As the water poured down over him in the small shower, he couldn’t think of one thing that had gone right in the last two days. Even the good parts made him feel like shit. Tate was going to find out about Charlie. She was. And he had to be the one to tell her. Only…how? Especially now, when he didn’t have a plan other than to wait and strike at the next opportunity.

He’d be lucky if she didn’t strike him first.

He didn’t even know who’d hit him. Or with what. Or how many people were currently on board. Or what direction they were going.

Maybe it was just his turn. Charlie’d been the bad-luck magnet all these years. Maybe now it would come up roses for his brother while Michael went straight down the tubes.

He grabbed the soap and scrubbed up, shaking off his self-pity and thinking about how he was going to tell her. It seemed so naive, from this vantage point, to think his problems could have been solved by sexing her to sleep. Talk about stupid. Talk about thinking with his dick.

He moaned as he fell forward, then groaned when he actually hit his sore head against the fiberglass wall. He should go into that saloon and fight until he couldn’t fight anymore. With luck, he’d wipe them all out before he flung himself overboard to be eaten by sharks. Then Tate could radio for help. The end.

She’d still find out Charlie was his brother, but he’d have died bravely trying to save her, so that would prove that he hadn’t been…

“Shit.” He sighed deeply, closed his eyes and turned the shower to dead cold.

ED MARTINI FINISHED his eggs Benedict while he watched the final race at Santa Anita. He wasn’t even thinking about the money he’d just made from the race or the five million stashed in his safe back at the house. He was thinking about fifty million tax-free dollars. The dough wouldn’t make a big difference in his life. Hell, he did everything he wanted now. But he’d know, goddammit, he’d know each and every day that he had fifty million fucking dollars that Sheila wouldn’t be able to touch. Not even with those god-awful two-inch fingernails of hers. What the woman wanted with little palm trees painted in green on her fingers was beyond him. They looked like crap, but he supposed they went along with her bleached hair and her wide-load ass.

The trick would be to let her think he had the money. She couldn’t be sure, because if she was sure, she’d sic the IRS on him. But she had to think he had it and he wasn’t giving it to her. That would make her insane. More than any new girlfriend, even one who was twenty-five. More than any new car. It would kill Sheila that he had that much cash that she couldn’t spend. The bitch.

“Hey, boss?”

“Yeah, Jazz?”

“I never been to the Cayman Islands. They nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice women?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How long is it gonna take us to get there?”

“This boat? If we hit good weather? Maybe eight days.”

“Fuck. What are we gonna do for eight days?”

Ed leaned back in his chair. He knew just what he was gonna do: conduct his business, like usual. Just ’cause he wasn’t in town didn’t mean he wasn’t raking it in. “Jazz, you just concentrate on keeping your eye on our happy couple. You caught him last night, but he still managed to get out of that locked room.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Be sure it doesn’t.”

Jazz, who had eaten his bacon and eggs in about ten seconds, then cleaned his gun, lowered his voice. “What about him?” he said, nodding toward Charlie.

“Charlie,” Ed said.

The kid stopped eating, nearly choking on his bacon. “Yeah, boss?”

“You finish your breakfast, then take food in to your brother and his girlfriend. You make sure he understands that if he tries anything like he did last night, it won’t be good for your health.”

Charlie swallowed again. “Okay, sure. He won’t do it again. I swear to God. He won’t. He promised my old-”

“I don’t care. Just make sure he understands.”

Charlie nodded unhappily as he pushed his plate away.

THE SHOWER WAS SO small she kept bumping her elbows. Hers at home was quite large, with three different showerheads. It doubled as a steam room, and she could also simulate the patter of a rain-forest squall if she so desired. Here, the water was marginally warm, the soap was blue and smelled like antiseptic. And she didn’t trust for a moment that one of those men from the saloon wouldn’t burst through the door.

Yes, she still had faith that Michael would stop anything bad from happening, but she’d discovered early on that logic had little to do with irrational fears. Hence the word irrational.

She kept washing, wondering what her hair was going to look like after using that dime-store mousse she’d found. What her skin would feel like after a few days away from her Intensité Volumizing Serum. Oh, well. She’d make do. What choice did she have?

Without even reading the label, she washed her hair, then put conditioner on, and as she rinsed she wished she’d brought the darn razor in with her. Although she wouldn’t have been able to shave her legs, not in this small space. So she’d do it after. She could still rinse off in the shower.

She thought about Michael for the hundredth time since she’d climbed in the shower. He’d smelled awfully good after his. But then, he was a man. Oh, was he ever.

She laughed at herself, wondering if she was going to be this moony teen the whole way to the Caymans. It wouldn’t matter, she supposed. No one would know. And why shouldn’t she do exactly as she pleased?

Most people thought she did, anyway. She knew they didn’t dare compare her to Paris Hilton, but there were other trust-fund babies that were around her age. She’d heard them talk about how ridiculous she looked in her old-fashioned limo, how she dressed like Queen Elizabeth. She wasn’t completely protected from the gossip and the backbiting.

How many nights had she wept herself to sleep watching those awful newsmagazine shows? She hadn’t really wanted to shock the world. Well, mostly. But she had wanted to make some kind of splash, even a little one.

The charities didn’t count. Anyone could do her job. Anyone with the right connections. It was easy to give money away when you had her father’s strict guidelines to follow.

But she’d never been to a big premiere or an opening night on Broadway. She’d never been to any of the clubs or found herself searching for a predawn breakfast after carousing all night.

She didn’t just dress like Queen Elizabeth, she partied like her, too.

Tate turned abruptly, tired of her pity party. She turned off the water and stepped out onto the blue fluffy towel. As she dried off she promised herself that she wouldn’t go to that place again. If she had to dwell on the past, it would be to remember all those self-defense classes, her weapons training.

There was no reason she shouldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with Michael. Fight no matter what.

She grabbed the tiny bikini and put the sucker on. It was tight. And, jeez, her boobs looked huge. But that was okay. So was the T-shirt. Also tight but not too horrible.

She’d also dug out a pair of shorts-men’s, but they were a size medium, and if she tied the little waistband inside, they wouldn’t fall down.

Dammit. She’d forgotten to shave. She rubbed her leg, and it wasn’t so bad. Tomorrow, though, for sure. For now, she put on the mousse and combed her hair. She debated a moment about using the hair dryer, but it would probably be better if she let it dry naturally.

Then she looked at the makeup that had been left in the bathroom. It was no use. She couldn’t use some other woman’s makeup. Not for anything. It was as bad as sharing a toothbrush.

So she washed her panties and her bra, and as she went to hang them in the shower she heard shouting just outside the bathroom door.