Ring of Fear

7

He referred once to that conversation on the way home, to inform me that he’d call Michaels and tell him that Galvano had tried a con game on me in California and was obviously setting me up again. He appeared to have a great deal more confidence in Lieutenant Detective Michaels than I did, but then, I’d had a disastrous confrontation with certain law-and-order elements, and my judgment was a trifle prejudiced.

Rafe drove into the stable yard instead of up to the house.

“First I’m going to take you to the dogs, dear heart,” he said. “ ‘Bout time, too.”

As if they knew they were about to be visited, (the deep canine voices raised a greeting. Rafe ushered me lout of the stable yard, to the right, where a large enclosed run was partly sheltered by huge, long-needled pines and the side of the stable. The dogs were hysterically barking and leaping frantically up the ten-foot fence, but it was not our arrival that had excited them.

Calmly, with great precision of step, Dice was touring their pen on the upper bar. He seemed completely unconcerned by the efforts of the two large silver shepherds, oblivious to the snapping jaws that came rather close to his daintily placed feet. It was as arrant a display of confidence as I’ve ever seen, though I didn’t in the least doubt that Dice could have tangled with both dogs and emerged alive. Quick as shepherds are, they’re no match for the agility of an old campaigning torn.

“Dice! That’s taking an unfair advantage. Get down here, you tease.”

Dice regarded me with some surprise on his white-masked face, and flicked his tail saucily.

“Dice!” Rafe said. “No nice roast-beef scraps! No more chicken hearts.”

He halted the insolent tail mid-arc, as if he believed the threat. He didn’t seem to gather himself, but the next moment there was the flash of white belly fur over our heads. The thick evergreen branch whipped up and down from such an assault. Dice’s complaints faded as he used the upper route to less parlous pursuits.

Rafe chuckled with delighted malice, and his eyes were dancing with mischief as he turned to me. “He’s a dirty infighter, too, isn’t he? But I won’t peach on you and tell the dogs you’re his.” He pulled me close enough to kiss my cheek.

I had to laugh.

The dogs, beautifully marked silvery shepherds, weighing a good hundred and twenty pounds apiece from the look of them, were respectively Dame and Demon. They came readily to Rafe on command, tails wagging, their irritation over Dice completely forgotten. I was introduced, duly inspected with slightly damp whuffles, and then ignored as the two vied for Rafe’s caresses. They all but knocked him over in an attempt to get his favor. He laughed and braced his legs against their enthusiasm, cuffing them playfully. They growled happily as they mouthed his arms and made to nip his ankles. After several passes he ordered them down, and they backed off, with much sheepish running of tongue around their chops. They’d been well trained.

As we left, they were already seeking the sun-warmed corner, circling the chosen spot before they dropped, to recline in Germanic dignity.

“Did you ever have a barn fire?” I asked as we walked back to the house.

“No.” But Rafe’s expression was grim. “But almost. And. that’s the kind of miss I’d rather keep a mile away. A couple of Madam’s cronies elected to take a toss in my hay a few years back. Albert happened to be up with a sick mare and went to investigate the noises in the loft. The goddamned fools were smoking, and one of ‘em tossed a lighted butt into the hay just as Albert got there. He smothered it before it could do more than light some chaff. I put the dogs in a year ago when there was a rash of vandalism and petty looting. Hard-liners will scale ten-foot fences to keep in their habit, but dogs make this farm very inhospitable. Let’s get your loot organized before dinner. I want to see you in something besides green, love.”

After Rafe had brought up all the packages, he muttered something about speaking to Garry and left me. It ought to have been fun for me to put away all the pretty things we’d bought together. Instead I found my pleasure soured by the disquieting scene with Rafe’s mother and Marchmount. I was enervated by reaction. I could not dismiss the Sunbury accidents as easily as Rafe could, to the capabilities of Lieutenant Michaels. Nothing was that simple these days. And I had that awful “thing” about compensation. I’d the gift of Rafe’s protection, the prospect of the kind of life I’d always wanted, and for such riches I’d have to pay. Somebody’s Law of Equity.

But I’d better take my clues from Rafe. A glum, superstition-prone wife would not win his affections. And it was reassuring to think I had some money of my own, even if it was, in effect, blood money.

I put such thoughts out of my mind and dressed for dinner in one of the elegant new gowns. I could scarcely call anything at those prices “dresses.” I put on fancy sandals and a pretty necklace and earrings of dainty shells. I experienced a surge of pure feminine vanity as I looked at myself in the long mirror: by God, I looked like someone!

Mrs. Garrison served Someone and her husband a simple but elegant meal, starting with an excellent muttony broth, a flounder that was as tender and delicate as sole (she knew the man who’d caught it that morning off Lloyd’s Neck, where the flounders were running), and a whipped concoction guaranteed to put flesh on anyone’s ribs.

As she poured second cups of coffee, Rafe gave her a stern look. With a sigh and a slightly apologetic nod to me, she found her cup and joined us.

“Well, Mr. Rafe, Mr. Marchmount’s back. Came in on the afternoon train, and that friend of his arrived by car a little later on. Of course, I told Mrs. Palchi I couldn’t help out right now, but she said there was just them two more.”

“That friend of Marchmount’s doesn’t wear a greasy gray cap, does he?”

“A greasy cap? Lands no, Mr. Rafe. He’s a foreign gentleman and dresses very well, Sam says, though he does favor wild California shirts and those indecent tight pants that flare out.” She seemed unaware that Rafe wore extremely close-fitting pants that flared out.

“No caps in sight?” “None.”

“Can you find out if there has been such a type-racetrack-tout type?” Rafe asked.

“Now, you know perfectly well that kind wouldn’t get in Madam’s house, Mr. Rafe.”

“True enough,” he agreed amiably, “but I still want to know if such a type has been seen there since Madam took up with Marchmount.”

“That I can do easy enough,” she said, and finishing the last of her coffee, arose. “Of course, Mr. Marchmount gave Sam strict orders that he wasn’t seeing anybody.”

“Oh?”

“That’s right. Sam’s to say that Mr. Marchmount isn’t there. Orders from Madam and Mr. Marchmount. Sam said he was slipped a twenty.”

Rafe made a grimace of surprise at me. “Any indication why?”

“Well, it seems as if Mr. Marchmount’s health isn’t too good. And that’s a fact, for Madam took him into a specialist Dr. Bauman recommended. All the way into New York. You ask me, it’s all that drinking and late hours for a man of his age. Can’t burn a candle at both ends, you know. Must say I never thought Madam’d waste so much time on a sick man. Would you be wanting any likkers?” (That’s the way she pronounced it, at any rate.) “Good brandy’ll settle all that rich food, come to think of it.”

“Rafe!”

My outraged exclamation came on top of Mrs. Garrison’s, and Rafe ducked, utterly unabashed.

We took the brandies out to the veranda, watching evening close in, until the big trees blended with the dark sky. Lights came up in the stable yard suddenly, under lighting the foliage dramatically. We strolled down to the stable to check on the horses. Dice sprang from a straw-filled corner of Orfeo’s stall, prrrowwing softly with the inner contentment of a full stomach. I wondered how much flounder he’d had.

“You’re a naughty boy, bothering the dogs.” But I softened the scold by scratching his chin vigorously.

He pulled his head away, eyed me balefully, and jumped down. Rafe chuckled.

“Can’t tell that one a thing, can you?”

“Well, he’s been warned.”

Rate’s arm around my waist tightened. “‘I told you so,’ “ he chanted in a nasal nag.

“Dice’s not foolish.”

“I didn’t imply he was.”

“And he takes his job as stable cat to Orfeo very seriously.”

“I’ve noticed.” And Rafe was beginning to nibble my face with kisses.

The gong sounded, startling us both.

“Phone call.”

Mrs. Garrison was on the veranda when we turned the curve of the drive.

“There’s a phone call for Miss Nialla,” she said, sounding surprised and a little troubled.

“For me?”

“Probably Michaels,” Rafe muttered, his fingers closing around my arm reassuringly as we walked up the steps.

“Nialla Dunn Donnelly?” asked a man who was not Detective Lieutenant Michaels.

I glanced frantically at Rafe even as I stammered out a reply. Rafe mouthed something to Garry and then went up the stairs three at a time, but I didn’t hear the click of the upstairs extension.

“Heard you’ve been having some real uncomfortable accidents lately, Miss Dunn Donnelly. You need some protection.”

“Protection? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Oh, no I don’t,” the man said in a snarl. Did he sound like Caps Galvano? I couldn’t remember having heard Galvano over the phone. “I’ve got the right party, all right, sister. Had your saddle girth cut, didn’t you? Your gelding spooked? Yeah, sister, I’d say you needed protection bad.”

“I have protection. I’ve got fences and guard dogs and a husband to protect me from con artists like you.”

From his end I heard a sort of surprised snarl and felt that I was handling him and his threats properly.

“High and mighty all of a sudden, ain’t you?” The vicious taunt was too confident. “Feel safe with fences and guard dogs. But how long will that fancy husband of yours protect you when he sees what I have to show him?”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so. Not with the photos I’ve got in front of me.” “Photos?”

“Yeah, some pretty, pretty pictures of you and someone else. In a pretty compromising position. In fact…”

“You couldn’t have any such photos.” “Oh, couldn’t I?” The angry snarl was back in his voice. “You got a short memory, sister. The night of June eighteenth?…”

I slammed the phone down. He had to be lying. He had to be. I’d’ve seen a flashbulb go off. And the candles that Marchmount had insisted on couldn’t have given off enough light for a picture. I was trembling so badly I had to hold on to the phone table, and it wobbled. Mrs. Garrison came bustling in from the kitchen, and I wanted to run from her, but I couldn’t move. Oh, God, what did I do now?

“The nerve of some people!” Mrs. Garrison’s eyes were sparkling with indignation. She enfolded me in her arms, patting me on the back with comforting gestures. “How can they think of such filthy things? The very notion… I’d heard of such people, peddling faked-up photographs, just to get money from nice people who don’t want their names ruined. But I never really believed such tales. How could anyone…”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t trace that call?” Rafe was bellowing. “You had enough time. No, I don’t need police authorization when I get crank calls. But, by God, the next time I ask you to trace a call, you better do it, my good woman, or you’ll be damned sorry you didn’t.

Threaten you? I don’t threaten! As you’ll find out.”

He was still damning the operator as he stamped downstairs, his eyes a brilliant blue. Then he caught sight of me, and his expression altered. He was down the last of the stairs and had me in his arms before the sob in my throat could be born. Mrs. Garrison’s comfort had been strangely debilitating; his embrace was bracing. I swallowed my fear.

And nearly choked on it as the phone rang again, shrilly, viciously. But Rafe grabbed it. From the violent look on his face I knew that it was the blackmailer. He listened for just a moment.

“No, buster,” he said in a deadly calm voice, “my wife is not coming to the phone. You’ve got me to deal with. What?” This time Rafe held the phone where I couldn’t hear. “No. No, bud, that won’t work. Send those photos to me if you feel inclined, send ‘em to The Daily News, wherever you want. But I tell you this, loud and clear, not one red cent would you get from me, and all you’ll get from the editors is a get-lost. So get lost. Shove it, boobie!”

He jammed the phone down on the cradle only long enough to disconnect that call, then began dialing again so hard the base jumped half across the table, until Mrs. Garrison steadied it.

“We can dispense with this kind of nonsense right now. Threaten my wife in my house, will he? He’s made another mistake.”

“You’re not calling the police?”

He paused, stared at me incredulously, and then dialed the last two digits. “You’re damned right I’m calling the police.”

“But, Rafe, if he…”

“There’re no ‘ifs’ in dealing with a blackmailer, Nialla. You give them one bloody cent, and you’ll be paying for the rest of your life.” The fury in his face faded a little, and he pressed my head against his neck. “I know what I’m doing, Nialla. Believe me, I do. Hello? This is Rafe Clery. I want to speak to Detective Michaels. No? Then have him call me back as soon as you locate him. How’s that?” The cords of his neck stood out against my forehead, and he didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. When he spoke again it was in that dead, cold, expressionless voice, the soft kind that no one ignores. “I’ll repeat my message. Loud and clear, Sergeant Cartland. This is Rafael Clery in Syosset. I expect to hear from Lieutenant Detective James Michaels within the next half-hour, because if I don’t, I know who to report.”

He put the phone down so deliberately there was only a faint clink when the plastic met the cradle.

I struggled away from him, bitter at such a betrayal. He caught me by the shoulders and held me, his eyes still blazing, his face grim.

“Nialla, you got sucked into paying off before, and what happened? Running didn’t do any good. It never does.”

“But he said he had pictures… Rafe, how could he?” Rafe’s eyes darted, warning me that Mrs. Garrison was there. I gasped and burst out crying.

