Michael looked up from his desk as his secretary walked into his office at nine-fifteen that morning. He'd showered and shaved at the apartment; then he'd taken Leigh home and gone on to his company's offices for a nine-thirty meeting. "Mr. Buchanan is here," Linda told him. "He said he's a little early."

"Have him come in."

A moment later, Gordon Buchanan strode in carrying his briefcase. The senior partner at Buchanan, Powell, and Lynch, one of New York's most prestigious law firms, Buchanan was immaculately and expensively attired. He had silver-streaked hair, elegant manners, and a pleasant, aristocratic face. Socially, he was a gentleman; professionally, he was as smooth, and as dangerous, as a cobra.

"Good morning," Buchanan said. Although his firm had successfully represented Michael Valente in every legal action brought against him over the last decade, they were not friends—Valente wasn't a friendly man. But he had two rare qualities that made him a unique client in Buchanan's experience: He never lied to his attorneys, and he never wasted their time. In return, he required that they not waste his time.

For that reason, Gordon went straight to the matter at hand without indulging in any of the customary social preliminaries. "I set up a meeting at Interquest this morning," he said as he sat down in front of Valente's desk. "They have some information for us. Did you tell Mrs. Manning not to speak to the police again unless she checks with me first?"

"I told her several days ago," Michael told him. "They haven't made any attempt to talk to her since they subpoenaed her husband's personal files from the apartment—" He stopped and reached impatiently for the intercom buzzing on his desk phone.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but Leigh Kendall is on your private line—"

"Kendall?" Michael repeated, savoring the realization that Leigh had evidently switched to her maiden and stage name after last night.

"It's Mrs. Manning," Linda clarified, pretending in her irreproachably businesslike manner that she had no idea he was closely associated with the caller in any way. "But she specifically used Kendall,' so I thought I should, too."

"You were right," Michael said, already reaching for the button on his private line and swiveling his chair around for some privacy. When he answered the call, he used the voice he would use for any ordinary caller. "Miss Kendall, this is Michael Valente."

She expelled her breath in a startled laugh. "You sound terrifyingly cold and abrupt."

He switched to the voice he used with her. "I'm meeting with your new attorney. He thinks cold and abrupt are two of my warmest traits."

On the other side of the desk, Gordon Buchanan gaped at the back of Valente's chair. He was surprised Valente indulged in any form of lighthearted banter with anyone, but he was completely astonished that Valente was indirectly including him in it.

"I don't want to keep you—" Leigh said quickly.

"Oh, yes, you do," Michael said with a smile in his voice. "Furthermore, you entered into a binding, nonnegotiable contract about that three hours ago. Why aren't you asleep?"

"Because Jason Solomon just phoned and insisted that Brenna wake me up."

"What did he want? "

"He wants to meet me for cocktails at the St. Regis tonight. He wouldn't take no for an answer. He's going to try to wear me down about coming back to work. I can't walk out onstage with Jane Sebring, knowing I look like a player in some sort of sordid freak show to the audience. Jason can't understand that. Anyway, you mentioned having dinner tonight, and I wanted to ask you to pick me up there instead of here."

"What time?"

"Could we make it seven? That will limit Jason to an hour of wrangling and harassment."

"Would you like me to join you at six instead, and be your reinforcement?"

He could hear the relief and wonder in her voice. "Is being my reinforcement part of your 'job,' too?"

"Absolutely. Check the contract you negotiated with me this morning—under Clause 1, Section C, headed 'Someone to Watch Over Me,' you'll see that you've been granted full rights to my diligent services in that regard."

"Michael," she said solemnly.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Still smiling after they said good-bye, Michael hung up and swiveled his chair around. "Where were we?" he asked Buchanan abruptly.

Buchanan recovered his composure. "I was about to ask you if the police have made any attempt to question you yet about your whereabouts at the time of Manning's murder."

Michael shook his head. "They have no idea whether I can prove I couldn't have done it."

"Then the obvious answer is they don't want any proof that you couldn't have. They've probably persuaded a judge that you're a viable murder suspect and gotten him to authorize wiretaps, and whatever else they want, in order to look around for any other kind of wrongdoing they can find."

He was quiet for a moment, letting his client assimilate that; then he said, "Before I recommend a course of action, I need to know your priorities here."

"I want the police to find out who killed that son of a bitch. Instead of that, they're wasting time and resources on me."

"I can force them to cease and desist." Gordon drew a breath and braced himself for a spectacularly unpleasant reaction to what he was about to say next. "However, in order for me to do that, you would first have to voluntarily offer the police a schedule of your whereabouts at the time of the murder. Since they clearly don't want any proof of innocence from you, they'll resist a request from me for an informal meeting, but I can threaten them with a deluge of legal action if they decline. Once they have proof of your whereabouts in their hands, if they don't back off you, we can make things very unpleasant for them in court."

The negative reaction Gordon anticipated was not vocal—as he'd expected it would be—but Valente's jaw clenched in taut fury at the suggestion of volunteering any information whatsoever to the police. To Valente, voluntarily offering information to the police or prosecutors was tantamount to trying to appease his enemy, and that he wouldn't do under any circumstances. Time after time, he'd chosen to wage a costly battle in court, rather than attempt to avoid the battle by offering explanations and proof to the prosecutors in advance.

In every other respect, Michael Valente was the most coldly rational man Gordon had ever represented—but not when it came to appeasing the justice system. For that reason, Gordon was somewhat taken aback when Valente nodded and said in a low, savage voice, "Set up a meeting." He tipped his head toward the door of his office and added, "Use the conference room to make the call, and have my secretary type up the schedule I gave you of my activities that Sunday."

Gordon got up, and gave him another piece of news he was sure would further enrage him. "I'll try to get the detectives to come over here, but they'll make you go down to the precinct. It gives them a home-court advantage. And," he added, "undoubtedly some petty satisfaction."

"Undoubtedly," Michael said icily, reaching for a document lying on his desk and picking up a fountain pen.

"There's one more thing…"

A pair of frigid amber eyes lifted from the documents to his.

"If we can't persuade them in this meeting that it's completely pointless and indefensible to keep after you, then I'll have to go to court to force them to cease and desist. That will take time, and time is what you don't want to waste. Then there's one other issue you need to be mindful of—"

"Which is?" Michael snapped.

"Mrs. Manning is undoubtedly a primary suspect. Her husband was cheating on her, so she had a motive, she had means—the gun—and she had a window of opportunity. I have no doubt the police have some sort of theory that you and she were involved and plotted together to get rid of her husband. If they ask you any questions about your relationship with her, now or in the past, I recommend that you answer them. Don't volunteer, but don't refuse to answer. I have a gut feeling the police are unduly suspicious of your relationship with her, even though it's been out in the open since you flew her to the accident site."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you said they've never officially questioned her about her relationship with you. When the police refrain from asking the obvious, it's because they think they already know something and they don't want to tip their hand."

After Buchanan left, Michael waited a few minutes while he came to grips with what he'd agreed to do; then he reached for his phone and called Leigh's phone number, but not her private line. When Brenna answered, Michael asked her for Jason Solomon's phone numbers, and he asked her not to mention his call to Leigh.

It took Michael less than thirty seconds to persuade Solomon to meet him at five-thirty at the St. Regis that night for a private conversation before Leigh arrived. The first twenty-five seconds of that time were spent avoiding Solomon's excited inquiries as to Michael's relationship with Leigh.