She raised her head and gazed through the green-tinted glass walls at the towers of the El Dorado building over on Central Park West. She wished she were farther downtown where she could be looking at the Ghostbusters building, or maybe at the Dakota, but she'd be like a total dumbass to complain about this view. Below, out of sight at this angle, lay Central Park.

    The bubbler cycled off as it hit the twenty-minute mark. As Dawn reached over to reset it, she heard the gym door open behind her. She sighed. She knew who it was.

    Gilda.

    Right on time, carrying a white terrycloth robe.

    Did she have her own timer? Or was she like a dog and the bubbler signal was like the sound of a can opener? No matter where she was, did she hear it and hurry over?

    "Did miss enjoy her soak?" she said in her accented English.

    She came from somewhere in Eastern Europe but Dawn had totally forgotten where. Thick-bodied, graying, bunned-up hair, dark eyes, and a gaptoothy smile.

    "I was just beginning to. I could stay here for hours."

    "Tut-tut-tut. You know the rules, you can read the signs: Twenty minutes is all you are allowed."

    "But another five minutes—"

    "Any longer might hurt your baby."

    "It's not a baby—it's a thing inside me and I want it out. Can't anybody here get that through their heads?"

    "The Master said—"

    "It's not his body, it's mine, and I want it back. Totally."

    Gilda held up the robe by the collar and jiggled it. "Come-come. I bring your nice soft robe. I will help you." Another jiggle. "Come."

    Pissed, Dawn rose and stepped over the edge of the tub. She noticed Gilda giving her wet body a careful up-and-down. Looking for signs of pregnancy? Or just… looking. As a housekeeper, Gilda seemed totally efficient and not a bad cook either. Totally no-nonsense but always cheerful. Seemed devoted to her job, but every so often Dawn would catch her looking at her in a way that she found just plain creepy.

    She slipped her arms into the robe—God, it had to be an inch thick—and folded it around her. As she knotted the belt she stepped to the glass wall and stared down at Jackie-O Lake.

    "Why do you call him Master?"

    "Because he is the Master of the house."

    Yes, but—"

    "And because he wishes us to."

    That didn't surprise Dawn. Mr. Osala had a commanding air, like he was totally used to being in charge. But hearing him called "the Master" all the time made her feel like she was in Dracula's castle or something. All he needed was a red-lined cape.

    The Master this, the Master that…

    Screw the Master.

    Who was he, anyway? He said he'd been hired by her mom before she died—hired to protect her from Jerry—or Jerome, as Mr. Osala had called him on the night he'd interrupted her planned dive off the Queensboro Bridge.

    That had been a bad time—the low point of her life. Mom dead, killed by Jerry who'd tried to make it look like a suicide.

    A lump rose in her throat as she thought about it. Her fault. If she hadn't got involved with that creep, whatever his real name was.

    Nowadays Mr. Osala just called him Bethlehem.

    Mr. Osala didn't seem to have a first name, at least not one that he used, but he was rich, no doubt about that. A Fifth Avenue duplex with its own penthouse health club. No way Dawn could complain about her treatment here. She had a bedroom with a breathtaking view of Central Park. She could order totally anything she wanted to eat, and if Gilda couldn't make it, they'd have it delivered. Anything she wanted she got. She'd asked for a swimsuit for the pool and hot tub, and a few hours later this Shan bikini arrived—just her size. Yeah, she could have anything she wanted.

    Except an abortion.

    And a walk outside.

    She so wanted to get out of here, even if only for an hour or so, but Mr. Osala—the fucking Master—said no. Too risky.

    Who was he anyway to tell her what to do? Just because Mom hired him as some sort of bodyguard didn't mean Dawn had to listen to him. Trouble was, she had no choice. He had key-only deadbolts on the doors and wouldn't let her out. Too dangerous, he said.

    Like being in prison. Okay, maybe that was pushing it. More like a birdcage—velvet lined, with solid gold bars, but a cage just the same.

    "I need to get out of here," she said to no one in particular.

    "Oh, but miss, you can't. That man might see you."

    That man…

    Jerry Bethlehem, or whatever his real name was. Yeah, Jerry was out there looking for her. Looking real hard, she'd bet. Totally. Because he wanted his kid—wanted it like crazy. Insanely.

    The Key to the Future, he'd called it.

    Mr. Osala's reasoning was that as long as she remained pregnant, she'd be safe from harm by Jerry, because hurting her could hurt his child. But if he ever caught up to her and learned she'd had an abortion, her life wouldn't be worth two cents.

    Last month she'd wanted to die, had been ready to jump off a bridge. That had passed. Now she wanted to live, but this wasn't the kind of living she had in mind.

    Mr. Osala didn't seem to want anything from her beyond cooperation in keeping safe. She wound up with proof of that when she told him she'd left her Jeep parked in a garage near the 59th Street Bridge. He'd taken her ticket and "relocated it to a safer place."

    And then he'd handed her an envelope containing a quarter of a million dollars.

    Her quarter mil. Or rather her mom's.

    Either Mr. Osala was so honest that he wasn't tempted by any amount of money, or so totally rich that a quarter mil was pocket change. Or both.

    Fine. But what good was any amount of money if she wasn't allowed to spend it?

    "Jerry's one man and there's a zillion people in this city. What are the chances of the two of us running into each other? Like almost totally zero."

    "But you have everything here." Gilda pointed through the glass at the rooftop garden. "You have trees and flowers right outside."

    "How about shopping? I want to go shopping."

    "Why? Anything you want, you have only to ask and it is brought to you."

    She turned and faced Gilda. Didn't she get it?

    "I'm talking about shopping—s-h-o-p-p-i-n-g. You know: walking up and down aisles, looking at things, touching things, trying stuff on. Shopping."

    Gilda looked genuinely puzzled. "I do not understand. Why should you want to go out when everything can be brought in?"

    A scream rose in Dawn's throat. She started to suppress it, then figured, what the hell, let it all out.

    And she did—a formless screech that echoed off the glass walls.

    Gilda paled and backed up a step.

    "Miss—?"

    Dawn kept the volume cranked up. "I'm going crazy here! Can't you see that? If I don't get out for a while I'm going to climb that fence out there and jump off!"

    Gilda backed up another step. "I'll get Henry."

    "Get your fucking Master!"

    "He's away, searching for your Mister Bethlehem. Henry will know what to do."

    As Dawn watched her bustle off, she thought, Probably thinks I'm a spoiled brat.

    But she wasn't. Mom had seen to that. Even went so far as to make her get a job waiting tables in the Tower Diner. Not a bad job, and the tips had been decent. Mom never would have stood for a tantrum like the one she'd just thrown.

    Her throat tightened, her eyes filled. Aw, Mom. Why didn't I listen to you? Why didn't I appreciate you while you were here? I miss you.

    She swallowed and blinked back the tears. Had to stay tough. Spoiled brats didn't whimper, they screamed and threw tantrums. And if that was what it took to get somebody to listen around here, then this place was about to become Tantrum City.