“Exactly, Nialla. How could he?” He scooped me up in his arms, carried me to the sofa. “We need some brandy, Mrs. Garrison.”

“Rafe, there wasn’t any flash,” I cried when she’d left. “There wasn’t.”

“Whether there was or wasn’t isn’t the point, Nialla. Get a grip on yourself. I know what to do.”

“But if he does send the photos…” “Nialla”-and he shook me, his hands hard and hurting on my arms-”can’t you get it through your head? Those shots aren’t worth anything to anyone but you. Your fear is his currency. D’you honestly think that one more pornographic photo is going to make any dent in what pours in to most rag newspapers? Well, if you were bedding Richard Burton, possibly.”

He held me more gently now, because even the notion of me in the same bed as Richard Burton was ridiculous. Just then Mrs. Garrison returned. She bore the brandy decanter and two crystal snifters on a silver tray, linen-lined. Somehow Richard Burton’s face was superimposed on hers, and I burst out giggling.

“That’s my girl,” Rafe said. He splashed a healthy jolt in one goblet and told me to take a good snort. I did, and it burned all the way down.

“Mr. Rafe”-and Mrs. Garrison’s lips were still thin with anger-”I’d be glad to stay the night.”

“Garry, I don’t think much of that character’s threats.”

“You certainly let him know where we stand, Mr. Rafe, but I’d rest a lot easier tonight here than I would in my bed at home, worrying whether that awful man could get in. You know what a light sleeper I am.”

Rafe grinned and patted her hand affectionately. “My top dragon! I think Nialla’d feel safer with all her loyal legions on hand. Wouldn’t you, dear heart?”

I felt tears threatening again, and I wondered if she’d feel the same intense loyalty if she knew how much truth there was to that awful threat.

“Awful man, awful man,” Mrs. Garrison murmured. “I’ll be right in the kitchen, Miss Nialla, if you want something else.”

Rafe started to rise, and when I reached after him, patted my hand. “Mobilizing the troops to repel invaders.” He dialed three numbers. “Jerry? I want the dogs out now, and if you can, I’d like you to stay on tonight. Shotgun detail. Ask Albert to bed down with the mare, right? And he’s to keep his ears open for the gelding’s stall. Yes, I know he won’t, but I’m only asking him to keep his ears and eyes open.” He listened, nodding once or twice as Jerry evidently repeated his instructions. Then he gave a snort. “No, Jerry. Not the big house. Our girth-slitting, horn-blowing, barn-burning friend is in the vicinity. Yes, I agree. Thank you!”

“Now, Nialla”-and there was something daunting in his face when he joined me on the sofa again-let’s sort this out for once and for all. You heard Mrs. Garrison’s reaction, and she listened to everything on the extension. I admit that you hung up before he got to specifics, but she didn’t believe him.”

“But… Rafe…”

“Shut up,” he advised, not unkindly. “His threat is aimed at compromising a bride, but I already know about Marchmount. All about him. Therefore those pictures could not affect us, you and me, because I wouldn’t let them.”

His strong fingers forced my head up. There were angry lines at his mouth, and the frown made him look older and fierce, but his eyes were dark and, I guess, sad.

“No matter how preposterous those photos are, I’ve

seen worse. I know the type.” He gave an odd kind of a snort. “Hell, I even modeled for some at one point.” He snorted again at my gasp, and looked at me with a wry grin. “I’m not a nice guy, Nialla. I told you that. That’s right, shake your head, because nothing I say is going to change your opinion of me. Correct?” I nodded, and his smile curved up in a kind of smugly satisfied way. “Then, dear heart, using the same irrational logic, nothing can convince me you’re not a nice girl. Fair?”

I wanted to slap his face, and I wanted to laugh because he’d talked me so neatly into that trap.

“So”-and he cradled me in his arms with the air of someone who has won a decisive victory-”we now ponder those alleged feelthy pictures from another angle. Let’s assume, since that particular fateful night was mentioned, that Marchmount is the other body. Ergo, why isn’t our chum peddling his wares to Marchmount? Or is that why Marchmount is not at home at the big house?”

The phone rang. I jumped as if I’d been kicked. Rafe gave me a reassuring grin as he strode to answer it.

“Good evening, Michaels. I see Cartland got my message to you. Mrs. Clery just had a threatening phone call that I tried to trace, with no cooperation from the local operator. The extortionist had some compromising photos he told Nialla he’d send me unless he got paid off. Oh, yes, he mentioned the accidents, and when she wouldn’t grovel, brought up the photos. She hung up. He called back, and I answered. Told him just where he could put those faked photos. Nialla believes the blackmailer is Caps Galvano.” He glanced over to me, eyebrows raised until I nodded hasty confirmation. “Yes. Yes?” There was a rather surprised look on his face. “Nialla, you’re positive of your identification of Galvano?”

“If I wasn’t before, I am now, and you know why,” I said, speaking sharply. Fear and shame were fuel to my anger. “Why?”

“Michaels says the California police have Galvano listed as dead.”

“He can’t be.”

“She says he can’t be. When did he-ah-die, Michaels? Well, I’d find out the details. I wouldn’t trust that bastard to be dead until his body started to stink. I’m not telling you your business… all right, I am”-and Rafe chuckled amiably-”but Nialla’s positive about her identification. And there are other reasons why I’d prefer you checked more thoroughly with the California, authorities on Mr. Galvano’s so-convenient demise.” He listened a moment. “All right, and also request the local Bell Tel to cooperate. Yes, I suppose Bob Erskine’ll have to know, but I prefer my own security measures to his, Michaels, and they’re in effect right now.” Another pause. “Well, thanks for that, too.” He said good-bye in a very cheerful voice and hung up, altogether looking pleased with the exchange.

“What was that last bit about? And how could Galvano be dead?”

“Yes, that’s very interesting, isn’t it?”

“What else was Michaels saying?”

“It’s turned out that Pete Sankey did have an idea who started that barn fire. Mentioned it to Mac at A-Barn and Budnell on Monday, which is the last time he was seen alive.”

“Then he got killed because of me. Galvano killed him. So Galvano isn’t dead. Dead men can’t kill. How convenient. Dead men can’t be executed, because they’re dead already. It’s the brandy, Rafe!” He’d grabbed me and shaken me. I think I was more appalled at the imminent hysterics than at my feeling of guilt for Pete.

“Listen, Nialla, not all the keening in the world -will bring Pete Sankey back, so don’t carry guilt for him. After all, you didn’t order him to go after the guy. And frankly, my dear, to jolt you out of that self-centered rut, Pete did it because horses were involved, not Nialla Donnelly. Pete didn’t think much of the human race, but deliberate barn burning was something no horseman can tolerate.”

He was right about Pete Sankey. And he was right about me, too, wallowing in self-pity and guilt.

“You’ve quite enough to worry about without taking on guilt for Pete Sankey’s death. That’s the trouble with being raised right”-and there was bitterness in Rafe’s face now-”you expect everyone to operate on the same rules you were raised to respect. The ‘all-men-are-brothers’ routine. You’re absolutely lost when something like blackmail or rape hits you, because ‘people don’t do such things.’ Take a swig,” he ordered me as he refilled our glasses.

“Worst lesson a parent can teach a child-love one another. Now, the ‘do-unto-others’ bit makes slightly more sense, although I hardly want you seducing Louis Marchmount to get your own back, or blackmailing Caps Galvano. Goddamnit”-and Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring at the dark night beyond the windows-“why the hell is Caps bothering you? You’re small fry. Even your father’s insurance couldn’t have been more than ten thousand dollars-twenty thousand at the most. He must have reams of stuff on Marchmount if he’s taken to blackmailing. And why would he have to fake his own death? Unless…” He turned to me again, his eyes intense with his thoughts. “But why would a racetrack tout like Galvano need an ‘out’? Unless he had promised to doctor a Marchmount entry! Hmm. Nialla, when Galvano came to you, he sold you some story about trying to clear your father’s name? How did he know it needed clearing?”

“He said that’s what they were saying around the tracks. That Russ Donnelly…”

“That’s all he said? There wasn’t anything in the papers about it?”

“Only, thank God, the usual bit about the police are following several leads. But Rafe, they were saying such things around the tracks. The grooms at the stable told me, and they were upset.”

“Hmmm. What else did Caps ask you?”

“Ask me? About what?”

“About how you found your father, and what the police wanted to know.”

“You think Caps was pumping me? You know, that’s odd. He did seem more interested in what questions the police were asking me. But honestly, Rafe, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“No, of course you weren’t, dear heart. Tell me, though, was Galvano questioned by the police?”

“Oh, yes, he said he was, but he’d been in Tijuana at the time.”

“So he says.”

“What are you driving at, Rafe?”

“I’m not quite sure, Nialla.” And he’d risen to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, swatting one hand into the other.

“You can’t possibly imagine Caps Galvano murdered my father? Why, Dad was half a head taller and a good thirty pounds heavier. That little slimy man…”

“Yes, I know, Nialla.” Rafe sighed, shoving his hair back impatiently. “I guess it’s silly to try to relate the two things-your father’s death and this spate of accidents. Blackmail is Galvano’s line, and he found a quick buck in your situation and took it. He spotted you at Sunbury while he was trying to catch up with Louis Marchmount, and couldn’t resist the chance to pick up some spare money. Not knowing, of course, that you hadn’t collected your father’s insurance.”

“Or the money I was supposed to get from Marchmount.” The brandy was reaching me, because I began to giggle. “I guess blackmailers have to eat and pay rent somewhere. Even dead men, because he certainly couldn’t go make book at Belmont or Aqueduct without having his alibi exploded.”

“If that goddamned operator hadn’t been such a shit-head, we’d’ve at least known the general area he was in,” Rafe said, pausing to look down at me. “Drink that

brandy.”

“I’m getting tight, Rafe.”

“I know. That’s my plan.” And he sat down beside me, filling the snifter. “I want you to sleep tonight, Mrs. Clery, and I won’t keep barbiturates in the house, so it’s drunk I’m getting you, dear heart.”

“If you get me drunk, I won’t know what’s going on.”

He gave me an odd sideways look. “Nothing’s going to go on, dear heart.”

I groaned, because I usually get more amorous when I drink.

“That’s a girl.”

In his artful way I think he coaxed half the decanter down my throat before he carried me up to bed. But by then I wasn’t seeing very straight. I remember getting into bed, and I remember his chuckle in my ear. I also remember being told to stop twitching, but I was warm and comfortable, and that was all I remember.

The barking of the dogs woke me to bright daylight. Woke me and Rafe. We both listened tensely, but their calls weren’t alarms; more like canine conversation, and soon stopped.

“Probably arguing over who gets which bowl.” Rafe rose and stretched leisurely. “How’s your head?”

“Fine! I never get hangovers.”

“I’ll remember that.”

And our second day started much as the first. When we got down to breakfast, though, Jerry MacCrate was propping up a cabinet, a mug of coffee in one hand. He was bleary-eyed and rumpled, but when we entered, he grinned broadly at me.

“Morning! You know what that cat of yours has done, Mrs. Clery?”

“I’d never’ve believed it myself,” Mrs. Garrison said, her smile widening into a chuckle that set her comfortable bosom bouncing. “What do you do to animals, Miss Nialla?”

“What’s more to the point, what has Dice done?” asked Rafe.

“Cowed those shepherds,” replied Jerry, relishing the effect.

“Cowed the shepherds?” Rafe was startled.

“Yessir. I always feed ‘em in the morning, you know. So I put down their food, turned around, and that damned-pardon me-cat came sauntering in as if he’d had an invitation. He walked up to Dame’s pan, took his own sweet time settling himself, and ate a little while she sat on her haunches and whined.”

It was so exactly the sort of trick that Dice had pulled on the Poiriers’ watchdog that I started laughing.

“And then,” Jerry continued, waiting until I had subsided a little, “and then, he went over to Demon’s pan and sampled that.”

“And then”-Mrs. Garrison took up the tale-”he came here and finished off a huge dish of scraps just as if he were starving to death and hadn’t been fed in a month of Sundays.”

“The big bowl was too hot, and the medium bowl was too cold, and…” Rafe began in a singsong voice, his eyes dancing.

“… And the enormous bowl was just right!” I capped it between spurts of laughter.

“Well, he’s like no cat I ever saw, boss,” Jerry said. “God, if I’d a dime for every cat those shepherds have chased off the farm, I’d retire.”

“The shepherds recognize class when they see it, Jerry,” I said as soberly as I could, for I could picture the actual scene clearly.

“And another thing, boss,” Jerry went on, equally serious, “d’you know, he was following me during the night? Every time I made the rounds, I’d catch a glimpse of them big eyes of his in the trees, or lurking in the underbrush. Damned near scared me silly the first time, and I almost let him have a blast. Only he meowed and came right up to me.”

