After he disappeared, Taylor motioned the bartender over to her and said, "You working last Saturday night?"

He normally didn't get questions like this. He polished glasses But finally he said, "Yeah."

"Was Thom in here from one to three or so on Sunday morning?"

"I don't remember."

She slid two twenties toward him furtively. He blinked. This only happened in movies and the man seemed to be considering how his favorite actor would handle it. The bills disappeared into tight black jeans. "No. He left around one – without a girl. That never happens. If he's by himself usually he closes the place. He's even slept here a couple times."

When Sebastian returned he took Taylor 's purse and slipped it around her – over one shoulder and under the other arm, the way paranoid tourists do. "Come on. I'm wound, I'm flying like a bird. I gotta dance."

"But -"

He pulled her onto the small floor. After fifteen minutes, her hair was down, streaming in thick, sweaty tangles. Her toes were on fire, her calves ached. Sebastian kept jerking away in time to the reggae beat, eyes closed, lost in the catharsis of the motion and music and the coke. Taylor collapsed on his shoulder. "Enough."

"I thought you were a skier."

"Exhausted." She was gasping.

His brow arched and the surprise in his eyes was genuine. "But we haven't eaten yet."

Taylor said, "It's one A. M. I've been up for nearly twenty-four hours."

"Time for penne!"

"But -"

"Come on. One plate of darling little squigglies of pasta in alfredo sauce with cilantro and basil, one teeny endive salad, one bottle of Mersault."

Taylor was weakening.

" Belgium endive?" Then he lowered his head. "Okay."

Sebastian the negotiator was now speaking. "How's this for a deal? We have dinner and you can tell me about the Pine Breath Inn in Vermont or wherever the hell it is you ski and we'll call it a night. Or I can take you home now and you'll have to fight off my frontal assault at your door. Few women have been able to resist."

"Thom -"

"I take no prisoners."

She lowered her head on his shoulder then straightened up, smiling. "Does this place have spaghetti and meat balls with thick red sauce, a la Ragu?"

"I'll never be able to show my face there again. But if you want it I'll force the chef to make it."

She sighed, took his arm and together they made their way toward the door.

The alarm clock wailed like a smoke detector.

Taylor Lockwood opened one eye. Was this the worst headache of her life? she wondered.

She lay still for five minutes while the votes rolled in. Yes, no?

Sitting up decided the contest – a clear victory for the pain. She slammed her palm down on the alarm then scooted gingerly to the edge of the bed. She still wore her panty hose and bra, the elastic bands had cut deep purple lines into her skin and she was momentarily concerned that she'd have permanent discolorations.

Oh, man, I feel lousy.

Taylor 's one-bedroom apartment was small and dark. It was located in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a dark, Gothic building distinguished only by the prestige of the street it was located on and its reputation for being the place that New York 's Judge Crater was supposedly on his way to when he disappeared seventy years before – still an open case on the NYPD books.

Her parents had offered to send her whatever furniture she wanted from their eight-bedroom house in Chevy Chase or from one of their summer homes but Taylor had wanted this apartment to be exclusively hers. It was furnished post-collegiate – Conran's, Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn. A lot of fake stone, Formica, black and white plastic. A huge pillow sofa. Canvas chairs that, looked at straight on, seemed to be grinning. A number of interesting pieces from the Twenty-sixth Street flea market on Sixth Avenue.

The bedroom was the homiest room in the place, decorated with lace tulle, art deco lamps and old furniture – battered but loaded with personality – a hundred books, souvenirs from the trips young Taylor took to Europe with her parents.

On the wall was a large poster – one of Arthur Rackham's sepia illustrations of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

The picture wasn't like the Disney cartoon or the original Sir John Tenniel drawings but was a masterful work by the brilliant artist. It showed an alarmed Alice lifting her hands to protect herself as the Red Queen's playing card soldiers flew into the air.

The caption read:

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her.

The framed poster had been a graduation present from her roommates at Dartmouth. Taylor loved the Carroll books, and Alice memorabilia were sure bets as birthday and Christmas presents. There were many other Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass artifacts throughout her apartment.

Taylor sent her tongue around her parched mouth, she didn't enjoy the trip. She staggered into the bathroom, where she downed two glasses of water and brushed her teeth twice. She squinted at the clock Let's see, Sebastian had dropped her off at about four. Do the math Okay, we're talking about three and a half hours' sleep.

And, more troubling, it turned out that she'd largely wasted her time. Thom Sebastian had denied being in the firm on Saturday or Sunday and had remained tight-lipped about his dealings with Bosk though he'd continued to talk bitterly about the firm's decision to pass him over. He'd had no response when she'd casually mentioned Hanover & Stiver, Inc.

She kneaded her belly, which swelled slightly over the top of her panties, recalling that there were a hundred fifty calories in each cocktail. She squeezed her temples Her vision swam.

A blinking red light across the room coincided with the throbbing in her head It was her answering machine, indicating a message from last night. She hit the play button, thinking it might be a call from Mitchell Reece, remembering his asking her if it was okay to call her at home.

Beep.

"Hello, counselor."

Ah, her father, she realized with a thud in her turbulent stomach.

"Just wanted to tell you. You owe me lunch. Earl Warren was chief justice when the case was decided. Call when you can. Love you."

Click.

Shit, she thought. I shouldn't've bet with him.

Taylor didn't mind losing to him, of course, half the lawyers in Washington, D C, had lost a case or motion or argument to Samuel Lockwood at one time or another in their careers. The Washington Post had called him. "The Unbeatable Legal Eagle" (the article was framed and displayed prominently in their living room at home.) No, it was that even though she could see clearly that he was testing her, she'd weakened and agreed to the pointless bet.

It was very, very difficult to say no to Samuel Lockwood.

He called her two or three times a week but unless he had something specific to ask her he usually picked "safe" times. During the day he'd call her home, at night he'd call the firm, leaving messages – fulfilling his parental duty and making his royal presence felt in her territory but making sure he didn't waste time actually talking to her. (She noted cynically that she might reasonably have been expected to be home last night when he'd phoned – because the purpose of that call had been to gloat.)

Well, she could hardly point fingers, Taylor did the same – generally calling home when she knew he was working so she could chat with her mother untroubled by the brooding presence of her father hovering near the receiver, a presence she could sense from even three hundred miles away.

She winced as the headache pounded on her again, just for the pure fun of it, it seemed. A glance at the clock.