Now there was her preoccupation with Warren Hunt. There was something in the way she said his name, an almost caressing quality, that tripped alarm bells in Viveca's mind. And in the last few months Alison had grown cooler toward Tamara. In fact, cool was too mild a word. Almost hostile was more like it. Hostile and-Viveca cringed at the word-competitive.

"Dear, Warren will have plenty of moral support," Viveca said soothingly. "He wouldn't want you to go. Funerals are so sad."

"You mean like Papa's?"

"Yes."

"And Eugene 's?"

Viveca's face tightened. "You were not supposed to attend Eugene Farley's funeral. You did that against my strict orders."

"I think it's terrible that you didn't go. After all, he was one of your boyfriends."

"Alison!"

"Why do you keep squawking 'Alison!' at me? He was your boyfriend. What are you so embarrassed about? That he was young enough to be your son or that he got convicted of embezzlement and killed himself?"

"He was not young enough to be my son," Viveca said tiredly. "And his death was tragic, but we were no longer together. I really don't want to talk about that sad time."

"No wonder. You deserted him. I didn't. I loved him."

"I know. He was like a brother to you."

Alison let out a peal of laughter with a note of hysteria beneath it. "I did not think of him as a brother, Mama."

Viveca had trouble conceiving of Alison as anything except a child. The idea of her having a sexual interest in anyone was repugnant, like picturing a five-year-old girl lusting after an adult man. But as much as she hated to admit it, Alison had a libido. Maybe an overactive libido.

She had first noticed it when Alison was around Eugene Farley. Eugene had been the head accountant at the Bishop Corporation. Handsome, intelligent, funny, he had been sought after by all the single females at Bishop and some of the married ones, too. Before long and against her better judgment, Viveca found she couldn't resist him, either.

He'd come to her home several times and treated Alison like any normal young woman. He'd talked about literature and music with her, trading books and CD's. They laughed and the girl seemed to blossom. Viveca had thought they acted like brother and sister and she was delighted. She didn't even care that Eugene indulged Alison's taste for rock music.

Then Viveca saw the way Alison looked at Eugene. A crush she told herself, but self-deception had never been her forte. She couldn't hide from the truth. Her perpetually, innocent child looked at Viveca's lover with a naked carnality that made her sick.

Eugene was gone now. First she'd banished him from her life and then he had taken his own. As bad as Viveca felt about Eugene 's death, she had been relieved to see the hunger vanish from Alison's eyes. But now it was back, flaring uncontrollably whenever Warren Hunt's name was mentioned.

"Mama, you will let me go to Tamara's funeral, won't you?"

It wasn't really the question it seemed. It was a threat. When Alison did not get her way, she would inflict the punishment of her illness on her mother, and it always worked. Viveca's guilt over Alison's emotional state was crushing because she had not been attending a meeting when her husband died. She had gone off for a weekend with another man and in the throes of her passion, she had not bothered to call home during the twenty-eight hours when Alison sat on the basement steps staring at her father's body as she slowly descended into the mental hell from which she would never rise.

"Of course you may go, Alison."

"Good. Warren needs me now." Her lips twitched. "Especially now that she's gone." Viveca stiffened but before she could reply, Alison announced, "I'm going to my room."

To do what? Viveca wondered. The girl was getting agitated. "Alison, why don't I make tea and heat up some croissants and we can have a girl talk?" she tried feebly.

"I don't know how to make girl talk. You never let me have friends. You've always kept me a prisoner." Alison rose from the piano bench and stomped up the stairs to her room.

She was prone to sudden rages and the look in her eyes was dangerous. Viveca stood, anxiously fingering her topaz pendant until she heard Alison's door slam.

What would happen tonight was anyone's guess.

Warren didn't like the marina at night. He didn't like it in the day, either. Frankly, he hated the water and boats, but you just didn't admit that around here where everyone was mad for Lake Erie. He certainly wouldn't admit it to Charlotte, whose father owned the biggest craft in the marina and of course named it the Charlotte. They always met on the Charlotte. Warren would rather they went to a secluded motel, but being with Charlotte was worth an evening on a boat.

Slip Thirty-four was the home of the Charlotte. Custom built, it sat smugly majestic in the moonlight, eighty-five feet of white aluminum, housing four staterooms, a formal dining room, a sky lounge with an entertainment center, a flying bridge with sunning and seating areas, a wet bar, and a saloon with a home theater system and projection unit that dropped from the ceiling. Charlotte said Max had wanted something big and elaborate for corporate cruises. Warren thought Max Bishop just wanted something ostentatious to show how rich he was and that his corporation dominated Port Ariel just as his yacht dominated the marina. The Charlotte was certainly a tribute to conspicuous consumption, Warren thought, and Charlotte loved it.

Warren threw another furtive look over his shoulder. He always imagined people were looking out the windows of darkened boat cabins, identifying him, noting his destination. The marina was too public, even around midnight. And what if he was spotted tonight, forty-eight hours after his wife's murder? His reputation would be ruined. Worse yet, that damned Meredith would be all over him. The guy was itch ing to nail him for Tamara's murder. Today he had looked at Warren as if he were a stuck bug. He only prayed Lorraine Glover would back up his alibi. She hadn't sounded too willing over the phone when he'd called right after Meredith left, but Lorraine was scared. He'd lied to Meredith. Lorraine 's wealthy husband didn't know she'd been having an affair, but Warren could see to it that Alfred Glover found out. Even if Lorraine corroborated his alibi, though, discovering he was having an affair with Charlotte Bishop would give Meredith a motive to pin on him.

Then there was that annoying deputy who kept looking at the ship model Charlotte had given him. Warren didn't care a thing about Port Ariel history, but he didn't tell her. He'd kept the model at his office. One day Tamara had dropped by unexpectedly, seen it, and insisted on taking it home. When she spotted the initials, he'd truthfully claimed ignorance and she didn't seem bothered. He'd been uncomfortable every time he looked at it sitting on the mantel, though. And today that deputy had spotted something.

I shouldn't have come, Warren thought abruptly. What had he been thinking? Yes, he wanted to be with Charlotte. Yes, he knew she needed his reassurance, but this meeting was not a smart move. Why had he let her talk him into it?

He stopped as panic grew. He would go home immediately. Charlotte would be furious, but he could smooth it over somehow, make her see reason, convince her not to call the house again. But right now he had to leave-

" Warren!"

Charlotte was leaning over the side of the yacht. Her soprano voice seemed to shrill through the night. Warren flinched and quelled an impulse to loudly shush her. Instead he darted forward.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said softly. "You know, I'm not sure this is-"

"You're late!' I thought you weren't coming."