“He’s the guy who watches the watchman,” I said.

“Your loyalest legionnaire,” Rafe supplied.

“It’s just that I worry about him if he’s got the dogs bamboozled,” Jerry said, shaking his head.

“I think you’ll find that the cat and the dogs have worked out some sort of an arrangement, Jerry,” I told him. “He used to patrol at the Poiriers’ farm in Pennsylvania. And their watchdog always let Dice sample his dish. He’d been on guard, too, after all.”

“I’ve heard everything.” Jerry did not believe everything, however. “Not that I doubt you, Mrs. Clery…”

“He’s a special breed of cat,” Rafe added. “A Maine coon cat, bred and trained to hunt raccoons.”

“Well…” And Jerry appeared able to accept that explanation.

“He’s used to hunting. He’s also far more intelligent than the common shorthair cat,” I went on. “But if it bothers you to have him prowling about, we can always shut him up in Orfeo’s box. He’s the one he’s supposed to watch, not you.”

“Oh, no, don’t lock the beast up,” Jerry told me, and I wondered from the look in his eye if he thought Dice might blame him for it. “Well, I’d better get some shut-eye.”

“Nothing to report?”

Jerry shrugged. “Not even much noise up at the big house. Nothing around all night, but that cat.”

Rafe nodded and thanked Jerry, who said he’d be back late this afternoon, and left.

We had a very pleasant breakfast, chatted with Mrs. Garrison. She hadn’t anything to report on odd types trying to see Mr. Marchmount, but evidently Madam was some exercised over something. Mrs. Garrison’s attempt at tactfulness only made her omission the more obvious. She might just as well have said that Wendy Madison was furious over Rate’s unexpected remarriage.

Well, I comforted myself, the people who apparently liked Rafe didn’t seem to be upset. Bess Tomlinson had gone to considerable trouble to be a part of the ceremony, and Mrs. Garrison, who certainly cared more for Rafe than his own mother did, was already “Miss Nialla-ing” me.

We inspected the stables and the pastures more thoroughly today. Rafe preferred jumpers, and he had two old pensioners in with the mares and foals. He didn’t have as many mares as he wanted, he said, but he was on the lookout for good breeding stock. We watched while Dennis Muldoon combed out Orfeo’s long full tail, which hadn’t been too badly thinned by the fire. Dennis also had the kind of voice, a baritone rumble, that horses prefer, and had been told to keep up a running commentary as he groomed. Orfeo stood quietly, lame hoof cocked as the boy toweled him to a high shine.

“I’ll have him back to soaking again, Mrs. Clery, but I think there’s an improvement already.”

Rafe tipped the hoof up, and the cinder mark was definitely on the mend. When the foot was released, Orfeo put it down squarely for a few moments before easing up again. He did it absentmindedly, as if from habit and not discomfort. Rafe slapped the black rump and kept stroking forward to the withers, until his fingers reached the relaxed ears. Aware of an unfamiliar touch, Orfeo gazed around. There was a kind of wondering expression in Rafe’s eyes as he returned the black’s diffident stare. Then Orfeo tilted his head slightly, so that Rafe’s ministering fingers caught an itchy spot at the base of one ear.

Rafe chuckled as he slapped the curving neck, and stepped back.

“He must be something over the jumps,” Dennis said admiringly.

“We’ll soon see.” Rafe’s eyes glowed.

Would I have riz/To where I now iz/If Orfeo hadn’t been mine? I paraphrased in my mind. Then I shook my head of such thoughts and walked on to greet Phi Bete, who was whickering urgently for my offering of carrot. She chomped happily, tossing ground carrot flecks at me. Albert had already curried her, for she shone like amber, her silky forelock neatly plaited and bouncing on her forehead.

I glanced into Orfeo’s stall. Dice gave a sleepy prrroww, his eyes gleaming from a dark corner for an instant before he resumed his nap.

I rode Maisie that morning, and she was a rough one. She tried every one of the same tricks on me she’d used with Rafe the morning before, and found me quite prepared to deal with her.

“She’s not very inventive, is she?” Rafe remarked as Albert led the pair away.

“No, but she’s got more scope than Sadie, if she’ll ever settle down.”

“Yes, that was my feeling, too. Next week sometime, we’ll give her a good workout on the big field,” and he waved past the barns to the right.

I glanced over my shoulder at a training ring that I’d thought rather complete.

“Oh, I’ve got ditches, drops, water jumps, a couple of downhill approaches, stone fences, real live hedge, not that plastic garbage they use in shows. A complete setup, if I say so myself.”

“A good ‘chasing ground,’” I heard myself saying.

Rafe turned sharply to me, his eyes watchful, and then he gave me a small smile.

“Yes”-and that tight smile relaxed into a broad grin- “and I can’t wait til you say I can try him!” That was a challenge. “Feel up to Rocking Lady?”

I was game for anything, even the workout the bay mare gave me. But my shoulders ached, and several burns smarted on my legs, irritated by perspiration. I was glad enough to hear the warning bell for lunch, though it didn’t seem to me as if the morning had passed that quickly.

As we got in the front door, Mrs. Garrison met us.

“Dr. Bauman’s office says they can give Miss Nialla a two-o’clock appointment, Mr. Rafe.”

“Not settling with the insurance people until I’m certain you’re sound of wind and limb,” Rafe told me when I glared at him. “Up to the showers, m’dear,” he said, pushing me toward the stairs. “Got the wolf cooked, Garry?” “The day you catch him, I’ll cook him,” she replied. By the time we got back from the doctor’s office, I was beginning to be sated with the constant-companionship routine. I hadn’t been alone in six days, except on the back of a horse, and that wasn’t exactly alone, after all. The doctor had dressed the opened burns with a few caustic remarks (didn’t Rafe know any diplomatic doctors?) about damned fools who don’t know when to take things easy. But my hemoglobin was up, and he’d estimate that another week-without undue strain on the burns-would see them healed. He ordered me to use A amp; D ointment or I’d have scars. Rafe listened with a half-grin on his face.

If I had “rested,” I’d’ve gone mad. I could forget about fires and slit girths on top of a horse-and in Rafe’s arms at night. But I felt a lot better leaving this doctor’s office than I had leaving the one in Sunbury. A few days off a solid diet of peanut butter is to be strongly recommended.

Michaels was in the living room when we arrived. Rafe noticed the coffee tray with slices of cake and some of Mrs. Garrison’s home-baked cookies and grinned. I doubted that Mrs. Garrison was likely to extend hospitality to just any police officer who identified himself. I agreed with her assessment of him, for he was so completely different from the breed of cop I’d contended with in San Fernando.

“Not a social call, I gather,” Rafe remarked dryly.

“I didn’t…” Michaels began, gesturing helplessly at the tray.

“Seal of approval, Michaels, not to worry.”

The man grinned then, which made him look less tired and drawn. I wondered if he had more than one suit and if he ever had time to get it pressed.

“Got a comprehensive on John, alias Caps, Galvano.” He handed me a sheaf of photos, typical police-type records, all the names blocked out. “Would you please see if you can find the man you saw at Sunbury among these?”

“Police line-up?” I asked? riffling through. Caps ought to be easy enough to spot, but my confidence was somewhat shaken when I came across the first likely candidate. Same weasel-type face; no, the nose was wrong. Then I got annoyed. They didn’t believe I’d seen Caps Galvano and were trying to trick me. I took my time. And when I did come to the photo, I was positive it was Caps; with or without the cap crammed down over his eyes, he was unmistakable. “This is John, alias Caps, Galvano,” I said in a tone I hoped would convey my irritation with this ploy.

Michaels gave me an apologetic nod as he took the photo.

“Now, if the gentleman will kindly remove the concealing label,” Rafe said in the manner of the TV-commercial announcer, but his eyes told me he wasn’t pleased either, “we will see which product this impartial witness chose.”

Michaels didn’t bother. “This is Galvano.” He grimaced. “The California authorities aren’t happy with his resurrection.”

“Why?” Rafe’s one word had the sharpness of a command.

Michaels sighed and leaned forward. “John, alias Caps, Galvano was presumed dead when a vehicle, registered in his name, went out of control on a hairpin turn and crashed into a canyon, where it burst into flame and exploded.”

“Convenient.”

“Yes. What was left to identify tallied well enough with Galvano’s physical statistics. So the verdict was death by misadventure. At the? time, the police had far more pressing matters than to worry about the erasure of a smalltime racetrack tout.”

“What pressing matters?” Rafe demanded.

“Last summer there was a massive crackdown on marihuana smuggling, and yet there was a huge supply circulating in San Fernando.”

“What did you say?”

Michaels was as startled as I was by Rafe’s explosive question.

“Did you say marihuana?” Rafe asked.

“Yes. You know, they’ve been tightening customs inspection all across the border to prevent drugs from being smuggled in. Marihuana in particular.”

Rafe crowed, slapping his knees. “Particularly marihuana. And particularly at Tijuana.” Rafe bounced to his feet, pointing at me. “Nialla, tell Michaels what you told me. About the hay in the station wagon?” He shook his head impatiently when I stared dumbly at him. “Nialla’s father always took his own hay with him to Tijuana. He had a spotless reputation, too. No harried customs officer would have bothered the Marchmount cars or transports. Yet the day Donnelly was killed, he’d come back from Tijuana unexpectedly. Nialla said he was furious when he called her to come home. When she got to the house… Go on, Nialla.”

I wasn’t sure yet what he wanted me to say.

“Sweetheart, about the hay. Sorry, Nialla.” And he’d whirled again to Michaels. “There was hay, hay, Michaels, in the station-wagon bed. And when Nialla got up to the loft…”

“Yes, there was hay, loose and still in blocks, spread all around. And you don’t do that. You use just as many blocks in a bale as you need. I thought that was odd at the time.”

“Odd? Odd!” Rafe was more excited than I’d ever seen him. “As odd as the hay your father accidentally separated in Tijuana. Hay is grass, Michaels.”

I understood now. “You mean, someone was smuggling marihuana into the States in my father’s bales of hay?”

Rafe flopped onto the couch, smirking with satisfaction. “Exactly. And what a helluva clever way to smuggle keys of grass. God, how ingenious!” He leaned forward, striking off points on his fingers. “Donnelly’d undoubtedly bring more bales than he needed, and it would be no trouble at all for Galvano to stuff the keys in the hay blocks. Who’d suspect him? He was always around the Marchmount stables. Goddamn!”

“And you think Mr. Donnelly accidentally discovered the stash?” Michaels asked.

“What else? And came back to San Fernando to investigate. That’s what infuriated your father, Nialla. He’d be livid at being used that way.”

Yes, he would have, I thought. “Then who killed my father?”

“Galvano!”

“Oh, Rafe, he couldn’t…”

“Nonsense, Nialla. Anyone can kill. There was a pitchfork handy. Makes a… Dammit, Nialla. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His arm was around me, his expression white with remorse. And all I could think of was “Do unto others.” I shuddered.

“It has to be Galvano, Michaels.”

“Why? It could have been the pickup man.”

“True. But why else would Galvano want to play dead?”

Michaels considered that, and shrugged.

“Okay,” Rafe went on grimly, “play the devil’s advocate. Galvano finds out that Russ has discovered the grass. Follows him back to San Fernando. Kills him. So let’s also assume that Russ has destroyed all that shipment. Galvano’s in a real bind now, man. He doesn’t have the grass, and he doesn’t have the bread to pay for it. And he’s got to answer. Sure, he’d rig an accidental death. For Christ’s sake, no one has connected him with Russ Donnelly’s murder yet. He even checked with Nialla to be sure she didn’t see him in the loft. But if she had, she’d’ve told the cops, so she hadn’t. My God, that little prick thought fast and smart. He even conned her into shelling out five hundred dollars.”

“He extorted money from Mrs. Clery in California?”

I held my breath.

“Galvano approached Nialla with some song and dance about helping her clear her father’s name.”

I shot a furtive look at Michaels. Was that enough to tell him?

“Then he comes back again for more money, five thousand, wasn’t it, Nialla?” I could only stare at Rafe, willing him to shut up now. “That’s why I think things were getting so damned hot for Galvano. He had to split.”

“Did you give him the five thousand dollars, Mrs. Clery?”

Numbly I shook my head.

“You realized he was extorting money from you on false pretenses?”

I could only shake my head.

“You didn’t report the attempt to the authorities…”

“Damn it, Michaels,” Rafe cut in, his voice rough with irritation, “the fuzz in San Fernando-I consider you a policeman, so you’ll understand the distinction I made- gave Nialla nothing but grief. They accused her father of everything from doctoring an entry to welching on a bet. Albeit they were trying to find a motive, but they hectored Nialla so much in the process that even a lousy con artist like Caps Galvano looked good. Of course she didn’t report it to the police. She left.”

