Her machine had a number of messages.

Ralph Dudley, giving her the address of his club again.

Sebastian, confirming dinner tomorrow.

Reece, confirming dinner on Saturday.

Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff's roommate, apologizing for not getting back to her but suggesting they meet for lunch in the Village tomorrow.

Three dinners and a lunch Damn, how do spies manage to stay trim.

One more message remained. She hit play.

"Hello, counselor. Got some news. I'll be in town in a week or so and I'm going to take my little legal eagle out to dinner. Call me and we'll make plans."

Taylor instantly looked around her room to see how straightened up it was – as if the phone contained a video camera beaming the images directly to her father's law office.

She sat down slowly on the arm of the couch, Samuel Lockwood's call reviving a question Mitchell Reece had asked yesterday.

So how'd you end up in New York?

Taylor recalled perfectly sitting in front of her father two years ago, the man of medium build, jowly and pale – by rights, he should have broadcast an anemic image, but he filled the living room of their house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with his powerful image.

She tried to gaze back at him.

But couldn't, of course.

Finally, the sound of spring lawn mowing from outside was broken by his asking, "You can simply try it, Taylor."

"I have other priorities, Dad."

"'Priorities, '" the lawyer said quickly, pouncing. "See, that very word suggests that there are several directions you'd want to go in." A smile. "In the back of your mind you're already entertaining the possibility that you'd like to be a lawyer."

"I mean -"

What had she meant? She was too flustered to remember.

"My talent -"

"And you are talented, darling. I've always recognized that. Your grades. Honey, A's in every government, politics, philosophy course you've ever taken."

And in music composition, music theory, improvisation and performance.

"Music too," he added, with perfect timing, diffusing her anger. Then he laughed, "But there's no way in Satan's backyard that anyone would ever make any kind of serious money playing music in bars."

"I don't do it for the money, Dad. You know that."

"Look, you should pursue everything. Lord knows I do."

And he had. Law, business, golf, tennis, skydiving, sailing, teaching.

"It's just that it's easier to get your law degree now. Going back after you're older it limits your opportunities."

Reduced to a child before him, Taylor could think of no logical retorts. Well, the best legal minds in the country had engaged in forensic battle with Samuel Lockwood and lost. She said weakly, "I just feel alive when I play music, Dad. That's all there is to it."

"And what a feeling that must be," he said. "But remember that we go through stages in life. What excites us now isn't necessarily what sustains us all forever. I pitched a dozen no-hitters in college. And I never felt higher than being on the pitcher's mound. What a thrill that was! But making that my life? A pro ball player? No, I had other things to do. And I found getting up in court gave me exactly the same thrill. Even better, in fact, because I was in harmony with my nature."

"Music isn't a sport to me, Dad." She believed she was whining and hated herself for it.

"Of course not. I know it's an important part of your life." He then tactically reminded, "I was at every single one of your recitals." A pause. "I'm only saying that it would be better to excel in a profession – doesn't have to be the law, not by any means."

Oh, right.

"And work at the music part-time. That way if the you call them gigs, right? If they don't happen, well, you'd still have something. Or you could do both. Your music could come first and law could be second."

He seemed to have forgotten that he'd absolved her from the practice of law just a moment earlier.

Continuing, Samuel Lockwood said, "There's a whole different approach to practicing nowadays. There are part-time arrangements. A lot of women have other 'priorities' – families and so on. Firms are flexible."

"I'm supporting myself playing, Dad. Not a lot of people are." Not that the eighteen thousand a year she'd made in clubs and playing weddings and a few corporate shows last year could be considered supporting herself.

"And what a feather in your cap that is," he said. Then frowned. "I've got a thought. How about a compromise? What if you got a job as a paralegal at one of the firms in Washington, one of our affiliated firms I'll get you in. You can try out law firm life, see if you like it. I'll put aside some funds for school."

She'd said no at first but Samuel Lockwood was relentless and she'd finally given in.

"But I'll get a job on my own, Dad. I'll support myself. If I like it I'll apply to law school. But I'll play music at nights. Nothing's going to interfere with that."

" Taylor." He frowned.

"It's the best I can do. And not in D. C. I'll go to New York."

He took a breath and then nodded his concession to her victory over him. "You've got backbone, counselor."

And he gave her a smile that chilled her soul – because it unwittingly revealed that this "spontaneous" thought of his had been born some time ago and nurtured over many nights as he lay in his twin bed, three feet from his wife's, trying to figure out exactly how to manipulate her.

Taylor was furious with herself for letting her guard down. He'd never intended that she work in Washington, wouldn't have presumed to link her with him by getting her a job and would never have threatened her music directly – out of fear that he'd push her away completely.

In the end, even though she'd defiantly resisted him, it turned out that Taylor had played right into his hand.

"You understand I'm doing this because I love you and care for you," he said.

No, she thought, I understand you're doing this because the thought of being unable to control the slightest aspect of your life is abhorrent to you.

She'd said, "I know, Dad."

But, as it turned out, the paralegal life was not as bad as she'd anticipated. Smart, tireless, unintimidated by the culture of Wall Street money and Manhattan society, Taylor had made a reputation for herself at the firm, quickly becoming one of the most popular paralegals, always in demand. She found that she enjoyed the work and had considerable aptitude for it.

So when a cycle came around for applying to law schools and Samuel Lockwood asked her which schools she'd decided to apply to (not if she intended to apply), she said what the hell and plunged forward with a yes and basked in the sunlight of her father's approval.

Taylor, lost in this complex answer to Recce's simple question, now realized that she was still frozen in place, perched on a sofa arm, her hand floating above her answering machine.

Why exactly was her father coming here? Where could they eat? Would the place she picked please him? Would he want to come see her perform? They sure couldn't eat at Miracles or one of the other clubs she played at, he'd make a fuss about the menu. Want to know what kind of oil they cooked with, send food back if it wasn't prepared just right.

The electronic woman in the answering machine told her, "To save this message, press two. To erase this message, press three."

She hit two and walked into the bedroom to dress for her Mata Hari date.

This is a Midtown club? she thought.

Taylor had expected that it would be more, well, spiffy. More of a power, platinum-card corporate watering hole and less of a tawdry college lounge. Well, maybe old money was allowed a little shabbiness. In any case, Taylor Lockwood looked at the fiercely bright lighting, the dusty moose head sprouting from the wall, the threadbare school banners and uncarpeted floor, and asked herself again. This is a club?