"Least I could do, really," he said, searching out her gaze, wanting to stare headlong into her vivid eyes, hoping to find that the connection was still there. But Cate was careful to keep her eyes aloof and darting across the crowd, only briefly engaging his.

"I've been reading that stuff on the web about the deal you've got coming to market," she said. "I hope you're being careful, Jett. I always told you to steer clear of Mercury."

"Come on, let's not start that again."

Cate began to say something, then bit her lip. Offering a noncommittal shrug, she ordered a Stolichnaya straight up, no ice, no chaser. Her drink.

Catherine Elizabeth Magnus was a handsome woman, more striking than beautiful. With her angled features, pale complexion, and high cheekbones, she called to mind an exotic strain of royalty. A princess from Liechtenstein, a Gräfin from Pomerania, an Italian contessa. Her posture was immaculate, her step light, yet directed. When she walked it was for the audience she'd grown used to long ago. And it was the coupling of patrician bearing with her commoner's unpretentious personality that he found so attractive. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Cate Magnus was the class Jett Gavallan never had.

She'd worked as a reporter at the Financial Journal for as long as he'd known her, writing a weekly piece for the paper she called "Gold Rush." Every Friday, she filled twelve column inches on the front page of the Journal's second section with offbeat, funny, and often poignant stories about the ins and outs of surviving in the capitals of the new economy: Silicon Valley, Seattle, Austin, and the few city blocks in Manhattan someone had baptized "Silicon Alley." Her subjects ranged from how the skyrocketing price of real estate was making millionaires out of middle-class home owners to the social etiquette of pink-slip parties to the personal peccadilloes of the new and obscenely rich. The rise and fall of Black Jet Securities would make perfect fodder for her column.

"Speaking of fires, I had an interesting call this afternoon," he said, allowing himself to move a few inches closer to her. "Between you and me, everything the Private Eye-PO has said is bullshit. Complete and utter garbage." He went on to explain about the receipts, his conversation that morning with Jean-Jacques Pillonel, and Konstantin Kirov's personal guarantee that everything was "up and running" in Moscow.

"Kirov himself told you? Well then, I guess you don't have to worry at all."

"Don't start about Kirov. Please, Cate. Not tonight."

"All I said was that you shouldn't trust him. He's an oligarch, for Christ's sake. How do you think he got where he is?"

"He is a businessman, and a damned good one. Neither of us has any idea of the conditions he has to work under over there. I'm not saying he's a saint, but Mercury speaks for itself. It's a gem."

"It sure does."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he's ruthless and conniving, and maybe even a little more than that. He's a good businessman all right. If that's what you call it."

"Cate!"

Her eyes flashed, and he could feel her straining to rein in her temper. "Okay," she conceded. "You win. Just be careful. Word is you're risking a lot on this deal."

"Whose word is that?"

"Everyone's. No one's. You know how it is. The street's got wind you're putting a lot on the Mercury deal. I just was curious if the rumors are true."

It was Gavallan's turn to shrug. But looking at her, at her lustrous black hair, her keen eyes, her pale, pillowed lips, he had a sudden desire to tell her everything. A need even. Whether she knew it or not, he valued her counsel more than that of any of his colleagues at Black Jet. She was smart. She was well-informed. She was discreet. They'd been together over two years, and though privy to his every insider secret, she'd never once abused his trust.

Cate who was trustworthy.

Cate who was loyal.

Cate who was the most sensuous lover he'd known.

Unable to restrain himself, he ran a hand across her cheek and let it glide through her hair. "I miss you."

"Jett, no," she whispered, her eyes fluttering. It was a plea, a denial, a memory.

"Come on," he said. "Let's dance." And before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and led her to the parquet floor. Continuing its tribute to "Old Blue Eyes," the orchestra launched into "A Foggy Day." Gavallan drew her closer. In seconds, their hands had found familiar places, their bodies secret havens.

"So what do you want to know?" he asked.

Cate looked taken aback. "You're serious?"

"Have I ever kept anything from you?"

"That was when we were… That was before," she said.

Before. He hated the word. "You will, however, have to recite the sacred oath."

"Oh, Jett, come on."

"Sorry. You know it's important to me. I am an Eagle Scout, you'll remember. The oath, please."

Cate looked uncertainly to her left and right, then raised her right hand to her shoulder, arranging the fingers in a familiar salute.

"On my honor I will do my best

To do my duty to God and my country

and to obey the Scout Law;

To help other people at all times;

To keep myself physically strong,

mentally awake, and morally straight."

Gavallan nodded his approval. "At least I know your time with me was not completely misspent." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I guess the first thing you should know is that I'm pretty much tapped out. That much of the rumors is true."

And with that he launched into a recitation of the entire day's events: Byrnes's disappearance, the meeting at Sten Norgren's, his taking out the second mortgage, the particulars of his personal and professional liquidity crunch. He left nothing out.

"So, I guess you had a pretty dull day," she said afterward.

Seeing the mischief in her eyes, he laughed. For the first time since he'd woke, he felt as if things might turn out okay.

They'd danced three songs in a row. The entree was being served, and suddenly they were the last couple on the floor. Gavallan didn't need to look toward his table to know that Nina was staring daggers into his back. Let her, he thought. I'll take Cate. She can have Giles. Only Tony will be the poorer off.

"So let's get this straight," Cate was saying, "you floated Mercury a fifty-million-dollar bridge loan with no collateral- I mean, other than their stock? Shoot, Jett, I'd be worried, too, about what the Private Eye-PO says."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gavallan countered. "Mercury earned sixty million in profit last year on revenues of three hundred ninety million. No one's disputing that. They couldn't have earned it without the Moscow market. It's one of their biggest."

"I hope you're right, Jett. I really do. Because God forbid that Mercury isn't every inch the company your prospectus says it is, and you bring a fraudulent company public. And in this case I mean 'public' with a capital P. Two billion dollars' worth. Because your life will be over as you know it and everything you hold dear will be taken away from you. Your money. Your company. Everything. The only good news is that you won't have to worry about that second mortgage anymore. You'll have rent-free accommodations for the next seven years or so. Depends on the judge."

Gavallan listened to her assessment, his worry growing because it was the same one he'd made himself. Earlier, he'd told Tustin and Llewellyn-Davies they had to be true to their client. But Cate's skepticism, coupled with his partner's lingering silence, lent him second thoughts, Cisco receipts and Jean-Jacques Pillonel's word notwithstanding.

"A guy I know is tracking down the Private Eye-PO," he said. "Once we find him, I plan on having a heart-to-heart, just him and me, find out why he's going after Mercury before I have a judge slap an injunction on his ass."