“Actually, Mrs. Clery ought to have informed the authorities of her leaving.”

Rafe answered with a short expletive. Michaels looked at him for a long moment.

“There was no apparent motive, Mr. Clery, for Russell Donnelly’s death. There were no clues. The handle of the murder weapon had been wiped clean, and all other fingerprints in the loft were accountable. When Mrs. Clery disappeared without a trace, it was logical to assume she’d been murdered too.”

“Oh. That hadn’t occurred to me.”

Michaels smiled at me reassuringly. “If one’s alive, one doesn’t assume the authorities consider you the victim of foul play. But you should have told the police where you were going. They had some questions.”

“Questions?”

Michaels fumbled for a flimsy sheet in his pocket, clearing his throat as he scanned it. “There were deposits of one thousand dollars made to your father’s checking account on the first of September, the first of December, and…”

“My college money!” I stopped feeling contrite and got mad. “You mean they thought Dad was receiving payoff money.”

Michaels had the grace to blush. “They didn’t know what to think, Mrs. Clery. The amounts were suspicious.”

“They came from the legitimate sales of stock.”

“In even thousand-dollar lots?” Michaels asked.

“Yes,” I replied, so sharply that Michaels blinked at me. “Mrs. du Maurier advised Dad to start a mutual fund for my education. You can sell off enough fund shares for exactly the amount you need.”

Rafe nodded. “That’s right.”

“I just needed an answer, Mrs. Clery.” And Michaels was patient with my indignation. “I have one, and you have my apologies. Now, would you also tell me where you were between the time you left California and arrived in Sunbury? That’ll spare you another visit from me.”

“I took off across country, stopped at Manhattan, Kansas, to rest me and my mare. That’s where I bought the station wagon. Then I stayed with the Poiriers in West Chester until I took up circuit showing February in Florida.”

“And you informed no one in California of your whereabouts?”

“There wasn’t anyone left in California that I wanted informed.”

“Understandably. Well, I suppose that’s why Galvano didn’t catch up with you until Sunbury.”

“Galvano hasn’t been after Nialla, Michaels,” Rafe said in a quiet voice. “She’s just a fringe benefit. Sorry, dear heart, but that’s the way I see it. Galvano’s been stalking Louis Marchmount, who was, as I told you, in Sunbury last weekend. Traveling for his health, I believe the euphemism is. And he’s up at the big house right now, incommunicado.”

Michaels gave a sharp nod of his head as he absorbed the impact of this information.

“Look, Michaels, take this in two segments: the murder of Russell Donnelly because he discovered the marihuana is one-right up to the point where Galvano fakes his own death, because that’s the only way to get the grass ring off his neck. He’s in the clear, right? Because no one has connected him with Russell Donnelly’s death. But he’s also without access to his usual source of income-the tracks. The moment he puts his weasel face near a betting window, he’s had it. Second segment: how to make a living now. He’d already started by conning Nialla out of five hundred dollars for ‘expense money.’ When he realized that he’d have to split, he’d sent her to try to wheedle five thousand dollars out of Marchmount, but Marchmount doesn’t give, and Nialla decamps. So I’ll bet he started after Marchmount to get him a disappearing stake. And Galvano must know a bundle about Lou.” “The flaw in your argument, Mr. Clery, is that Marchmount must certainly know that Galvano died in that accident in California.” Michaels consulted another set of telex sheets. “Marchmount admitted to seeing Galvano up until just after the Donnelly death. He insisted vehemently, and had the pull to make it stick, that once he discovered the man’s unsavory reputation, he had had nothing more to do with him. Evidently Galvano left the Tijuana scene without paying off some bets. That’s another reason why the police let his bones lie.”

“Ahah, but the flaw in your flaw, Mr. Michaels, is that blackmail is an anonymous business. Galvano doesn’t have to present calling cards with what he has to peddle. Filthy pictures, protection after a score of minor accidents.”

The lieutenant looked thoughtful as he rose.

“I want to get in touch with the California authorities again, Mr. Clery, on this hay-is-grass notion. I think it’s a valid line of inquiry. In the meantime, I’ll have copies of this mug shot of Galvano circulating in Sunbury and in this neighborhood to see if we can come with a positive identification.” He sighed.

“I’d find out whether Louis Marchmount’s been paying extortion, if I were you,” Rafe said, getting to his feet.

“If I were you”-and the pronouns were only slightly accented-”I’d concentrate on my home front. Not” Michaels added hastily, “that I think you have anything more to worry about from Galvano right now, Mrs. Clery.”

“He sure as hell can’t reach Nialla behind a Cyclone fence with K-9s patrolling,” Rafe said.

The lieutenant looked about to speak and then sighed, as if he’d thought better of it.

Rafe grinned sardonically. “Galvano has a bigger fish to gaff up at the big house, Michaels.”

The lieutenant ignored the jibe. “I’ll keep in touch,” he said, and strode out the door and down the steps to the waiting sedan.

“Oh, Rafe…”

His warm arms encircled me. “Dear heart, this is something we get through, and when we reach the other side, it’s over and can be forgotten. I’m not letting anything…”

The phone rang shrilly. Rafe didn’t move, holding me more firmly when I shuddered at the sound.

“You’re not at home to anyone either, love.”

The third ring was cut off, and we could hear Garry’s voice in the kitchen. She came through the dining room, her lips firm with disapproval.

“Are you at home for Madam? She says she knows you’re here.”

Rafe exhaled slowly, and released me enough so we could walk to the phone. He held the receiver between us.

“Yes?”

“I told you to call me Wendy,” she said in a sharp voice, which mellowed suddenly. “We’re having an informal reception for you and”-a condescending half-laugh-”your latest bride.” Again her voice altered, harder now. I won’t take a refusal from you, Ralph. Everyone knows about your frightfully romantic wedding, so you’ve forced me into a very awkward position. Just good luck I was in Sunbury with Lou this weekend. Is that chit really Russell Donnelly’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“That makes some sense, then. You’ll be here for cocktails at seven. And tell her to wear dark stockings. I want those horrible marks hidden. Mrs. Garrison can come up and give Mrs. Palchi a hand.”

The connection was broken. The coldness in Rafe’s eyes was frightening. It was worse than open hatred or anger. It was… I don’t know what it was, but 1 had to erase it from his eyes.

“Rafe, I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.” And I tried to laugh lightheartedly. It came out sounding like a dreadful imitation of her laughter. I put my hands on his face and forced him to look at me. “I’m really durable. After police interrogations, blackmailers, threats, arsonists, I ought to be able to survive a suburban cocktail party.”

His arms almost crushed me, and his cheekbone hurt mine.

“I mind.” His eyes were still on a distance invisible to me. Abruptly he refocused, but there was still “that frightening reserve about him. “I know her sort of party, Nialla. And I know why she’s giving it. Not for you or me, but to preserve her ‘face’ from the slings and arrows of outraged society. On the other hand…” And he began to smile. It wasn’t a reassuring smile at all, and I stepped back, unsure. He looked at me again, but the empathy of a few moments ago was gone. “You’ll need some rest. Garry?”

She came into the room, a tray in her hands. “Moment I heard her voice, I knew what was happening, Mr. Rafe. You’d better munch on these. Cocktails at seven? Humph! No dinner till all hours if anyone’s able to eat then. I’ll just go up and give Mrs. Palchi a hand, if you don’t mind. She gets so upset.”

It was easy to seize on Mrs. Garrison’s reaction to the call to ease through the awkwardness. We consumed most of the cheeses, all the crackers and rye bread. Rafe kept urging me to eat heartily, because Garry had the right of it; we mightn’t get dinner until ten or eleven.

“Can’t say who’ll be there. Her crowd varies, depending on who’s ‘in’ or who’s getting divorced or dried out of one thing or another.” He gave me a less acid smile. “Oh, they’re not all bad, dear heart. It’s just that the bitches stand out. I’ll be latched to you all evening.”

So I smiled at him.

“And Marchmount?”

He cocked his head at me, and there was a shade more humor in his expression now. “If he appears, I’ll do the talking, Nialla.”

He made me go up and rest, but I had too many day-mares: hay blocks piling themselves over my father’s prone body, while baling wire snaked around, hissing like Wendy Madison; and then, in another sequence I kept trying on dress after dress with the echo of her malicious laughter in my ears.

I had enough of that in short order and decided to see which of my new acquisitions I’d wear. I’d about chosen the white linen sheath and wild sandals when Rafe sauntered in, flat jeweler’s box, one of the solid old-fashioned kind, in his hand.

“These suit you,” he said in a very solemn voice, and flipped open the lid to display the coral necklace, earrings, and bracelet. The set belonged to another, more gracious era, when young debutantes were permitted only certain adornments. Tiny seed pearls and diamonds accented the coral spikes. The earrings were for pierced ears, and Rafe was saying he’d have them altered if I didn’t want my ears done.

The necklace and bracelet, however, were the perfect touch for the white linen. And damn him, he had on a deep green linen jacket and white, slightly flared pants and white boots. One of those gorgeous Italian scarves of his was carelessly knotted at the throat of his white lawn shirt. He stepped beside me so that we were both reflected in the mirror,.and his grin was sheer boyish impudence. There wasn’t an inch of difference in our heights.

“We look like goddamned fashion dolls. Who is it-Barbie and her friend Ken?” He gave an amused snort. “C’mon. Let’s get the agony over with.”

No, one didn’t fool Rafe Clery at all. Except Rafe?

As we got into the car, I tried not to think of the cocktail party as an ordeal. I tried to assure myself that if Wendy Madison were so punctilious about conventions, she wouldn’t be openly discourteous to me. But her dictatorial summons didn’t fit in with the mutual-antagonism/hatred/contempt between her and her son.

Rafe drove right by a gate clearly heading into the big-house grounds. In fact, I had already braced myself for the car’s turn, and felt a little foolish as we whizzed by.

“Gate’s locked,” Rafe said.

We drove a short distance to the main road and through our gate, then up the main road, to turn in at the impressive urn-topped gates, up the long white-pebbled drive to the mansion, wheeling into the parking area. Through the opening of the glassed colonnades, I could see the fountain busily spouting up, falling into the ornate marble bowl, and drooling down into the upturned stone faces of leering cherubs.

There were four expensive sports cars already parked in the wide turnaround. Rafe backed the Austin-Healey, nose out, at the far end. For a quick getaway, I asked myself?

The pebbled surface was a little hard on the sandaled feet. To my surprise, Rafe-paused at the heavy wooden door with ornate knobs and nail studs. He twisted the iron ring. A son didn’t walk in? I heard the distant echo of a deep bell, but the door was opened at the same instant by a sandy-haired heavyset man in a white linen coat.

“Evening, Mr. Rafael.”

“Evening, Sam. This is my wife, Nialla Donnelly Clery, Sam’s an old cavalry man, Nialla. Put me on my first pony. Six days to learn equitation and sixty years at bloody well trot.”

Sam’s brown eyes narrowed slightly as he gave me a quick but polite stare. He bowed slightly from the hips, and though he didn’t smile, I had the impression the smile was there behind the very correct alignment of his features.

“We wish you every happiness, Mrs. Clery,” the man said, with the unconscious dignity of a trained servant. “They are on the terrace, Mr. Rafael. Miss Nialla.”

I felt Rafe’s fingers press mine as I was accorded acceptance. I wondered fleetingly what Rafe would have done if Sam had disapproved. Sam had gestured to the right, and Rafe, who surely needed no directions, led me through the Queen Anne living room, all soft purples and blues with Wedgwood lamps and elegant porcelain baskets of ceramic flowers on practically every surface. I wouldn’t have thought this decor suitable to Wendy Madison’s taste.

A burst of laughter came from the windows that opened onto the side terrace. Sheer glass curtains obscured the view. Rafe guided me to the left, through a smaller sitting room (morning-room variety?). French windows, gave access to the terrace, which was furnished with chintz sun lounges, glass and wrought-iron tables and iron chairs, the tables shaded by enormous umbrellas in matching print. Ten elegant sun-bronzed people hovered near the portable bar set at one side of the terrace.

I was rather surprised to see that the bartender was young Dennis Muldoon, but if Wendy Madison commandeered Rafe’s housekeeper and cook, it was logical for her to recruit others as well.

I caught a glimpse of Dennis, concentrating on the proportions of the drink he was mixing. His expression was neutral, unlike his friendly naturalness in the role of groom. We had halted on the threshold while Rafe surveyed

the assembled. He had just put his hand on the small of my back to escort me out, when someone caught sight of us.

