“That’s the irony, you know,” Bryce said on a sigh as he rattled the ice in his scotch. “Townsend wasn’t either. He was obsessed with Lucy, but he carried around a lot of guilt because of it. He wouldn’t leave his wife for her, even though he and Irene haven’t had much of a marriage in recent years.” He took a sip of the drink, just enough to taste the smoky quality of the liquor, and stared off across the pool. “Foolish, hanging on to something meaningless when he could have started fresh.”

Again, Samantha’s chair rattled against the flagstones as she shifted positions. “Maybe he still loved his wife,” she said quietly. “Maybe he just couldn’t help himself.”

Bryce gave her a long, level look. “We can always help ourselves, sweetheart.”

The girl’s eyes filled. Mari wanted to hug her and tell her Will still loved her, that he was worth hanging on to, worth fighting for, but she didn’t know that. Not really. It was just a feeling, and feelings had already gotten her in trouble with the Rafferty brothers. Still, she couldn’t just sit there and watch Bryce try to lure an innocent into his fold. It would have been like standing by with her hands in her pockets while satanists made off with the village virgin. She was here and she was accountable. In her heart she had made her commitment to this land, a commitment that had nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with personal integrity.

“If people could always help themselves,” she said, “then Betty Ford wouldn’t have a clinic. There’s a lot more to people’s problems than weakness.”

Bryce’s small mouth tightened. Mari ignored him and met Samantha’s pain-filled gaze, trying her best to communicate the personal applications of her statement through mental telepathy.

“That’s a very romantic notion: to think that everyone is redeemable-or worth redeeming,” Lucas said. Apparently feeling near nudity was an affront to the memory of the dead, he had changed out of his Speedos into a pair of loose black lounging pants and a wood-block print shirt worn open à la Bryce. “Rates of recidivism in our prisons dispel your theory, Marilee.”

“We’re not talking about hardened criminals. We’re talking about a good man who made some bad choices.”

Ostensibly Townsend, though Bryce knew the conversation had passed beyond the judge. He couldn’t call her on it without making another strong attack on Will Rafferty, and clearly Samantha was not ready to hear it. He sighed and tipped his head, conceding the point to Marilee, and reevaluating her status as a threat.

“You have a very naive view of humanity,” Sharon said, raising a margarita to her lips. She sat between the two men, still in her bathing suit with a sheer black cover-up falling back off her angular shoulders, not covering much of anything.

“I prefer to think of it as optimistic,” Mari countered with a brittle smile.

“Stupid,” she pronounced bluntly. Her attention had shifted to Bryce, who was captivated by Samantha, who was staring down through the glass-topped table at her toenails. “Everyone is out for their own selfish interest. The smart ones climb over anyone they need to to get what they want. The ruthless ones wear cleats. The fools are trampled and left for dead. It’s every man for himself.”

Mari raised her brows. “Well, you’d know more about that than me,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve led a very sheltered life,” she added as Bryce’s cousin began to redden around the gills.

“Stick around,” Sharon said, rising. “You’ll learn fast enough.”

“Fun girl,” Mari murmured, rolling her eyes as the statuesque blonde dropped her cover up on the tile apron and dove into the pool. Her long body sliced into the water like a knife. “I’ll bet the film-noir crowd thinks she’s a million laughs.”

“Sharon learned the hard way that life can be exceedingly cruel,” Bryce said. “She’s had to develop a survivalist’s perspective.”

“Hmm.” Mari pictured Bryce’s cousin in eye black, a chic camouflage jump suit with an M-16 in her hands. It really didn’t seem much of a stretch.

From the front side of the mansion came the sound of a truck engine with no muffler, a loud roaring that even managed to rouse Fabian from his concentrated sunbathing. Everyone looked toward the side gate expectantly.

“Delivery truck,” Bryce grumbled, rising. “For what they charge to come out here, they should be able to afford gold-plated exhaust systems.”

He let himself out the gate and came flying backward through it a moment later. The tall, weathered wood gate slapped against the stone wall with a resounding crack, and Bryce landed on his ass on the terrace. Everyone at the table came to attention as one, like a herd of wildebeest ready to bolt and run.

“Will!” Samantha shouted, vaulting to her feet.

Will came through the open gate, fists doubled before him, and went straight for Bryce. “You sonofabitch! Leave my wife alone, you goddamn sonofabitch!”

His words were slurred and he swayed a little on his feet, but he zeroed in on Bryce, who was scrambling to get up on the wet tile at the pool’s edge. Will took a big roundhouse swing with his left, landing a glancing blow on Bryce’s small knob of a chin. Bryce went down, spitting blood, and rolled out of range.

“Will, stop it!” Samantha cried, running at him. A part of her was mortified at his behavior, shocked at his appearance-he had stitches in his forehead and a black eye. Another part of her was elated that he cared enough to come here and make a scene. A million things flashed through her head: he loved her, he’d come to take her home, they would live happily ever after, Bryce would hate her, her opportunities for better things would vanish.

His brain down-shifting slowly and awkwardly, Will turned toward his wife. The young woman he saw was a stranger to him. Her hair hung loose in a shimmering curtain of black silk. She wore makeup and jewelry. The faded jeans and T-shirt had been traded for something chic and silk in a copper shade that enhanced her natural coloring. She looked like a model, like some snooty bitch from the pages of fucking Vogue. Not his Sam. Too good for him. Slipping out of his reach. Wanting more than he could give her. His ex-wife… ex-wife… ex-wife…

“What’s the matter, Sam?” he asked, dredging up anger to mask the fear. “You don’t want me busting your lover’s face?”

“He’s not my-”

“Save your breath. I know what he’s after.” He turned around in an unsteady circle, raising his arms to gesture to all visible trappings of Bryce’s wealth, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “Mr. Rich Sonofabitch. He gets you, he gets a chunk of the Stars and Bars and a nice young piece of ass all in one.” He leaned into her face and gave her a blast of Jack Daniel’s fumes. “Helluva deal, huh, Sam?”

Samantha felt as if he had physically knocked her off balance. She felt as if she were tipping backward, her whole world rolling off its axis, and she threw herself at Will to save herself and to strike out at him all in one move. Her fists slammed against him.

“You bastard! How dare you say that to me! After all you’ve done, after all the women!” She choked on the rage and the hurt. Tears brimmed up and spilled down her cheeks in a torrent, smearing her freshly applied mascara. “After all you’ve done to hurt me!”

“Hurt you?” Will managed a caustic laugh as he tried to rub the sting out of his cheek. “Yeah, you look like you’re hurting, baby. Dressed up like a goddamn fifty-dollar whore, sitting around drinkin’ champagne with all your famous friends-”

“That’s enough, Rafferty,” Bryce said, circling around to stand behind Samantha. Blood leaked from a cut inside his lower lip. He fingered a tooth and winced; the cap had come loose.

Will sneered at him. “What you gonna do, rich boy? Tell Sam here to kick my butt for you? You sure as hell can’t do it. You just fuck people over with your money.”