For most of my career as a suspense author, I've been repeatedly greeted by the comment, "Wow, you look so nice for someone who writes such twisted books." For once I'd like to agree. I really am a dull, ordinary person leading a dull, ordinary life. The only real background I have is as a business consultant, and while I suppose characters could die from process reengineering efforts gone horribly awry, I'm not sure anyone other than Dilbert enthusiasts would appreciate that.

Thus I have enlisted the help of the following experts to give my plot especially devious twists and my characters especially evil deaths. Please bear in mind that these people patiently and accurately answered all my questions. That does not mean, however, that I used their information in a patient or accurate way. I am a firm believer in artistic license, plus I possess a warped mind. We all have our talents.

That said, my deepest gratitude and appreciation to:

Dr. Greg Moffatt, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology, Atlanta Christian College, for generously answering my steady stream of questions and offering such fabulous insights into the criminal mind.

Phil Agrue, Private Investigator, Agrue amp; Associates, Portland, OR, who in three hours convinced me that I want to be a defense investigator when I grow up.

Gary Vencill, Consultant-Legal Investigation, Johnson, Clifton, Larson amp; Corson, P.C., whose delight in creating an auto accident/murder scenario was equaled only by his diligence in personally showing me how to tamper with seat belts.

Dr. Stan Stojkovic, Professor of Criminal Justice, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, for his insights on prison protocol and communication.

Dr. Robert Johnson, American University, who was gracious enough to allow me to use his honest academic study as a model for conducting various forms of criminal mayhem.

Larry Jachrimo, custom pistolsmith, whose ongoing assistance with firearm details and ballistics techniques enables me to be more diabolical than I ever hoped. He provides me with wonderful information; I do make some mistakes.

Mark Bouton, former FBI firearms instructor and fellow writer, for helping bring my FBI agents into the new millennium.

Celia MacDonell and Margaret Charpentier, pharmacists extraordinaire, who also have a very promising future as poisoners. Nothing personal, but from here on out, I'm bringing my own food.

Mark Smerznak, chemical engineer, great friend, and extraordinary cook.

Heather Sharer, wonderful friend, jazz enthusiast, and general shoulder to cry on.

Rob, Julie, and Mom for the tour of the Pearl District and steady stream of cafe mochas.

Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire, who definitely made this a better book.

Damaris Rowland and Steve Axelrod, agents extraordinaire, who encourage me to always write the book of my heart, and even better, allow me to pay my mortgage while doing so.

And finally to my husband, Anthony, for the supply of homemade chocolate champagne truffles and chocolate mousse cake. You know how to keep a writer motivated, and I love you.

VIRGINIA

His mouth grazed the side of her neck. She liked the feel of his kiss, whisper-light, teasing. Her head fell back. She heard herself giggle. He drew her earlobe between his lips, and the giggle turned to a moan.

God, she loved it when he touched her.

His fingers lifted her heavy hair. They danced across the nape of her neck, then slid down her bare shoulders.

"Beautiful, Mandy," he whispered. "Sexy, sexy, Mandy."

She giggled again. She laughed, then she tasted salt on her lips and knew that she cried. He turned her belly-down on the bed. She didn't protest.

His hands traced the line of her spine before settling in at her waist.

"I like this curve right here," he murmured, dipping one finger into the concave curve at the small of her back. "Perfect for sipping champagne. Other men can have breasts and thighs. I just want this spot here. Can I have it, Mandy? Will you give that to me?"

Maybe she said yes. Maybe she just moaned. She didn't know anymore. One bottle of champagne empty on the bed. Another half gone. Her mouth tingled with the forbidden flavor, and she kept telling herself it would be okay. It was just champagne, and they were celebrating, weren't they? He had a new job, the BIG job, and oops, it was far away. But there would be weekend visits, maybe some letters, long-distance phone calls…

They were celebrating, they were mourning. It was a farewell fuck, and either way champagne sex shouldn't count with the nice folks at AA.

He tilted the open bottle of bubbly over her shoulders. Cool, sparkling fluid cascaded down her neck, pooling on the white satin sheet. She lapped it up helplessly.

"That's my girl," he whispered. "My sweet, sexy, girl… Open for me, baby. Let me in."

Her legs parted. She arched her back, the whole of her focusing down, down, down, to the spot between her legs where the ache had built and now only he could ease the pain. Only he could save her.

Fill me up. Make me whole.

"Beautiful, Mandy. Sexy, sexy, Mandy."

"Pl-pl-please…"

He pushed inside her. Her hips went back. Her spine seemed to melt and she gave herself over to him.

Fill me up. Make me whole.

Salt on her cheeks. Champagne on her tongue. Why couldn't she stop crying? She tilted her head down to the sheets and sipped champagne as the room spun sickeningly.

Suddenly the bed was gone. They were outside. In the driveway. Clothes on, cheeks dry. Champagne gone, but not the thirst. Six months she'd been dry. Now she craved another drink horribly. One bottle of champagne still unopened. Maybe she could get him to give it to her for the drive home. One for the road.

Don't go……

"You okay, baby?"

"I'm okay," she mumbled.

"Maybe you shouldn't be driving. Maybe you should stay the night…"

"I'm okay," she murmured again. She couldn't stay, and they both knew it. Beautiful things came, beautiful things went. If she tried to hold on now, it would just make it worse.

He was hesitating, though. Looking at her with those deep, concerned eyes. They crinkled at the corners. She had loved that when she first met him. The way his eyes creased as if he was studying her intently, really, truly seeing her. Then he'd smiled a split second later, as if merely finding her had made him so very happy.

She'd never had a man smile at her like that before. As if she were someone special.

Oh God, don't go. …

And then: Third bottle of champagne. All full. One more for old times' sake. One more for the road.

Her lover took her face between his hands. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. "Mandy…" he whispered tenderly. "The small of your back…"

She couldn't answer anymore. She was choking on her tears.

"Wait, baby," he said suddenly. "I have an idea."

Driving. Thinking really hard because the narrow road curved like a snake and it was dark and it was so strange how early she could have a thought, and how late her body would be in responding. He sat beside her in the passenger's seat. He wanted to make sure she got home safe; then he'd take a cab. Maybe she should take a cab. Maybe she was in no shape to drive. As long as he was coming with her, why was she the one at the wheel?

She couldn't hold on to that thought long enough to make it work.