“Hail to the groom! Here’s Rafe!” And the curious thronged toward us.

I dislike intensely being the focus of social ogling under any circumstances, and to have all these rather tall people crowding around was bad enough. To have Louis Marchmount staring at me, desperately trying to remember my face, was more than enough. Inconceivable as it was to me, the man who had raped me did not recognize me.

Any relief was tinged with revulsion and the added shame that he had robbed me of something I’d valued and then forgot the theft and the thieved.

I found a highball glass in my hand just as Wendy Madison inserted herself between me and Rafe. She draped her arms around our shoulders, which only emphasized the difference between her height and ours.

“Don’t they make a lovely couple, everyone?” my mother-in-law asked in an arch voice. (She did not look old enough to be a mother-in-law, but she certainly knew how to play the role with blue-ribbon insincerity.) “Let’s hope it takes, this time. They have so much in common.” She smiled broadly at Rafe and then accorded me the unseeing glance of the caged lioness.. She hadn’t accepted me as a person, much less a daughter-in-law.

They were all lifting their glasses, faces wreathed in bright, happy, winning toothpaste smiles, so I suppose I managed to smile. My face ached, as it will when I force an expression. Mercifully, the hypocritical toast was made, and people began to talk to their neighbors. To my dismay, Louis Marchmount pushed through to us.

“Thought your face was familiar t’other day,” he said with false heartiness. “Friends tell me m’memory’s going.” His smile was suddenly uncertain with anxiety. These lapses bothered him, but I was grateful. “Meant no discourtesy, you understand.”

“It worried Lou tremendously,” Wendy Madison said, taking Marchmount’s arm possessively. (As if I had any designs on the man!) “I won’t have Lou bothered.” She glared at me. “He’s not been well, you know. Heart.” A bright social smile returned to her face.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Rafe said with a matching brittleness.

I noticed then that a heavyset, dark-complexioned man was sort of angled by Lou Marchmount. Not angled, though, as much as hovering, listening without seeming to. He saw my look, and by turning a fraction closer, became part of the group, so that Wendy Madison was aware of him.

“Mr. Stephen Urscoll; I don’t believe you’ve had occasion to meet my son, Ralph Clery, and his… bride.” Her introduction was grudgingly made, her manner rude. I wondered if she’d ever give me a Christian name. And I also wondered why Mr. Urscoll rated her displeasure. He was a good-looking man, well dressed, and certainly had better manners than she did. “Mr. Urscoll is… a friend of Lou’s.” The words came out in a rush, as if distasteful to her.

“My congratulations, Mr. Clery. My felicitations, senora,” he said, with the kind of bow from the hips that was second nature to the Californian. Come to think of it,:is inflection was certainly that of one whose first language had been Spanish. “I’ve often backed your father’s yearlings to my benefit, Mrs. Clery,” he added, and then suddenly stepped back, effacing himself.

“Been east long, Lou?” Rafe asked.

The question was casual enough, but the effect on Marchmount was electric. He swallowed, blinked wildly, and looked to Wendy Madison.

“Lou’s been traveling, visiting friends. He had a heart attack on the Coast, and he was advised to get a change of scene, take it easy.” She patted his arm.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He rallied, straightened his shoulders, and his expression looked more alert. “Been looking at likely stock in Lexington. Think I might look in at Goff’s and see what’s promising at Ballsbridge. Haven’t been paying as much attention to my stable as I ought. Lost my trainer, you know. Best one I ever had. Was bringing along some promising colts. Damned inconvenient, losing him.”

“More inconvenient for Nialla, I’d say,” Rafe replied in the stunned silence.

“Lou!” Wendy Madison evinced the first honest response of my short acquaintance with her.

“Hmmm? What?” The man didn’t realize what he’d said.

“Louis has not been feeling himself,” Urscoll said to me, adroitly stepping into the breach. “He meant no disrespect.”

“No, I’m not myself,” Marchmount agreed petulantly. “How could I be? It’s too much for any man. Urscoll, I need one of my pills. I must have one. I really can’t be persecuted and questioned and badgered this way. I’m not well.” He put his hand to his brow, a gesture that failed to be affected, because the hand was trembling so badly.

Instantly Wendy Madison was all concern. She signed to Urscoll to take Marchmount’s other arm, and with a furious glance at us for upsetting her guest, led him toward a chaise lounge on the far side of the terrace.

“Michaels might contest that statement,” Rafe remarked quietly, “but I’d say Marchmount’s being blackmailed.”

I said nothing, watching as Mrs. Madison (I simply couldn’t bring myself to call her my mother-in-law) fussed over Marchmount. He had certainly failed terribly since…

“Don’t,” Rafe said, and when I looked at him question-ingly, his eyes were dark. “And don’t feel sorry for him, Nialla. His memory’s not gone; he’s high.”

“He doesn’t act drunk.”

“Drunk? He’s not drunk, Nialla. He’s on drugs. Didn’t you notice his eyes? The wide pupil? The vague smile and lack of association?”

“I’m for that.”

“Good to see you again, Ralph,” said one of those over-hearty voices that can puncture eardrums. “You always marry the prettiest girls.” Before I could turn, I was whirled around and bussed with thick wet lips, “And the most kissable.”

I wanted to wipe my mouth of the distasteful impression, but the man was looming over us, his presence a combination of an expensive, musky cologne, active male, and alcohol.

“I can always count on you, Paddy,” Rafe said in a dry tone, gathering me back against him, away from the hearty, heavy man.

“Paddy Skerrit’s the name, in case you didn’t get it first time around. Wendy babbles so you can’t catch names. Tied the knot Tuesday in Sunbury, I hear?”

Rafe agreed to that, making no attempt to encourage conversation.

“Going to put her to work for you, huh? I expect”- and he gave me a buffet on the shoulder which hurt-“that Russell Donnelly’s girl knows horses, eh? Never thought you’d stick the bloodstock game, Ralph, but you inherited something from Big Mike after all, I guess. Say, you didn’t dump that Fairchild-Hiller stock did you? No? Good lad. Hold on to it. I know it’s going up again. Sure can’t go down further.” And the man’s florid face lost its bluff geniality as he introduced this sober topic.

Rafe, too, looked grave, and sipped at his drink. “I’d say it hasn’t hit bottom yet.” Then he launched into a discussion of debentures and coupons and percentages that were incomprehensible to me. I hadn’t actually thought of Rafe as a businessman-outside of horses-but Paddy Skerrit soon stopped patronizing remarks and listened to what Rafe was saying, so I assumed he was knowledgeable indeed. Sam came by with a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Skerrit scooped up a fistful and began popping them into his mouth like so many peanuts.

One of those gauntly thin women who looked exceedingly elegant at twenty feet slid up to me. Very brilliant dark eyes scrutinized me from sunken sockets. The skin of her face was so tautly stretched across her face bones it looked painful. There wasn’t an ash-blonde hair out of place in her teased coiffure, and not a line in her face.

“You must really mean it this time, Ralph,” she said, smile-less, although her tone of voice indicated she was being amusing. Her eyes flicked to the coral necklace. “He never broke out the family jewels for the others, my dear,” she said to me, and her hand on my arm was dry and stiff.

“You’re looking well, Iona. Taken any good cures lately?” Rafe said.

She shrugged, and the neck skin wrinkled, completely destroying the illusion of youth in her face.

“I don’t dare relax these days, Ralph. Too many fascinating things happening.” And her eyes slid over me as she turned her head toward the tableau of Madison, Marchmount, and Urscoll. "Think she'll be next in the family, dear?" And there was malicious amusement in her slurred question.

Paddy Skerrit snorted contemptuously at the idea. "Nonsense. The man's got a bum heart."

"I think Wendy rather fancies herself in the role of the doting, ministering angel, don't you, Ralph?" Iona's eyes glittered with a hungry expectation.

"My mother has fancied herself in many roles," Rafe replied casually.

"They say Marchmount's lost heavily since the scandal over his trainer. Ooops, sorry," she said, patting my arm with a familiarity I found very offensive. "Of course, the state of the market doesn't help much, does it? And he had all that money in railroads. I told him, and I know you did, too, Paddy, when we were at Palm Springs, that railroads are out, definitely passй. I've unloaded all I had. Transferred to airlines, though I don't like what Pan Am has been doing since they split."

"What? Eschewing foods, Iona?" Rafe asked. I couldn't believe the pun. Or that they didn't get it.

"I'm sick to death of food products," she said in a voice that was almost a snarl. She tossed off the last of her drink and called out to Sam, holding her glass up significantly.

"Now, Iona, you promised…" A David Niven type hurried up and took the glass from her hand. His eyes had a sort of harried, anxious look, though he smiled around pleasantly.

"What I promise, Terry, and what I decide to do are often miles apart," she said in a hard, shrewish voice.

Terry swallowed nervously, encircling her thin waist and drawing her against him placatingly.

"And this party's dead. Dead. Dead!" She went on, glaring at me. "I don't know what's happened to Wendy since she took up with Lou. She used to give good parties, with lots of fun, and people worth talking to. Now she's hiding away and being so… so parsimonious. I need a drink! Sam!" She broke away from Terry and stalked across the terrace to the bar. Terry followed.

"Gawd! She just got dried out," Paddy remarked in what he used for a stage whisper, but if Iona heard him, she was more interested in obtaining a drink.

More guests arrived at that moment, three men and a black-haired woman who kept her arm hooked through her escort's as if she would actively resist being parted from him. I was so astonished at the costume of the tallest man that I really didn't look much at the others. He was one of those long thin people who appear taller than they actually are. He affected muttonchops, long wavy hair that was clean and probably styled, though that style didn't suit him. He wore a white see-through lace shirt, an ornate medallion, white drill pants, and sandals that, mercifully, showed clean feet and polished nails. But he was completely out of place in this milieu.

"Ralph, darling, so you've done it again," the woman exclaimed, inclining toward me, so that I realized we were to touch cheeks. She wore an exceedingly expensive and heavy perfume. "I'm Nancy McCormack, and this is my husband, Ted." But Ted was not the man to whom she was attached. "Jeff Fermaugh"-she edged closer to him (if possible)-"and the outrageous one is Bobby Wellesley. Bobby, I told you Faith would be here. There she is at the bar."

The men had shaken my hand and said appropriate things to Rafe as she made the introductions. Abruptly Bobby Wellesley's limp hand left mine, and he lurched toward the pretty fair-haired girl talking with Dennis.

"I used to see you at Agnes du Maurier's place when you had red hair," Ted McCormack said, eyeing my cropped head.

"Nialla got singed at Sunbury," Rafe said, and I realized he liked Ted McCormack. "G-Barn finally caught fire, and Nialla went in after her gelding. Damn fool."

"You did too," I said, a little self-conscious under Ted McCormack's admiring eyes.

"Rode out of the barn on the nag's head," Rafe said, grinning.

"Horse safe?"

"Lost some hide, but so did Nialla," Rafe replied, indicating my legs. "Gelding got a cinder lodged in the off-hind, but that's healing nicely."

"Jumper?"

Rafe laughed. "You'd probably recognize him as Juggernaut, Ted."

McCormack reacted with a surprised double-take. "You don't mean this little bit of nothing rides that bastard?"

"Rides him like he was a Sunday-canter-in-the-park hack." And Rafe beamed with pride at me.

"Live up to your red hair, don't you? Sorry about your father, Nialla. He was a damned good trainer." McCormack's eyes flicked from me to Marchmount, reclining on the glider, and his expression was perceptibly disgusted.

"Hasn't it been stifling today?" his wife said brightly, and began to steer her escort toward the bar. I gather she didn't talk horses.

But as I glanced after them, I saw another interesting situation developing at the bar. Faith, the girl Bobby Wellesley had hotfooted to see, had her back to him and was talking animatedly to Dennis Muldoon. Bobby Wellesley shifted from one foot to the other, glaring at them.

"Are they still trying to foist Bobby off on Faith?" Rafe asked Ted.

"Faith's a nice child," McCormack replied. "I’d hate to see her having to cope with Bobby's inadequacies."

"Faith's no one's fool. Good seat. Nice hands."

McCormack laughed and slapped Rafe's shoulder. "Rare praise from you, Clery. Thought for a while there you'd marry the girl and save her from her match-made destiny."

Rafe grinned as he sipped his drink, giving me a sideways look. "She didn't have enough dowry for me."

McCormack let out a bark of laughter and pounded Rafe across the back. I assumed that Faith must be wealthy.

"We'll have to come to her rescue," Rafe said, and I hastily agreed when his look required that of me.

