Chloe insists on riding her horse alongside our car. She keeps pace with us, leaning forward on her horse, urging him to go faster, moving in unison with him as if she were melded into his back. She waves her farewell only after we reach the pass out of Morgan's Hole.

Elizabeth waves back. "I'll miss her," she says, frowning. She turns her attention to the passing scenery and says nothing more, quite clearly lost in her thoughts. Derek also makes the trip in silence.

Just before he leaves us at the marina at Oyster Bay, Derek presses a piece of paper into my hand. "Claypool and Sons-our agents in Kingston, old man," he says. "Pa said to remind you that is where to send the gold you promised." He drives away without a word to his sister.

My impulse is to prepare to leave immediately. Only the knowledge that Elizabeth lacks the proper papers stops me from rushing us away.

I rent a convertible the next morning, take Elizabeth north to Montego Bay. The stores and crowds of tourists leave her wide-eyed and openmouthed and I find myself smiling at her behavior, taking vicarious pleasure from her reactions to a world that's fresh and new to her. "Wait until you see Miami," I tell her.

Elizabeth darts into every store we pass, tries on almost everything she can. By early afternoon she's bought enough new clothes to fill two more suitcases. When I insist we stop shopping and seek out a photographer-to arrange for ID pictures of Elizabeth to be expressed to Jeremy Tindall's office in Miami-she pouts, but finally humors me.

"This way," I explain, "by the time we leave Jamaica, you'll be an American citizen."

She's less tolerant afterward, when we stop at a bookstore and I spend a half-hour selecting five paperback books. "What do you want those for?" she asks.

"I like to read them."

Elizabeth shakes her head. "I tried to read one once but it bored me. Chloe gets Derek to buy them for her. Pa doesn't like it… He says, "Why bother? They're just stupid stories about humans. I think he's right."

Back at the boat that night, she shakes her head again, when I tell her I don't want her to go hunting. "In a few days," I say. "After Tindall sends your papers back and we put to sea. Then we can hunt every night, feed as much as you want."

"But I'm hungry now…"

"And we have meat in the freezer. This isn't Cockpit Country. There are lights here. People have powerful guns. You have to be more careful around civilization."

Elizabeth sulks but accepts a defrosted steak, nibbles at it, leaves it half finished. "I'm going to bed," she says, and goes to the cabin without waiting for me to accompany her.

I join her later, lie down beside her, pull her toward me. She wiggles away and I accept her rejection.

Later that night I awake to find the bed empty beside me. I sense that she's miles away, on a hunt, and think of her father's words. Once again I wonder-if she won't listen to me, how can I hope to protect her?

Elizabeth seems content to hunt and feed at night, sleep through most of each day. I refuse to accompany her, continue to ask her to stop until we're away from land. She ignores me but, as a good mate, returns with her prey each evening to share with me.

Some nights she carries her fresh kill to the boat; other nights she lures men home and slays them below deck, in the salon. "Human men are so easy," she says. "They'll follow me anywhere, do anything I ask if they think it will lead to sex."

While I frown at her, scold her for the risks she's taking, I neither turn down the fresh meat she brings me nor the lovemaking she offers after we feed.

I watch her sometimes as she sleeps, marvel at her innocent countenance, wonder at her seeming contentment. Even when Elizabeth awakens, late in the afternoon, she moves about the boat with the same fluid motion, the same air of absolute indifference to her surroundings cats possess. She rarely bothers engaging me in conversation.

"Don't you want to know more about me?" I ask her one night before we surrender to sleep. "Isn't there more about you, you want to tell me?"

She shakes her head and sighs. "Why do you always want to talk about everything? We have plenty of time for all that, Peter. Why not just enjoy each day we spend here? They don't have to be anything more than they are."

But the hours go by too slowly for me. I pace the deck, worry about each new person who approaches the docks. I call Jeremy Tindall the next morning, demanding to know where the papers are.

"For Christ's sake, Peter," Tindall snarls. "My youngest son Tyler was just burned to death. The business he built is nothing but cinders. I think you know that. My wife is a wreck. And you're bugging me about some stupid damn papers?"

Thank God for Arturo and his efficiency. "Too bad you couldn't have helped him find a safer business," I say, choosing my words, speaking without inflection. "Hopefully you'll be more careful about yourself and the rest of your family. Hopefully you'll remember your commitments… including your promise to rush the papers to me."

"Relax," Tindall says. "The Santos report you ordered is already here. All of Elizabeth's papers are being rushed. You should have both soon. And Peter, I doubt that my wife, my other two sons or I will be looking to engage in any risky behavior. I surely hope nothing else happens…"

"I doubt anything will," I say and hang up.

To my relief, a courier finally delivers a packet from Miami on the morning of our sixth day on the boat. I open it in the marina office, take out two manila envelopes-one labeled ELIZABETH DELASANGRE, the other marked JORGE SANTOS-feel the heft of each and grin. I know I have no need to check the contents of either. No matter how much Tindall balks or complains, he does what's necessary as quickly and completely as possible-especially when he's threatened.

Envelopes in hand, I rush back to the Grand Banks. I'm tempted to open the Santos file immediately but, instead, I store it in the chart drawer by the lower helm and go below to wake my bride. Once we're at sea, I think, there will be plenty of time to read up on the man.

Elizabeth groans when I gently stroke her awake. "Bother me later," she says and burrows below her covers.

"Look." I throw the manila envelope labeled ELIZABETH DELASANGRE on the bed next to her. "The courier finally came. We can leave."

She sits up, opens the envelope. "How soon?" she asks, sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked, her small round breasts swaying slightly as she sorts through the official documents, examining the birth certificate, passport, Social Security card, Coral Gables High School diploma, Florida's driver's license and voter's registration card that all bear her name.

As usual I'm delighted with her appearance whether she's in human form or dragon. I sit next to her, cup one breast in my hand, consider lying with her. But, I know, once underway, there will be more than enough time for that.

Elizabeth stares at me when I take my hand away, shocked, I think, that I could ever resist her. "Later," I say, my mind on home, planning the steps necessary to getting underway, letting myself fully smile for the first time in days. "We're leaving now."

Her pillow hits my back as I leave the cabin.

Ordinarily Elizabeth takes her time getting up, going about the business of washing and dressing in preparation for the day. But today I barely have time to reach the fly-bridge and start the motors before she joins me.

Wearing only a skimpy, bright blue bikini, her hair wildly in disarray, she smiles at me. "So let's get going," she says.

But Elizabeth offers no help. She yawns, looks away when I attempt to tell her about the motors and instruments. "Just teach me how to drive the boat," she says. "I don't care how it works."