down at Melissa. "Did you order a pizza?"

"No."

"What's the name on the delivery?"

"What?" came the m.u.f.fled reply.

"The name," Mason repeated.

"I don't hear you."

Mason cursed under his breath and moved quickly to the door, yanking it open in frustration. "What's the d.a.m.n name on the-" He stopped short, swallowing his words as he gazed at the revolver, then at the two Hispanic men in the hallway.

"Back up," hissed the one pointing the gun at him.

Mason obeyed, putting his hands in the air without being told.

"Troy, what's going-" Melissa saw the men, shrieked, turned, and raced toward the baby's room.

The second man darted past Mason and caught her before she got far. Dragging her to the floor, pulling rope from his jacket, and binding her wrists tightly behind her back.

Instinctively, Mason made a move toward her.

"Take another step and I keel you, f.u.c.ker," the man with the gun warned. He quickly closed the hallway door. "Then I keel her. And I keel her real slow. Lots of pain."

Mason froze, heart pumping madly. There was nothing he could do.

The man on top of Melissa stuffed a rag in her mouth, then pulled her roughly to her feet and pushed her onto the couch and down on her stomach. Then he bound her ankles, and, with another length of rope, pulled her ankles and wrists tightly together. "She's going nowhere now," the man said fiercely.

"Now him," the one holding the gun ordered.

The second man moved behind Mason and bound his wrists tightly behind his back.

"What do you want?" Mason asked, glancing at Melissa's terrified eyes. Flickering all around above the gag. "Money? Jewelry?"

"Shut up. Sit down there," the man holding the gun ordered, pointing at a chair beside the couch.

Mason obeyed. "Tell me what you want," he pleaded.

"Information."

It was deja vu. "What?" "What?"

"Information about companies at Everest Capital."

A chill raced up Mason's spine. "What companies?"

The man holding the gun pressed the barrel against Mason's cheek. "You tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Si? You don't know anything?" You don't know anything?"

"No."

"Okay. Sure you don't."

The man moved to where Melissa lay on the couch, not taking his eyes from Mason's. He smiled, pointing the barrel at her head. "What about her? You think she knows about these companies?"

"She knows nothing!" Mason shouted, standing up.