"Shame, though. She'd be the makings of young Bobby. That boy has a good mind, Rafe, even if it is filled up with this liberal nonsense and counterculture, technocracy. Oh, I suppose he has to 'find' himself," Ted McCormack went on, frowning toward the bar. "That's the current phrase, isn't it? And I suppose I'm being square when I refuse to go along with this drug phase the youth of this generation have to explore. But I haven't seen anything intelligent yet from a mind expanded by drugs. I have seen some pretty sick examples of its effects."

We all sort of turned toward Marchmount.

"You can't drop a hint to your mother, can you, Rafe?"

My husband lifted his brows quizzically.

"No, I guess you can't, can you?"

"There's no calories in grass, you know," Rafe said in a low voice.

"Where's she been getting it from? I thought the FBI cracked down on the marihuana."

I felt a need to drink, and took such a hasty swallow I nearly choked.

"Gotta watch that caloric intake, Nialla," Rafe advised in a drawl as he swatted me on the shoulder blades. "Who's that Urscoll fellow? Sounds Spanish, or Mexican."

"No clue. Came with Marchmount, talks about stock sales and some of those offshore oil ventures in the West, but he doesn't quite add up." McCormack was thoughtful. "Still, I'm glad Marchmount has a traveling companion. Man's half-senile. Talks about persecution and ruin and police interrogation and all that crap."

"You don't suppose his vices have caught up with him?" Rafe asked in the most casual of voices, as if he really wasn't interested in an answer. Talk about dissembling?

"How d'you mean?" McCormack was curious.

"If he talks of persecution, ruin, and police interrogation…" Rafe let the question trail off diffidently.

"You mean blackmail?" Ted McCormack was both surprised and mildly contemptuous. "Bull. Everyone knows what he's like."

"Ted…" called his wife from the bar, making his name sound as if it had four syllables.

"Excuse me," and McCormack went off.”

"I don't understand that," I said, bending toward Rafe in case anyone overheard us.

"What? Ted and Nancy? Oh, that's been going on for years. In their own way, they're devoted to each other."

"You know perfectly well what I meant, Rafael Clery." And then caught myself as he laughed. "Why would…"

I stopped, because Rafe's expression had turned into shocked incredulity. He was facing the French doors. I turned and beheld quite a vision-in electric-purple bell bottoms, a floral see-through shirt with flowing sleeves, ruffled at wrist and chest, accented by a white embroidered vest. The young man's face was adorned by as glorious a set of mutton chops and curling hair as any rock singer's. This paragon of East Village sartorial splendor was holding the hand of a girl with medium brown hair rippling down to her buttocks. She wore an almost indecently short purple (and the color clashed with her escort's pants) embroidered Indian shift and Indian toe sandals.

"Halloo, there, Raffles," cried the young man, and dragged his girl over to us. In the midst of hugs and back thumpings (the boy was eight inches taller), good-natured remarks about wedding bells, I gathered that this was Rafe's youngest brother, Presby Branegg. The girl and I exchanged tolerant grins as the fraternal exuberance continued.

"My name's Sara Worrell," she said, holding out her hand rather aggressively. "I guess you're the bride, so I ought to congratulate you."

"Naw, naw," Pres said, draping one arm around Rafe, the other around Sara, "you felicitate the bride, you congratulate the groom. Now, congratulate the brother. Rafael Clery, this is Sara Worrell. We met in economics class, and I can't figure out how she could spend four years at Yale without my seeing her;"

Rafe kissed the girl's lips lightly, because Pres was holding the two together. "Maybe she studied at Yale," he said as he broke away.

"You know, you're every bit as nice as Pres said you'd be," she said, and then blushed.

"Good things come in small packages," Rafe replied, and she blushed deeper, self-consciously trying to lessen her own inches.

" 'Bout time you found that out," his brother said crisply, "instead of going for the large economy size."

"They were anything but economical, brat," Rafe replied.

"Presby!" Wendy Madison's voice held a stern come-hither note, and the boy's attitude changed from good-natured chattering to anxious anticipation.

"What's her frame of mind?"

"Worried about Lou. Play it up," Rafe said, and jerked his head toward their mother, indicating the pair had better not dally.

"He's in for it," Rafe said after a moment. "God, did he have to dress like that and bring a girl along. Our mutual parent intensely dislikes sharing her men with any other female. And it takes more than a sweet featherweight like that to prevail against her. Poor kid."

"Doesn't the maternal edict apply to me? I'd the temerity to marry you."

Rafe regarded me in what I could only describe as an inscrutable fashion.

"Dear heart, I married you."

Before I could find an adequate comeback, a tall young man in a pale blue silk suit of impeccable cut came striding across the terrace from another side door. He was very Italianate, from his straight thick black hair, swarthy skin, and very dark eyes, to the subtle virility he exuded and the sensuality of his full, smiling lips.

"You can always count on John-boy to present the proper family image," Rafe murmured. "Nialla, my brother, John Milanesi."

Although this brother was far more sophisticated than Pres, complete with Continental bow and a kiss floating three inches above my hand, I found I preferred the mod one. The calculation in John Milanesi's eyes was almost offensive.

"I am charmed," he said, without releasing my hand, his fingers curling into my palm and caressing the skin, until I slid my hand free. "A lovely surprise… for me, at least." The sensuous lips curled up, as he intended me to realize that the marriage had not been well received.

"How's factory life, Giovanni?" Rafe asked with more reserve in his manner. Or maybe I was imagining it. John shrugged, too bored to enlarge further. "You'll lose your shirts on the midis if you insist on pushing them," Rafe said, and received his brother's full attention.

There was another diffident shrug. "It would amuse me to find the haughty fashionable deposed from their giddy heights. The maxi, at least, disguises feet of clay. And speaking of clay feet," he added, glancing toward his mother, "I see Pres made good his threat. Must you continually put that child in a position where he has to follow your example?"

Rafe frowned, glancing back from Pres's flamboyant figure to John. "He can't mean to marry that girl?"

John rolled his eyes expressively. "You'd already been divorced once by the time you were twenty-one." "Christ! I'll have a talk with him." "Don't bother. Wendy's ringing a peal over him right now that ought to suffice."

We couldn't hear what was being said, but there was no doubt that the conversation was unpleasant for Pres. He seemed to be contracting, and so did poor Sara. Suddenly Louis Marchmount raised a feeble hand, and Wendy turned back to him, allowing Pres and Sara to escape to the bar.

I felt John Milanesi's hand on my arm, his fingers stroking the skin.

"He hasn't accepted the AGM offer?" Rafe asked.

"Obviously not," John replied, indicating Pres's costume. "I must say, you could watch your timing, Rafael. She's not going to make life easy for anyone." His hand tightened on my arm, but I couldn't figure out any way of breaking that hold without appearing rude. "Not to offend you, my dear sister-in-law, for Rafael's no longer easily seduced; it's simply that our dear mother cannot abide marriages that aren't hers."

"D'you think she's got bells in mind for Marchmount?" "Hardly!" John was openly contemptuous. "Although I'd've thought she'd've sent him packing long since."

"If Mrs. Madison is so possessive, why this farce of a reception?" I wanted to know, and got my arm free of John Milanesi's clutch to gesture at the terrace.

The two brothers locked glances, shrugged, and laughed. "Our fair mother's private judgments never affect her notions of social duty," John Milanesi replied, his cynical gaze falling on his mother. I was scarcely in any position to cast stones, but his look was unhealthy. "You know, Marchmount's debility has a morbid fascination for our mother. I'd better make my duty and see what I can overhear."

"You need a fresh drink, Nialla," Rafe said, and guided me toward the bar. "I meant what I said yesterday, dear heart. The Dower House is separate from this establishment, by my choice and order."

"Then why…"

My rebellion waned at the warning pressure on my elbow.

"Why, because! I'm not ashamed of you as my wife, Nialla, and in the course of dealing with the woman who bores me, I've discovered that it is a far, far better thing to obey her few social demands. That's all this is-Mother's reluctant bow to convention. It's to our advantage, actually."

"Ralph dear!" The clear voice caught us just two feet from the bar. "Ralph, would you and the bride step over here a moment?"

"See?" Rafe pointed to the man following Sam onto the terrace. "The court photographer will proceed to record the event; there'll be a nice spread in the paper, describing the reception Mrs. Wendy Madison gave for her son, Rafael Clery, on the event of his marriage to Miss Nialla Donnelly, and the Goddess, Convention, will be appeased. Let's go smile for the birdie."

"So good of you to come, Mr. Arnold," Wendy Madison was saying to the photographer, who accepted her greeting with a nod and a mumble, and became very busy with his light meter.

Wendy Madison pulled John in on one side of her, glared Pres away, gestured Rafe to her other side, leaving Rafe to collect me groomily. She arranged the proper expression on her face and then smiled significantly at the photographer. He took several shots.

"I want one of the bride and groom together," he said.

This was no more to my liking than to Wendy Madison's. I turned to Rafe to protest, when I heard the click-shosh of the camera and the frame being advanced.

"How about a smile this time, Mrs. Clery? This isn't a funeral." He meant to be funny, I know.

Rafe pressed my hand encouragingly and angled me toward the camera. His mother urged me in a sharp brittle voice to smile, and I know she wished it was my funeral.

"Rafe," I whispered, as Wendy Madison, bubbling with social graces, bustled the photographer off for a drink, "does the photo have to go into the papers?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, dear heart. In fact, now is absolutely the best time for it to appear."

I wasn't quite sure why he should feel so, but as he signaled Sam to bring his tray of drinks over, I didn't have the chance to ask. And then Faith came up to us, obviously trying to shake Bobby Wellesley, who trailed after her. She wasn't much taller than Rafe, and kissed him with a resounding smack that made Bobby Wellesley wince.

"There!" She grinned mischievously at me. "I've been wanting an excuse to do that for years, so thanks for providing me with the opportunity. Rafe's one of my favorite people, and I really do sincerely wish you both the very best." She held out her hand to me with a forthrightness (and a firm grip) that was refreshingly candid. "Did you really tame Juggernaut? And was he the horse you rescued from the Sunbury barn fire? Is he all right?"

"That's right, Faith, show more interest in some goddamn horse than you do in a human. Talk horses with Rafe and his new wife," Bobby Wellesley said in a wild voice, pulling her roughly around to face him. "Flirt with the bar boy, do anything but talk with me. You're the only reason I came to this…"

"Cool it, Bob," Rafe said, and before either Faith or I could react, he had taken the agitated young man to one side of the terrace. What was said was inaudible, but there was a visible change in the boy's posture, from arrant aggression to chagrin.

"I'm sorry he's acting this way, Mrs. Clery. I like Bobby, but I don't like the company he keeps or his form of amusement," Faith said quietly. "I also don't like being forced into his company every place I go. It's… it's positively medieval." She glanced over her shoulder toward the Iona woman and her David-Nivenesque companion. "Mother's not a bit of help."

I was amazed. "She's your mother?"

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Faith suddenly sounded very old, very cynical, and very sad. "I'm Faith Farnham, you see."

I didn't, though.

"You mean," Faith went on, with a laugh of surprise, 'you haven't grown up on Farnham's Farina, good for chick or child?"

I shook my head.

"Your poor disadvantaged darling," she said with mock concern. "You're a relief. And Rafe's such a doll. Oh, don't mistake me. I've cherished an infatuation for that man for years, but I don't fancy him as a husband. Not," she added hurriedly, "that I don't think he'd be a good one for the right sort of girl. Oh, I'm really putting my foot in it today, aren't I? Let's erase that scene. Okay? I must say, you are a relief. And Rafe's a doll…" Her eyes were so full of droll humor that I couldn't help but laugh with her. "He's coming down is his problem. Bobby, I mean. And I simply cannot cope with him in that condition."

"You mean, he's using drugs?"

Faith started to say something, probably caustic, from the set of her mouth, but instead she just looked at me, sort of wistfully.

"Yes, he's been using drugs… to expand his consciousness, because he finds himself unable to relate to present-day values and artificial standards!" She was obviously:quoting something Bobby Wellesley had prated at her. He's not the only one here, either. Look at Lou Marchmount."

"I thought Mrs. Madison said he had a bad heart."

"Yeah." And Faith's eyes were very cynical now. "From drug abuse. He's had a couple of real bummers since he's been here. I wonder how he smuggled it past his bodyguard."

"His bodyguard?"

"Steve Urscoll, of course," Faith replied, as if the man were wearing a label or something. "She must really be gone on Lou if she'd introduce a bodyguard as a house guest."

"What's this, what's this?" Rafe asked, joining us so suddenly that I almost squeaked in surprise.

"Faith says that Mr. Urscoll is a bodyguard."

"Please, Rafe, I let that slip. It can't be broadcast. Mother told me when she thought I was getting too friendly. I prefer him to Bobby. He's got his feet planted on terra firma, not some psychedelic cloud."

