We begin to make love in the great room, let our passion take us from its floor to the sky outside, soaring upward until we consummate our union in the midst of a long dive toward the sea. Then we fly, side by side, in search of prey, the Dragon's Tear wine still warming our insides, making us hungry. I guide us offshore, thinking to take us to the island of Bimini, only sixty miles away.

Elizabeth, who has long complained about my insistence on our hunting over the waters, preferably far from home, asks again, "Why fly so long for food when there's so much prey nearby?"

"Father always insisted we do most of our hunting far away from our island," I say. "Even if we weren't spotted, too many missing people would make the humans too suspicious, too wary. Cuba and the Bahamas lie close enough and their people remain primitive enough to dismiss our acts with their superstitions."

But Elizabeth turns back toward land. "I'm hungry," she says. "It won't do any harm to feed close to home this one night."

"I don't like the homeless ones. It takes months holding them in the cells, feeding them, to make them edible," I say.

"Isn't there somewhere out of the way? Where we can find what we want now?"

Warm and content, my hunger a pleasant rumble in my stomach, I sigh, wishing she didn't have to puncture my mood. But either the wine or her enthusiasm makes me reckless. I guide us south, so we can approach the agricultural area west of Homestead from the Everglades.

By the time I decide on a white, two-story farmhouse, acres away from any other dwelling, I'm as ravenous as my bride. We burst through their windows, go from room to room, slashing, killing. I feed on the father, while Elizabeth feeds on the three small children and the mother.

We dispose of their remains over the ocean before we return home. Later, lying in each other's embrace on the hay in my room, the wine still coursing in our veins, we make love again.

News reports flash the missing family's pictures on the TV the next day and for days afterward. I have to turn away each time they show the children.

When the middle of October arrives without our receiving a single new report on Jorge Santos's activities or any information on the shooter or the boat saboteurs' identities, I call Arturo.

"We have a problem," he says. "I didn't want to call you until I had some solutions."

"Do you?"

"Not yet. But my friends in the islands did find the two Bahamians who handled the shooting. The fools were flashing a lot of money at all the bars on Andros. On a poor island like that they were bound to be noticed. After some persuasion from my people, they admitted they had received a contract from an Italian gentleman in New York, Ralph Escalante."

"With the Gambini family?" I say.

Arturo says, "Yeah… gave them ten thousand dollars down, promised them ten more on completion. Someone he knows wants you dead in a big way…"

"I would think that's fairly obvious," I say.

"Anyway, you know there's no way we can intimidate Escalante. Fortunately, some of our Italian friends are friendly with him. They were able to find out that he was acting as an agent for some Chinese guy in Los Angeles."

"Has anyone talked to him?"

Arturo sighs. "No. No one's seen him for weeks. The word is, he may have gone back to China."

"It doesn't make any sense," I say. "Why would someone from China care about me?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me. And there's more too… When Santos got out of jail, I wondered how he could make bail so quickly. The judge is a friend of ours, he set it for far more than Santos's family could afford. I had my people check into it. The lawyer that posted bail for him was acting on the behalf of an attorney in California. Neither of them knew the name of the principal who put up the money and issued the instructions… And Santos didn't know any of them."

"I just don't get it," I say. "If Santos has so much help, then why hasn't he tried anything since he got out of jail? He's not the type to give up."

"Maybe he is," Arturo says. "He hasn't bothered anyone about you since his arrest. My operatives say his restaurant, Joe's, just opened for the season. He has to work again, five nights a week. He may be too tired to do much more on his days off than sail or hang out with the Morton woman."

"In the meantime your people need to find the Chinese guy," I say. "Ask him some questions."

The Latin says, "I've already given those instructions."

As the days pass, Santos remains on my mind. What plan can the man have that he's waiting to spring? It bothers me to remain passive, waiting to see what may happen. As usual, Elizabeth's counsel is short and direct. "My father would never let a human take up so much of his thoughts," she says. "Kill him."

"No," I say. "Not yet. I don't see any need for it. But I do think I'd be more comfortable if I saw him again. I need to get a sense of how he's feeling, get a look into his eyes."

Elizabeth stares at me. "I think you're worried he's given up. Whatever game you think the two of you have, you don't want it to end."

I look away from her emerald-green eyes. "Maybe," I say, shrugging. "I don't know."

We arrive on Miami Beach early, but not early enough for Joe's. Even though it's just six-thirty and a weeknight, cars pack the parking lot. I let the valet take the Mercedes and escort Elizabeth into the Mediterranean-style building, newly redone to blend in with all the other new and remodeled buildings taking advantage of the resurgent popularity of South Beach.

Inside the cavernous room, a line of people wait to talk to an indifferent maitre d'. "It's too crowded, too noisy," Elizabeth mindspeaks.

I nod. At every table people dine or wait for food, tuxedo-clad waiters bustling around them, carrying large trays laden with beige-and-orange stone crab claws, the restaurant's specialty. Other patrons crowd the lobby and the bar, waiting for tables that might not become available for an hour or more.

It takes me fifteen minutes to get close enough to talk to the maitre d'. He barely reacts when I say my name, but after I say, "Arturo Gomez said I should tell you we're good friends of his," he looks up and smiles, reassures me it will be only a few minutes and suggests we wait in the bar.

Three bartenders, each wearing red brocade vests, rush around the U-shaped, mahogany bar. At first I worry that Santos has the night off, but then I see him pouring a scotch for a red-faced man at the far end of the bar. I force our way through the waiting crowd, push toward him and have the fortune to find a seat for Elizabeth at the bar and a space for me to stand next to her.

Santos freezes, then frowns when he first notices us. Another bartender comes over to see what we want, but he interrupts. "I know them. I'll take care of them."

"Mr. and Mrs. DelaSangre," he says as if we were old friends, his hard eyes belying his wide smile. "What brings you here?"

"Dinner." I grin too. "I thought you said we should be less formal, Jorge."

"Yes." He nods, places both of his hands on the bright wood surface of the bar. "I did. But that was awhile ago, Peter. I guess I forgot."

"It has been quite a while…"

He nods again. "Too long," he says. "But, you know how it is, Peter, work and other things get in the way. Then again…" He looks at me. "You don't have to work, do you?"

"No," I say.

"But I bet you know how to play real hard, don't you? I bet guys you play don't win very often. But enough of that…" Santos motions toward the bottles behind him. "I have a job to do here. What would you like tonight?"

"Just Evian for both of us," I say. "We don't drink."

"Really?" he says. "Me neither. I gave it up after Maria disappeared. Funny thing though, the police arrested me a few months ago…" He shakes his head. "Peter, they charged me with DUI even though I was cold sober. I can't imagine why they'd do something like that. Can you?"