Detective

EPILOGUE

At length the day arrived for the reception at Hartley Allardyce's home. More than a hundred guests were expected.

"A little overwhelming, I'm afraid," Allardyce explained to Malcolm and Karen soon after they reached his large and rambling Tudor-style mansion in Gables Estates in Coral Gables. "I started with sixty invitations, then word got around, and so many people wanted to meet you that I had to increase the numbers."

Even as they spoke, early arrivals were coming into an elegant, spacious room with soaring ceilings, opening onto a garden terrace. Outside, off-duty campus police had been recruited to organize parking. Inside, waiters began to circulate with gourmet hors d'oeuvres and Dom Perignon champagne.

"Hartley always does things rather well, don't you think?" Ainslie overheard a tall blond woman say, and he agreed. He and Karen were kept busy with introductions as guests were brought their way by Dr. Allardyce. With bewildering speed they met Southern Florida University's president and several trustees, vice presidents, deans, and senior faculty members. Among those introduced was Dr. Glen Milbury, a university criminology professor. "When my students heard I'd be meeting you," he said, "they begged me to ask will you take a breather from religions once in a while and come talk to us? I can guarantee a crowded lecture hall." Ainslie promised he would do his best.

Politicians were present; two city commissioners had been introduced, and the mayor was expected. A U.S. congresswoman was in conversation nearby, and the chief of police, in plain clothes, had just arrived when Ainslie felt a touch on his arm and saw Hartley Allardyce once more beside him.

"There's someone special who wants to meet you," he said, and escorted Ainslie to the far side of the room. "It's the donor of our new building and, of course, your comparative religions endowment, who has decided to shed anonymity after all."

They eased through several groups and, near a mullioned window, an attractive, immaculately groomed woman faced them. "Mrs. Davanal, may I introduce Dr. Malcolm Ainslie?"

"Actually, Hartley," Felicia said, smiling, "we've al ready met. You could even say we're old friends."

At the sight of Felicia so unexpected Ainslie found himself startled and breathless. The same alluring and beautiful Felicia who had lied that her husband was murdered, until Ainslie proved he had committed suicide... Felicia, who had offered him a place in the Davanal empire, with a not-so-subtle hint of intimacy to come . . . and of whom the socially wise Beth Embry had predicted, "Felicia eats men . . . If she fancies the taste of you, she'll try again."

He told her, "I had no idea..." Allardyce quietly drifted away.

"I made sure of that," Felicia said. "I thought if you had, you might not have accepted. But don't you remember, Malcolm? I predicted our paths would cross again someday."

She reached out, touching his hand, moving her fingers slightly, and as before, her touch was like gossamer. Again Malcolm felt his senses stirring. It had been that way, he recalled, at the beginning with Cynthia.

From across the room he heard Karen's voice and laughter. He glanced over and their eyes met. Did she sense the sudden wave of temptation within him? He doubted it, but wasn't sure.

"We really should meet soon," Felicia said. "I'd like to hear your ideas about the lecture themes you'll follow. Could you have lunch at my house next week, say, Tuesday at noon?"

Ainslie weighed his response. As always with life, doors opened and some closed. This one was still ajar. Quite clearly.

He answered, "May I let you know?"

Felicia smiled again. "Please come."