"Now, why would Louis Marchmount need a bodyguard, Faith?" Rafe's question was the most casual! She gave a little laugh.

"Frankly, Rafe, I think he's just had too many bad trips and is getting flashes. Every time a phone rings, he flips his lid. But if a bodyguard makes him feel safe, why not? The man does come from a good family, after all, and I must say that I like a person who can take reverses like a gentleman, who faces reality." "Bobby's really bugging you, Faith?" She nodded rather grimly. "I'm supposed to be the making or breaking of him. And I'm sorry, Rafe, I simply don't look at the problem, or the solution, from that angle."

"Using moral blackmail on you, huh?" Rafe asked, and gave me a look that made me want to kill him-for just a split second, mind you. "You ignore that kind of shit, Faith. You're on the right track. How're your classes progressing?… Faith teaches equitation to handicapped children."

"I'm qualified for that," she said, still a bit grim. "What did you say to Bobby?"

"Enough. I sent him for some coffee and suggested that he was making an ass of himself. One more explosion would upset Lou."

"Oh, Rafe, how could you?"

"Why not? Wendy can put the fear of God in him when neither you nor I can! She scares him shitless."

"Who scares who?" asked John Milanesi, insinuating himself into our group. I wished he wouldn't lean over me so. "Have you seen the palatial grounds of the Herrington estate, my dear sister-in-law?"

And he took my arm and began to lead me off, nodding pleasantly to Rafe and Faith. If I had not seen my mother-in-law bearing down on us with a stormy expression on her face, I'd not have let myself be "rescued." But I did. "You certainly are a surprise, sister dear," my new relative said, tucking my hand under his arm in a way that made me wonder if I was being taken from the pan only to deal with the fire.

"In what way? You ought to have had enough practice meeting sisters-in-law."

He laughed, and it was a sort of caressing type of laugh that disturbed me.

“You're different." He glanced down at me, his eyelids obscuring his expression. "Nialla. That's a pretty name." He halted now that we were at the top of the sloping lawn, and gestured about, as if he were monarch of all he surveyed. "Lovely setting, isn't it?" I duly appreciated the view. "No comparable aspect from the Dower House, is there?"

Again he gave me that unsettling sideways glance.

"No, there isn't, but I prefer the Dower House. The ambience is suitable to my plebeian tastes."

I’d’ve said you had… more ambition than that."

"I'm a horse trainer's daughter. Horses are my life, and my ambition is to deal with… horses… as much as possible. This"-I could make regal gestures, too-"is not my scene."

"My, my. Do we protest too much?"

"No, I just want to get something straight, Mr. Milanesi. When Rafe married me, I thought he was just another horse trainer."

"And here I was given to understand that this was a romance of long standing."

Rafe and his little white lies! I glared at John Milanesi now.

"What is it you want to know, Mr. Milanesi?" I asked, trying to keep my temper.

He eyed me coolly, a half-smile on his lips. "How much you'll cost us."

"How much I'll… Why, you, you…"

"Son of a bitch?" He suggested.

I couldn't leave him fast enough, but I forced myself to walk, each step jolting through me and the pebbles of the path throwing me off balance. I told myself he was not laughing, he was not laughing, but his laughter followed me all the way back to the terrace.

Rafe was nowhere in sight. Nor, fortunately, was that bitch, his mother. John had to be acting on his mother's instructions. Or could he be so two-faced that he'd adopt one attitude in front of his half-brother and propose to buy me off when be got me alone? Either way was despicable. Despicable! Lou Marchmount was reclining in his lounge, a limp rag of a man. Paddy Skerrit was talking at a sullen Iona-who did not have a drink-and the D-N type. Pres and Sara were absent, and Bobby Wellesley, while the others were clustered about the bar. Just then a clutch of new arrivals swirled out onto the terrace, Rafe and his mother in their midst.

One thing certain, she hadn't expected to find me back on the terrace so soon. Another thing, I wanted to go home. Now! Protocol had been satisfied, and I wanted out. If Rafe wouldn't take me, I'd walk!

Without seeming to hurry, Rafe reached me before the vanguard of the new guests. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were blazing with anger.

"John try to buy you off?" he asked in an undertone, though the question must have been unnecessary if my face mirrored any portion of the rage inside me. "Don't blow your cool now, Nialla. I beg you!"

In the instant before we had to turn to be introduced, I got several messages. I must be, I could be, bigger than all the insults being dealt me. Rafe wanted me to be bigger. He had chosen me, despite two bad marital experiences. He was proud of me, and I could make him prouder. This whole evening, with its vicious undertones and inhospitalities, was insignificant in the fabric of our lives together. As if I were faced with a bad approach to a very difficult jump, I took a deep breath and looked up, straight ahead.

Maybe my frame of mind made the difference, plus the fact that most of the new arrivals stayed for only a drink or two, and their conversation was confined to felicitating me, congratulating Rafe, some jokes or chitchat all on a polite and jocular level. Pres's costume made a conversation piece. (I wasn't sure who looked more unhappy, Pres or Sara, but they stayed at the bar, finding sympathy in Dennis' kindred company.) Bobby Wellesley had sunk, almost out of sight, into the lounge at the edge of the terrace, and seemed almost as much of an exile as Louis Marchmount. Wendy kept everyone away from him; Lou, that is.

One older couple, the Eldicotts, were particularly outgoing. I was very sorry when they excused themselves. Of course, they were horse breeders, and I felt much happier on that subject than the ups and downs of the stock market that otherwise dominated small talk. Small talk? The figures mentioned took my breath away.

Full dark came, the terrace lights glowed before Rafe asked Sam about dinner. The party was now down to the original complement.

"A buffet is set up in the courtyard, Mr. Rafe. It's ready whenever Madam is."

"Madam is, whether she knows it or not," Rafe told him, and Sam, inclining his head with dignity, went off into the house. "Otherwise"-Rafe grinned at me-"I'll never hear the last of it from Garry."

"I'm so hungry I could even eat peanut butter."

"We can leave right after dinner, dear heart, if I can catch Urscoll by himself for a few moments."

"Urscoll?"

"Yes." And Rafe's eyes narrowed. "If he is a bodyguard, maybe he'll tell me from what is he guarding Lou Marchmount."

"He simply doesn't look or act like a bodyguard."

"You've seen too much TV, love."

"Oh, you know it all."

Rafe raised his eyebrows in polite consternation. "Hardly, but I appreciate your attitude."

Madam, my reluctant mother-in-law, was also reluctant to interrupt her drinking for dinner, but Ted Mc-McCormack greeted the announcement with such gusto that she relented, all gracious smiles, and brightly announced that everyone should follow her to the buffet.

I think, under other auspices, I'd've enjoyed that dinner. Certainly the setting was lovely, with the fountain playing under colored lights, the tables set around it; the cold soup, the delicious curry, the salads, the meringue dessert. There was champagne, too, with which our health was drunk. (I wonder she didn't choke on the bubbles, it pained her so to propose our happiness.)

We didn't get a chance to talk to Urscoll at dinner; we were seated at smaller tables, and the Madam-Marchmount-Urscoll trio did not encourage the arrival of a fourth at their table.

After dinner, however, when Madam suggested we all take coffee and liqueurs on the terrace and watch the youngsters dance, Rafe homed in on Urscoll like a magnet. Dinner had evidently revived Marchmount, because he was quite smiling and talkative.

"You and Lou are planning to make the bloodstock sales at Ballsbridge this fall?" Rafe asked as we all watched Lou and Madam trying to rock and roll.

Urscoll hesitated before answering. "That's the plan, but, ah… Louis isn't at all well."

"Oh, the quiet pace in Dublin might be therapeutic," Rafe said. "Give Lou a chance to really get away from it all."

Urscoll instantly tensed, then smiled. "Yes, he needs a complete change of scene."

"And not just for his health."

"What do you mean?"

We had moved somewhat into the shadows, away from the dancing area. Bobby Wellesley was dancing with Sara, while Pres partnered Faith, She knew how to dance, too.

"Would the name 'Galvano' mean anything to you?" Rafe asked casually. I thought the man would drop his glass.

"Should it?" he asked with a commendable recovery.

"Come off it, Urscoll. I'm family," Rafe replied. "Lou Marchmount has been many things, but not a paranoid. And don't give me that nonsense about a bad heart. That man is running scared. From what?"

Urscoll wet his lips, glanced at Marchmount and Wendy Madison giving a bad example of the frug, and then began to talk.

"I am not, Mr. Clery, a sportsman." And Urscoll smiled wryly. "I'm a private investigator for a West Coast firm. I was chosen because of… family connections and my background… to act as companion to Mr. Marchmount. He is being threatened by an extortionist. He has already paid substantial sums."

"Paid? Why in hell did you permit it?"

Urscoll looked unhappy too. "I realize that seems odd, Mr. Clery, but I assure you my firm has urgently recommended on several occasions that this be taken to the proper authorities. Mr. Marchmount is adamant that the police may not be involved. Frankly, Mr. Clery, he is such a sick man that anything might result in a fatal heart attack. I wish he wouldn't dance so violently, but my wishes are seldom consulted." Urscoll looked more ill at ease than ever. "My instructions are to avoid any contact with the extortionist."

"It is Caps Galvano, isn't it?"

Urscoll gave Rafe a long look. "I… think so."

"You think so?"

"When my firm checked the police records about Galvano-very discreetly-he was listed as dead. Naturally, we told Mr. Marchmount. He insisted that the man was very much alive. As Mr. Marchmount had just suffered his first heart attack, we discounted his insistence. Then Mr. Marchmount experienced a series of odd mishaps, and I was assigned to… to protect him from any more. On three separate occasions I have intercepted phone calls from a person whom Mr. Marchmount insists must be this Galvano. In spite of my precautions, Mr. March-mount has paid the demands. And he absolutely refuses to let me consult with the police. I am in the difficult position of seeing-to be blunt-fear kill my client and being unable to prevent his death." Urscoll sighed. "Believe me, we usually do not operate in such a… an inefficient and ineffective way. But"-Urscoll gestured his hopelessness-"he is living on borrowed time right now, and if I can just keep that… that blackmailing Galvano away from Marchmount, I will be at least guarding the body."

"So you've been traveling?"

"Yes, by slow stages and with no advance plans and leaving no forwarding address. My suggestion. It would be harder for the extortionist to track us. Until just recently that worked. The man caught up with us two weeks ago."

"You've had another extortion demand?"

Urscoll grimaced. "For twenty thousand dollars."

"From Galvano?"

"I assume so. It was the one time I wasn't with Mr. Marchmount"-and Urscoll's regret seemed sincere-"and he took the phone call. You can see what it did to him. If it weren't for Mrs. Madison, I think the man might have died."

"Does Madam know he's being blackmailed?"

"No!" The denial was explosive, and Urscoll glanced quickly around to see if anyone had noticed his exclamation. "She thinks he's being pestered by an ex-wife for alimony. I wanted to confide in her, in anyone, because frankly, Mr. Clery, I'm exceedingly worried about him." "Good thing you didn't tell Mother," Rafe said. "But she seems to know that you're an employee."

"Oh, yes." And if I thought I'd suffered at Wendy Madison's hands, I ought to compare notes with Stephen Urscoll. "I realize what an imposition it is, but…" He shrugged. "I must protect my client."

"More from himself, I'd say, than the blackmailer." "If he'd only let me approach the police," Urscoll said gloomily.

"Don't worry, Urscoll. The decision has been taken out of your hands."

"How so?"

Louis Marchmount's whinny of a laugh cut across the music, and we all looked over as he began the most insane contortions, totally unrelated to any dance step ever conceived.

"Lou, stop that! Remember your heart! Lou! Oh, Christ!" Wendy Madison was trying to pin his arms down, but he flailed wildly around. Urscoll ran to her aid, and just as he got to Louis, the man gave a wild scream and collapsed.

"He must have got something. He must have. My God, what did he take now?" Wendy Madison screamed. "Turn off that goddamned racket."

Someone did, as Urscoll, Rafe, and John Milanesi carried a white-faced Louis Marchmount and laid him carefully on the long couch in the living room. He was breathing stertorously, his complexion turning a green-gray.

"His heart. His heart," Wendy was moaning, clutching his hand and stroking his forehead.

"Sam's calling the doctor. Urscoll, go get a blanket." Rafe had taken command.

"That won't do any good." His mother was weeping. "He's taken something. How could he have got any drugs? I threw everything I had out. He knows it's bad for his heart. He knows…" Her glance fell on Bobby

Wellesley, who had been, I realized now, exhibiting the same unnatural exuberance. "What did you give him, you little turd?"

"Give him? Give him?" Bobby's voice rose to a shriek. "I didn't give him anything. He took it. He came into the bathroom and took it. I only had two tabs left. Just two, and no chance of getting more before Monday. He took it. Serves him right."

