It still baffled him.

All she had to do was sell that damned house, put Toby in a home where he belonged and other people didn’t have to see him. Then get together with him—get back together with him, he never let her forget that she lost her virginity to him—and all her troubles would be over. He’d made that clear every way he could.

Well, Toby was dead now, thank God. This huge drain on her finances was over, not to mention the ick factor. Even now, the memory of Toby—crumpled in his wheelchair, face so scarred he looked like Freddie, hands slowly retracting into claws—was enough to make him sick.

Sanders had a very clear memory of the last date he and Caroline had had. He’d taken her to Chez Max, over in Bedford. Hundred bucks a head, worth every penny.

Caroline had been particularly beautiful that evening, dressed in a black Versace. Sanders had no idea how she’d been able to afford a Versace, but there it was. And it looked terrific on her. She turned heads.

They were getting on just fine, too. Sanders could tell that she enjoyed the elegant surroundings and the superb food. He ordered a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, and they polished it off. Caroline was relaxed, so stunning he was finding it hard to keep his eyes off her.

This was where a woman like her belonged—and on the arm of a man like him.

She refused to come home with him afterwards, so he drove her home and accepted her invitation for a nightcap.

Her creepy brother was up, in the living room, watching TV. Caroline poured Sanders a drink, talking calmly, and poured her brother a glass of milk. She had to hold the glass to his mouth, and even then half of it was spewed down the front of his pajamas. He slurred badly—half his mouth was scar tissue—and Caroline waited patiently for him to finish whatever nonsense he had to say.

After, she put her hand over his, and the sight nearly made Sanders gag. Her beautiful, slender hand over that monstrous…thing.

Sanders downed his whiskey without sitting down and left, fuming. She’d essentially ignored him since they walked into the house, in order to fawn over that pathetic excuse for a human being.

Well, fuck that. Toby was finally dead. And Caroline was free.

And still poor.

“Hey, baby,” Karla-Kara whined. “Momma’s getting cold.”

Sanders rolled his eyes.

It was entirely possible he was getting too old to play the field. Hell, most of the clients he met were married, some on their second or even third marriage. He was starting to get odd looks when he said he was single.

He needed a wife. Not some bimbo who was good in the sack until it got old, which it usually did, very fast, but a wife. Someone who looked good on his arm, someone who would keep house for him. Bear him children. Good-looking, healthy, bright children.

Put that way, there was only one woman who fit the bill. Caroline.

Last month, he’d been called to Seattle to meet with a couple of businessmen who were active in politics. After a couple of hours of talk, after probing him about his opinion on some controversial issues, they’d asked whether he’d like to stand for representative in the midterm elections next year. No answer necessary, just think about it.

Sanders was made for politics. He had looks, brains, money and above all, he knew loads of people who had even more money than he did and who could be persuaded to back him. It wasn’t hard at all to see himself climbing the ranks. State representative, governor, senator. Hell, maybe even all the way up to the top.

That was his destiny. Sanders could feel the power of it tingling in his fingertips.

He was too old now to keep fucking around. Openly, at least. That part of his life was over. He needed the stability of a home life, wife and kids. A politician’s wife had to be photogenic and gracious and presentable. That was Caroline, in a nutshell.

Political wives needed stamina and loyalty. If Sanders was ever caught fucking an intern, he needed a wife who’d stand by him, cover for him. Well, if ever there was a woman who didn’t abandon her responsibilities, who had loyalty bred in the bone, who was almost too loyal, it was Caroline.

Yes, she was perfect. She’d keep him a beautiful home, make a charming hostess, bear him beautiful children, put her family’s interests before hers.

The time was finally right for them. It had taken them thirteen years to get to this point.

He’d steered clear of her over the Christmas holidays out of self-defense. Caroline got very glum and boring at Christmas-time. And she’d probably be mourning Toby—though any sane person would be rejoicing at getting rid of such a burden.

So he’d let her get all that out of her system.

Monday he’d visit the shop and get the ball rolling. How hard could it be? Caroline was alone now, and hurting for money. And probably a little lonely. People tended to avoid her. She didn’t complain, but everyone knew what her situation was. Nobody liked people with problems.

He’d be the answer to her prayers. They’d be engaged by Easter, married by June. Just in time to test the political waters for his candidacy.

He needed to get rid of Karla-Kara. She was just white noise, and now that he’d made his decision she was distracting.

Sanders dug his personal cell phone out and called his business cell phone number. A few seconds later, it started ringing in the bedroom.

“Hey, baby—the phone!” Karla-Kara shrieked.

Gritting his teeth against her voice, like chalk on a blackboard, Sanders walked into the bedroom, flipped his phone open and put it to his ear, listening to the empty sound.

“Uh-huh,” he said, listening with a frown. “When?…Does Bowers know about this yet?…Uh-huh…I guess so…It’s Christmas, in case you haven’t noticed…uh-huh…Oh, all right.” This last was said in irritation. He flipped the phone closed and picked her clothes up from the floor.

“Sorry, honey,” he told the pouting woman on his bed. “Business emergency. People are coming over in about half an hour, then we have to fly to Los Angeles.” Her bra and panties were red silk, slightly dirty. He tossed them to her. “Hurry up, I’ll call a cab.”

He was actually looking forward to Monday.

It was time.

New York

Waldorf-Astoria

Deaver had a Christmas dinner brought up by room service from Peacock Alley. Maine lobster salad, prime grilled sirloin, dry-aged for twenty-eight days, with a wild mushroom side dish and a forty-dollar bottle of Valpolicella breathing on a sideboard—150 bucks, including tip, and worth every penny.

Axel continued with his generosity and Deaver lifted a cut-crystal glass in his honor.

When the waiters had finished setting the meal out on the huge, antique oak desk, and bowed themselves quietly out of the room, Deaver breathed in deeply and savored the moment.

It was all so perfect—the linen tablecloth and napkins, the fine bone china, the heavy silverware, the crystal glasses. The delicious smells of excellent food and clean table linen.

Deaver had grown up in a trailer park outside Midland, Texas. All his childhood, most of his food had been eaten cold, out of a can, and he had had to fight the cockroaches for it. He’d been eighteen, and in the Army, before he knew that forks came in different sizes.

But that was a long time ago, and he’d discovered that he had a taste for living large. This was how he was meant to live.

An hour later, Deaver wiped his mouth with the peach-colored oversized linen napkin and gave a little belch. Perfect. Perfect meal. The first of many.

The rest of his life was going to be like this. Exactly like this—luxurious surroundings, staff, superb food and wine—except he was going to have women around. Lots of them.

No women now. Now it was hunting time.