Of course, the real Michael, the 24-7 Michael, probably wasn’t close to the man she’d created in her head. Her Michael was, she had to admit, too perfect. The real Michael would never have met her expectations. He couldn’t have. So it was probably good for her to die now, before she’d gotten brave enough to pursue him. Before the disillusionment. Right?

She wiped her eyes, then her wet hand on the bedspread. It wouldn’t have hurt her feelings if they could have slept together. Just once. He would have still been her dream man, but she’d have had one night of experiencing his body for real. God, how many nights had she gone to sleep imagining what it would be like with him? How it would have felt to have Michael fill her, take her. More than that, kiss her.

She hardly knew kissing. Graydon-the only guy she’d ever had sex with-had stunk at it. He practically swallowed her. No finesse, no joy. She’d hated the taste of him, the way she’d had to wipe her mouth. But she’d always known kissing could be wonderful. How, she wasn’t sure. Probably all the books she’d read. All the romantic movies. If that many people seemed to like it so much, there had to be something more to it.

Well, it wouldn’t do her any good to think about that now. The best she could do was try and go out with some dignity. And pray that her father would survive the ordeal.

IT DIDN’T MATTER A damn to Ed Martini whether he threw two bodies or three overboard. All he wanted was to get the ransom money and get the hell out of town. At least until Sheila, that skinny bitch, stopped hawkin’ him about her goddamn alimony. He’d thought about throwing her overboard, and while the idea made him happy, the police would be all over him in a heartbeat. Sheila’d made sure of that.

So he’d take the five million and go for a holiday. Maybe St. Thomas or even just the Keys. When he felt like it, he’d come back. Give the bitch her money. What would he care if he’d already covered his assets?

Ed looked over at the guy tied in the chair. He didn’t recognize him, although something about him seemed familiar. Probably one of Sheila’s hired detectives. Bitch.

“What’s your problem?”

Ed turned to see Jazz poking Charlie in the shoulder. Charlie looked like he was gonna have a heart attack on the spot.

“What’s your problem?” Jazz repeated.

“Nothin’. I’m just wondering when we can go get the ransom, you know?”

Jazz gave him another shot to the arm, but Charlie, he didn’t seem to be so worried about the ransom as he was about the guy in the chair.

Ed leaned back in his leather chair, thinking maybe in a few minutes he’d have the cook bring up some dinner. A nice piece of salmon, maybe. “Jazz, get the guy’s wallet.”

Jazz-the only one in his whole outfit he could trust completely-bent next to the passed-out guy and took his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it up. “Michael Caulfield.”

At the sound of his name, the man in question moaned and lifted his head. It fell back to his chest, but he tried again, and this time he succeeded.

“Hey, Charlie,” Ed said. “You wanna explain to me why we have a man with your last name come to my boat with a gun in his hand?”

“I-I-”

“I’m the one that told him about Tate.”

Ed looked at the brother. Except for the blood seeping down the side of his face, he looked a lot smarter than Charlie. Of course, a potato was smarter than Charlie.

“You did, huh? What exactly did you tell Charlie?”

The brother sniffed, wincing at that small movement. “I told him she was worth millions. That she was planning this fake kidnapping, so nobody would be the wiser if he was the one who took her.”

“And you knew this because…?”

“I’m her bodyguard.”

Ed smiled. It was just what Charlie had told them. “So, great, you told him. And he told me. You both did good. But now I think you both don’t need to stick around.”

“Wait a minute,” Charlie said, his voice high and scared. “I’m supposed to help with the ransom, ain’t I? Isn’t that what you said? That I help with the ransom and then we’re square? I didn’t owe you five million dollars, Ed. I owed you hardly nothing compared to that. Tell him, Jazz.”

Jazz moved over to the big leather chair and crouched down beside his boss. “You know, I don’t care about the brother, but Charlie, we could still use him.”

Ed leaned to his side, keeping his voice as low as Jazz had. “For what?”

“After we kill the others, after we get the money, we make sure the cops start sniffin’ at Charlie. And before they catch him, he has an accident. And they don’t sniff any further.”

This was why Jazz got the big salary. He might look like your junkie cousin, but he was a smart spick. Always thinking. Ed gave him a slight nod, then turned to Charlie. “Relax. I was just kiddin’. Wasn’t I, Jazz?”

“Yep, just kiddin’.”

“About you, at least. I think you’ll agree that your brother has served his purpose.”

Charlie looked at his brother, then back at the two men. His eyes were wide, his nose was runny and he looked like he was gonna puke. “We don’t have to kill him. He told me all about this deal, you know? We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Mikey.”

“That’s true, Charlie,” Ed said, “but the man brought a gun into my home. That’s very disrespectful. I’m sure you can see that.”

“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I swear to God, Ed, he didn’t mean to offend.”

Ed sighed. “It’s too late for apologies.” He looked at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty. No wonder he was so hungry. He turned to his right and picked up the intercom that led to the galley. That’s where the cook was. And the pilot, too. “Pauly?”

He waited a few beats, and just when he was going to speak again he heard, “Yes, boss?”

“You got some dinner ready?”

“Ten minutes, boss. You want something special?”

“If you have a nice piece of salmon, that would be good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Pauly, make enough for…” He looked at Charlie and wished he’d go wash his face. But he’d feed the stupid bastard. Jazz, too. And he had to feed the woman because they might need her between now and when they got the money. “Make enough for four of us, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

He put the intercom down and nodded toward the small refrigerator in the bar.

Without a word, Jazz fetched him a beer. Opened it for him, put it down on a nice napkin on the little table next to the chair. Then Jazz turned on the TV that was mounted on the wall across from the table. There were four sets so Ed could watch a bunch of different games. He had to know where his money was coming from. That’s why it didn’t matter where this boat went-he could always be in touch with Ronnie at the office, via satellite. Ronnie, his eldest son, ran the day-to-day.

He took a big drink of the ice-cold brew, then waited for the burp. Once he was comfortable, he turned back to Jazz. “Kill him.”

Jazz grinned and got out his gun. It was a.45, a birthday present from his old man.

“I didn’t tell him everything,” Michael said.

“Don’t even try-”

“I didn’t tell Charlie about the real money.” The brother turned his head and looked at Ed. “The ransom is chicken feed. I know how to get fifty million. Tax-free. No one the wiser.”

“Fifty million?” Jazz slapped his head just where he’d hit him before.

The brother hissed, but he didn’t pass out.

“Hold on a minute, Jazz. Just what are you trying to tell me, Mr. Caulfield?”

The brother swallowed, blinked, then straightened his back. “The woman is worth ten times that. But the money I’m talking about is in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. If you kill her now, you get five million. If you get her bank account number, fifty million gets transferred to your account. No questions. No taxes.”

“And what do you want from this little deal?”