"Took what?" Rafe asked in a mild voice.

Bobby's expression turned cunning and suspicious. "No. I won't tell you. Think you can treat me like scum all evening. Turn Faith against me. Then you want me to help you. Well, man, flake off. I won't…"

Rafe moved toward Bobby, his hands clenched into fists.

"You little creep, you can't scare me," Bobby said, drawing himself up to his full inches. But suddenly Paddy Skerrit and Ted McCormack closed in on him from behind.

"You're all against me. Coming at me. Don't! Don't!" He had turned in a frenzied, caged-creature way that was horrifying.

"Don't, you fools!" The words were low but urgent. It was Sara who had spoken. She used the stunned silence to run closer to Bobby, her voice soothing and soft. "Bobby, Bobby, they won't crowd you any more. You need your freedom, don't you?" She cajoled him, and he watched her, almost as if she were hypnotizing him with her slow, easy advance. "You need space, don't you, man; space and air and sympathy, or everything will fall in, right?"

Rafe waved Paddy and Ted back, his eyes on Sara. She reached up and took Bobby's hand, stroking his arm, patting his face, murmuring reassurance all the time.

"If he doesn't tell us…" Wendy Madison began to wail.

"If you don't shut up and let Sara handle him…" Rafe left his threat hanging, but his harsh tone cowed his mother into silence.

"I can't think of anything meaner, Bobby, than losing your last tab like that. It's one thing to offer it to a friend, but no one should take it from you," she said as she pulled Bobby over to a chair and got him seated, all the time soothing his forehead and patting him. "Now, I'm right here with you, and nothing and nobody is going to bother you. You can have a safe trip. When'd you start, so I'll know when you'll be coming down? There's nothing to worry about, because I'll be right here all the time. When'd you start?"

"Just after dinner."

"Oh, then you're really just starting. Well, Sara's here, and it'll be a good trip. What're you on?"

"Berkeley Brown."

"Jesus," said Rafe in an undertone. "That's a composite. Why didn't Lou just take cyanide and forget it?"

"He took my last tab. He'd no right to do that. Not even asking, the old fart." Bobby threw off Sara's hand and staggered to his feet. Sara waved Skerrit away when he moved to cut Bobby off from the door.

"C'mon, Pres, you can help me with him. He'll trust us," she said, sweeping the room with a scathing glance. "We know what he's up against."

"The nerve of her!" Iona Farnham exclaimed.

"You'd better be grateful for her nerve, Mother," Faith replied in a voice of quiet condemnation. "Otherwise we'd never have found out what Bobby gave him. I'm terribly sorry for my part in this, Wendy. I knew he'd taken something, because he was more impossible than ever. But I never dreamed that Mr. Marchmount had any of it."

"I don't understand you at all, Faith," Iona said, her smooth face too composed in contrast to the outrage in her eyes, in her voice, in every line of her body. "Condoning the use of drugs."

"I don't, but is that any worse than what you're using, Mother?" Faith demanded, pointing to the brandy snifter in her mother's hand. "Liquor or drugs, they're both poison."

"What is this Berkeley Brown that Lou has taken? You know how bad his heart is!" Wendy Madison interrupted curtly. "Oh, how long does it take for Bauman to get here?"

However long it took was far too long for those of us forced to sit around. The McCormacks and the Farnham party left, with Faith repeating her anxious apology for the occurrence. She wasn't to blame, which was what Rafe told her, though Wendy's eyes followed her departure in a baleful gaze. Maybe, I thought, Wendy Madison would now leave Faith and Bobby Wellesley alone.

Dr. Bauman was furious when he saw Marchmount's condition. He went livid, however, when Rafe told him what had happened. And which drug was involved.

"A compound? Of what? Some damn fool chem major whomping up some damn fool ingredients? How in hell can I treat an overdose until I know what I'm counteracting?"

Rafe sent John in search of Sara and Bobby. She came back by herself and with a kind of suppressed satisfaction (I wouldn't have suppressed it) told the doctor what he needed to know.

"Bobby said he took it just shortly after we finished dinner."

"And when was that?" Bauman seemed to know the habits of the house. "Well, then we might be able to get enough of it out of his stomach to save his damn fool life." Bauman glared at everyone in the room, but he patted Sara on the back. "You know too much. Hope you don't mess with the stuff, young lady," he added sternly.

"Anyone can mess with drugs, doctor; it's when you let them mess you that you're in trouble."

She turned on her sandaled heel and marched out of the living room with such dignity I almost seconded Rafe's low "Bravo!"

The doctor wasted no further time, but ordered an ambulance, called the hospital, and gave them swift instructions.

"Oh, no, not the hospital." Wendy Madison roused herself enough to protest.

"Yes, the hospital," the doctor snapped. "I warned you after his last excess that his constitution could stand no further abuses. Part of his physical condition is psychosomatic."

"But we just had a few friends in," Wendy said.

"A few friends?" Bauman rolled his eyes up in his head and threw up his hands.

"You could hardly expect me not to give a reception for my son's bride."

•Bauman caught sight of us and merely closed his eyes.

"She ought to be resting, too. Ah, I give up on the lot of you!" He flung out his hands impatiently and then turned back to Louis Marchmount, moving his stethoscope across the thin tanned chest. I looked away.

The ambulance arrived, siren going and lights flashing; its appearance set Wendy Madison to wailing again. I think John might have soothed her, but as luck would have it, Bobby Wellesley came roaring back through the living room, mouthing obscenities. Sara and Pres were right behind him, both showing signs of having struggled to keep him under control.

The sight of the raving young man being restrained by two husky volunteer ambulance men until Bauman could administer a sedative sent Wendy Madison into hysterics. She was also sedated and taken upstairs by Rafe and John.

Urscoll had mumbled something about staying with Louis Marchmount, so when the ambulance roared off, followed by Dr. Bauman's Lincoln (he drove more erratically than the ambulance), I was left with the notion that a barn fire was really a minor evil.

In a sort of stunned bemusement I looked around the huge empty living room, its beauty vapid and dangerous. The whole house was quiet suddenly, though I'd heard Mrs. Madison's imprecations-mainly aimed at me-clearly enough until cut off by a door.

Outside, tree frogs and night creatures chorused with the occasional muted noise of a fast car on the main road as counterpoint. I was very, very tired.

The soft thud of footsteps on the stair carpeting roused me, and glad of any company, I hurried to the hall. Rafe was swinging down the steps.

"Sorry, Nialla. Let's split this scene." He glanced over his shoulder as if he hoped nothing would interfere with our leaving. He hauled open the heavy door, and we went out into the clean cool night.

The moment the electric eye began to open the big gate, the dogs came charging out of the underbrush. Rafe called to them, and their forbidding advance turned into a lolloping welcome. Their eyes winked red and Vaseline yellow in the headlights as we passed. When the gate had clanged shut, I saw them sniffling in the driveway, tails wagging. Then they were off again, into the shadows, at a businesslike trot.

Night lights in the stable yard illuminated a tall figure in the arch as we drove by.

"That you, boss?" I heard Jerry's voice.

"Night, Jerry."

I saw him stand there until we swung past the bushes. The porch lights and a small one in the living room showed us the path in.

"Hungry?" Rafe asked in a conversational tone.

I shook my head violently. The thought of food was nauseating.

"Nightcap?"

I just shook my head and made for the stairs.

"I'll be right up, honey," he said, and gave me a proprietary slap on the rear as he turned back to fasten the door.

I had an overwhelming urge to be alone. Completely alone. I ran up the stairs and closed the bedroom door behind me. I wanted to take a shower and get clean. I closed the bathroom door behind me, too. The room was all steam when I finally felt clean. I wrapped the thick wide bath towel around me. Abruptly the atmosphere was no longer steamy; it was suffocating. I ran out into the cool quiet dark of the bedroom.

I knew Rafe wasn't there before my eyes got used to the night, and I wavered between relief and disappointment. The ghastly evening assailed me in flashback as I lay in bed, tired and not as relaxed by the shower as I'd hoped. My blood seemed to pound through my veins, and certainly memories pounded through my brain. The only really nice people had been Faith, the Eldicotts, and Sam. Ted McCormack, possibly.

Had that sort of thing been going on in Agnes du Maurier's huge house when I was growing up, and I was just too naive to know it? I shook my head. No. That lady had been brusque and candid, but not vicious. She'd loyally stuck by her adulterous husband (and he'd never abused an employee's daughter) until his death, and it hadn't made her like Iona Farnham or as possessive as Wendy Madison. I mopped the perspiration from my face as my body temperature gradually lowered in the cooling night air.

What made people like Louis Marchmount and Bobby Wellesley take drugs?

Where was Rafe?

I had a most persistent vision of Louis Marchmount lying on the couch, with Bobby Wellesley's twitching length superimposed on his bony chest.

Where was Rafe?

"I can protect you, Nialla. I want the right to protect you…" Rafe had told me. Was it really only four days ago?

He did well enough with police and doctors and insurance men, but in the bosom of his own family, he was a bust. (Oh, Gawd!) But the awful pun brought my humor into operation again. I needed every ounce of it I owned, with that kind of mother-in-law playing charades and sending a kid brother (not even a full brother, at that) to buy me off.

I burrowed under the sheet, for the warmth of the shower had dissipated enough to make the night air a bit chilly. I'd half-thought that Rafe might be showering, but it seemed to me he was taking a long time coming to bed. I listened until the night insects sounded louder than the distant passage of long-haul trucks on the highway half a mile beyond the farm. I could hear nothing of manmade noises. The house emanated such a deserted silence, my breathing was positively stertorous.

Where was he?

I slid from the bed to the window and realized that both the porch and living-room lights were off. The nearest glow welled up through the evergreens around the stable. I concentrated, discounting insect buzzes and frog chirpings, listening for any odd sound.

Where had Rafe got to? Had he learned something he didn't mention to me? Had he gone back to the big house? Perhaps that was it. Although Rafe in the role of loving son was about as ridiculous as his mother cast as Florence Nightingale-unless you made it "Martingale," and that was what she wanted to put on Louis Marchmount.

The droll notion did not restore my sense of proportion, for there was nothing really amusing about Wendy Madison. Well, at least Pres Branegg was trying to slice the silver cord, but John Milanesi's fixation was damned unhealthy.

Where was Rafe?

I rose again, uneasy and-yes-afraid to sleep without his protective presence. I might not be able to cope with someone like Wendy Madison in person, but once she was out of sight, I didn't have to worry about her. It was the things I couldn't see, the enemies I knew I had that really frightened me.

I paced through the upper floor of the house, peering out of each window and listening intently, trying to catch the crunch of someone on the gravel. Clever of Rafe to surround the house with gravelly paths that couldn't be jumped easily or crossed silently.

Not a noise, not a leaf stirred without the light breeze to account for its movement.

Maybe Rafe was disappointed in me?

Then… I heard something. The slightest bit of scraping noise. On the stairs.

My throat went dry-just like they say it does-and although I couldn't seem to breathe, my pulses were pounding so hard they ought to be audible.

I could see the interruption of normal shadows on the staircase, a darker patch that advanced, not toward our bedroom but toward the back of the house, toward me, where I was standing in the west bedroom.

"Rafe!"

I raced to him, almost crying with relief and joy. I flung myself at him so hard that the breath went out of his lungs in a whoosh. Then his arms encircled, hard, comforting, and he swung me, chuckling into my ear.

"Glad to see me, huh?"

"Oh, Rafe, where have you been?"

"Sentry-go-round."

I leaned back, trying to see his face in the dark. The shadows made him seem totally different, a stern stranger, until he turned his head slightly, and I could see the gleam of his teeth and eyes.

"You were worried?"

•"Not particularly," he said, which meant he had been. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

It was the casual comment, delivered in a sort of impersonal tone, that told me how much the disastrous evening had upset Rafe. If I had dreaded the affair, he had loathed it. Yet even Rafe couldn't have foreseen the ghastly capper to the party.

Well, he'd done his filial duty, introduced his bride, and neither she nor he could be compelled to make another appearance there!

"Asleep? You gotta be kidding, man," I said. I felt him tense slightly, saw his smile fade, and realized he misunderstood me. I tightened my arms around his neck, pressing my body against the tight muscles of his torso with what I thought was a sensuous motion. I angled my head so our noses wouldn't collide, and kissed him till our teeth grated together.

"Dear heart." He laughed as he gathered me up in his arms and made for our bedroom. "Dear heart," he repeated as he laid me very gently down on the bed. "Don't rush the fence. Sexy is soft." And his lips covered mine very lightly, his tongue caressing the edge of my mouth in a feather touch. "Very soft, until you ache for more."

And he demonstrated.