My bride shakes her head, reaches for the gold necklace she left the night before on top of the dresser. "I'm no good at it," she says putting on the necklace. "Why don't you write something for me?"

I shrug, say, "Sure."

Elizabeth flashes a smile, pirouettes in front of me so I can admire her new yellow silk dress. I make a show of examining her, but, as much as I want to smile, I can't keep from frowning at the gold, four-leaf clover charm dangling from her necklace, the emerald inset in its center.

"What?" Elizabeth says.

"I'd prefer you didn't wear that today," I say pointing to her necklace.

She touches it with her hand. "But I always wear it. You gave it to me."

"Santos will notice it. I took it from his sister."

Elizabeth scowls. "It's mine now. Who cares what he notices?"

"I do," I say. "We're having this meeting with him to see if we can ease his suspicions, not raise them. You can wear something else for one day."

"No," she says. "Not for a human…"

"Elizabeth…" I sigh.

"I'll tuck it in for you," she says, lifting the chain, dropping the charm inside her bodice so all that shows of the necklace is a glint of the gold chain. "But I won't take it off for him."

"Fine," I say. "Just as long as he doesn't see it." I turn my attention from her, take a moment to write a quick note to her family telling them that all is well and then go downstairs to the treasure room.

It takes a few minutes for me to decide between the gold coins in the treasure chests or the heavy gold bars stacked near the wall. Deciding Charles Blood would be most pleased to receive some of Father's ancient gold ingots, I heft one and grin at its weight. Just four bars would be far more than twice my bride's weight. Five, I think, wrapping the bars in burlap, should keep the old monster happy.

But not Elizabeth. She frowns when I carry the bars to the boat, and asks, "Why so much?"

"We can afford it, Elizabeth. It's for your family."

"It's for my father," she says. "Trust me, none of the rest of my family will benefit from it at all."

A uniformed guard, armed, one hand on his holstered pistol, opens the door to the Monroe building's lobby when we approach. Inside, three other armed-and-uniformed guards-each one anxiously examining the burlap bundle in my arms, cautiously touching his pistol grip-watch us enter. I grin at the increased security, look toward the video cameras located near the ceiling in each corner of the room and nod, sure that Arturo is watching.

One of the armed men escorts us to the private elevator that will take us to LaMar Associates' executive offices. After we enter it, he stands guard in front of the open doors and waits for them to close. Arturo meets us when we arrive, yet another security guard standing behind him.

Clean-shaven once again, clothed in one of his tailored suits, clearly anxious to look in command of the situation, Arturo motions for us to leave the elevator as if the concept of stepping off wouldn't occur to us.

"Don't you think you're overdoing this?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Didn't someone shoot at you the other day?"

I nod and turn to Elizabeth. "Arturo's worried about our being assassinated."

Arturo frowns when she opens her eyes wide in mock alarm. "They may very well be armed," he says to my bride. "You read the report, didn't you? This Santos fellow is no friend of your husband's."

"Welcoming him into an armed camp will hardly make him less hostile," I say. "I would prefer you have the guards position themselves in a less conspicuous way. The man is coming to have a conversation with me. I doubt he'll start our meeting by unloading his pistol into me."

"And if you're wrong?"

I grin at him. "Then Elizabeth will become a very young and very rich widow."

The Latin turns his attention to the burlap package in my arms. "And that is?" he asks.

"A gift for my father-in-law. I need you to send it to his agents in Kingston. I have their address in my pocket."

Arturo nods, pulls back a corner of the fabric, enough to catch the dull shine of a gold ingot, and whistles. Perfectly aware of the weight of what I'm carrying, he makes no attempt to relieve me of my burden. "You better put this in the back of my office closet. I'll take care of it after the meeting with Santos," he says.

Jeremy Tindall comes in to greet us once we arrive at my office. He scowls as he pumps my hand, and growls, "Ever since the fire and Tyler's death, my wife can't stop crying; my other two sons are scared of every shadow…"

I shrug. "Shadows don't kill people, mistakes do. Just like someone made a mistake shooting at me."

Tindall blushes scarlet. His voice turns shrill. "And my boat's a mess! You could have been more careful. Stains on the deck, on the flybridge-I've scrubbed everything, everywhere… four times already and still I keep finding spots I've missed. I had to tear out the damned carpeting in the salon and order it replaced. What in God's name did you two do on my boat?" Then, before I can answer, he shakes his head, says, "No, don't tell me."

He turns to Elizabeth, offers his hand, frowns as he says, "Congratulations. You've married a real piece of work."

My bride nods, briefly accepts his grasp, then turns away and walks to the window. She stares out at the parking lot across the street and the bay beyond, the morning light coming through the glass, enveloping her, turning her yellow silk dress almost diaphanous-silhouetting her trim body beneath the translucent cloth.

For the first time I notice the slight curve of her normally flat, lower abdomen, the new, barely perceptible, increased swell to her breasts. I go to her, hug her from behind, put my hands on her stomach. "Our son's beginning to let his presence be known," I mindspeak.

She turns, faces me. "If it displeases you, I can change my shape.…"

"No." I kiss her forehead. "It pleases me very much."

Jeremy clears his throat and says, "Arturo and I think we should sit in on your meeting. We may be able to be of help."

"Whatever," I say.

"Is there anything you need us to do?" he asks.

"No." I shake my head. "I just plan to answer his questions. Then, afterward, I think I'll take Elizabeth around town. Buy her a few things."

Elizabeth notices Santos first. "Look." She points out the window toward Monty's parking lot across the street. I follow the direction of her gesture, watch as an old green MGB sports car, its top down, pulls into a spot. A dark-haired man and a thin, blond woman get out. "He looks like the man in the clippings," she says.

"I think you're right."

Arturo calls downstairs, makes sure that one of the guards will escort the couple up. Then he begins to rearrange the chairs in my office. "Of course you'll sit behind your desk and Elizabeth can sit to your right," he says, placing a chair for her on that side of my desk. "Jeremy can sit on your left. We'll have Santos and his woman sit in front of your desk. I'll sit across the room behind them. Just in case…" He reaches into his jacket's right front pocket, pulls out a small, chrome, automatic pistol, cocks it and replaces it.

I frown at him and he shrugs, saying, "If it's needed."

Our receptionist, Emily, obviously nervous, her face flushed, her hands fluttering, leads Jorge Santos and Casey Morton into my office, stays just long enough to announce them, then rushes off.

Seated behind my desk, everyone else in their chairs as Arturo indicated, I let Jorge Santos and his woman stand by the doorway for a few moments while I examine him. Santos makes my rudeness more acceptable by taking the same opportunity to stare at me.

He seems a bit thicker, a little older than his pictures. As I expected he would, he's come to the meeting dressed informally, in jeans and a yellow T-shirt. But Casey Morton surprises me by wearing an austere, navy-blue business dress, carrying an equally plain, small, round, blue leather purse. Even in her flat shoes she stands at least three inches taller than Santos. With her blond hair chopped into an almost boyish cut, her figure trim and athletic, verging on bony, she hardly looks like the type of woman I'd expect him to choose. I had imagined her shorter, more curvaceous, less severe.