How did this happen? she wondered. How could I have gotten so desperately hungry, and not have known it?
Sex had been one of the few things about her marriage that had seemed to work, until the last few years, anyway. David had prided himself on being a vigorous and imaginative lover; it was part of his self-image. Satisfying his wife in bed had been important to him, and over the years he’d learned just which of her buttons to push in order to elicit the physical response he desired. Emotional response wasn’t something he required, or understood, and if Jane had often found their lovemaking lacking in tenderness, or joy, and if she’d ever tried to tell him so, he wouldn’t have known what on earth she was talking about.
Oh, but how was it that those few kisses of Tom’s in the back of a moving truck, and now just the touch of his hand on her
Having admitted to herself that she wanted Tom Hawkins, she tortured herself further by allowing herself to think about him that way, to imagine his body, for instance, to wonder what it would look like without clothes. He was tall and lean, that much she knew, and she rather imagined his build would be wiry, his proportions naturally pleasing, not artificially pumped up and filled out from lifting weights, or some such narcissistic pursuit. He didn’t have the stiff, straight, almost militaristic posture she associated with most of the law enforcement people she knew, seeming much more casual in his bearing, with a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if he’d spent a lifetime listening carefully to people who were shorter than he was. And he moved, even with the smallest of motions, like opening a menu, or holding a door, or lifting her tote bag onto his shoulder, with the completely unselfconscious grace of a cat.
She realized suddenly that her tears had stopped, and that she was smiling, her body relaxed and languid, steeped in sensual pleasure. Thinking about Tom, envisioning him naked, was a joy, it seemed, not a torment. The torture, the terrible drumming of her pulse, the pressure, the ache and the fire, only began when she recalled the way he’d touched her body. When she felt again his body’s heat against hers, the brush of his fingers across her skin. When she remembered how she’d tasted his mouth, breathed his breath, and finally surrendered to the mastery of his tongue.
And then…when she saw in her memory’s eye that same mouth tilt sideways in that poignant remnant of a smile, and, glimpsed almost by accident, the unimaginable pain in his eyes, the ache inside her became like a knife twisting in her heart.
Oh, God, help me, she thought, gasping with the pain.
Hawk put through a call to Interpol headquarters, and while he waited for someone to locate Devore at such an hour on a Saturday night, opened the fresh pack of cigarettes he’d bought at the ferry terminal, tapped one out and lit it. After the first puff, he looked at the lighted end with disgust and thought he really ought to do something about the damn things.
He’d actually given up smoking once, before Jason was born, mainly because it made Jen sick. He’d taken it up again after they’d died, and until this moment hadn’t given even the smallest thought to quitting. He wondered why he should think of it now.
Devore came on the line, sounding far away and annoyed. “About time you called. Why the devil did it take you so long to get settled in? I thought that was a very small island.”
“It is, and there are no superhighways on it, either,” Hawk said in a surly growl. “And we stopped for dinner. Anyway, I’m here now, and I’m tired as hell. What have you got for me?”
“I’ve got someone tracking down the auction company’s records. We should have the names and addresses of the buyers of the other paintings by tomorrow morning. Oh-and Fritz will be there for you at eight-be ready. How soon can you get here?”
“One stop.” said Hawk, squinting through smoke. “Probably Greenville. Got to drop Mrs. Carlysle where she can catch a shuttle or something to Raleigh-Durham. Then I’ll be on my way.” Something he’d detected in the bureau chief’s tone made him ask with quickening pulse, “Why, what’s up? You got something?”
“We’ve heard from Lyons-just about an hour ago, right after you called, as a matter of fact. It seems Loizeau’s body has yielded some interesting bits, in spite of your mucking about. Quite a number of fibers. Most of them appear to be from those little blankets airlines provide.”
“Which only tells us our shooter might have recently taken a flight, probably of long duration,” Hawk observed. “Which doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“True. But a few of the others might be a bit more significant, I think. Merino wool, which I believe is a component of better-quality outer garments.”
“Sweaters,” muttered Hawk. “Topcoat, maybe?”
“I doubt it,” said Devore dryly. “These happen to be pink.”
“That is what I said.”
“Pink.”
“Yes. Pink.”
“Are you telling me,” said Hawk slowly, while his belly tied itself in knots, “that we could be looking at a
“It is a possibility that must be considered,” said Devore, with enough diffidence in his voice to make Hawk very uneasy.
“There’s something else,” he growled. “Let’s have it.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then, “Yes, there is something else. Hawk, I must ask you to get for me a set of Mrs. Carlysle’s fingerprints.”
“Why?” He exhaled sharply and reached to stub out his cigarette, breaking it in half.
“I know you have told me you believe she is not involved, but we must be certain. You know that. We must at least eliminate-”
“Eliminate? From what? Are you telling me you have a
“We do have a print, yes. Several, actually. Most are smudged, but there is one very good one-a thumbprint.”
“My God. Where was it?”
“On some papers in one of Loizeau’s pockets. He had some small things-a grocery list from his wife among them. The pocket was buttoned. Possibly the shooter had difficulty opening the button with gloves on, took them off, rifled through the papers, then was in a rush, perhaps-you said you arrived only moments after he-or she-had left. And made a mistake.” There was a pause. “A fatal one, let us hope.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Hawk on an exhalation of disbelief. Rarely in his experience were forensics scientists, particularly fingerprints experts, blessed with such luck. “You have a match?”
“We do.” Another pause, longer this time. “You will not like this, Hawk.”
Impatient, he said through clenched teeth, “Tell me.”
Devore made a sound that was almost a sigh. “The print lifted from the shopping list in Loizeau’s pocket matches perfectly one found on bomb fragments recovered from the wreckage of Flight 310-the plane that went down off Sicily five years ago. If you recall-”
“I remember,” said Hawk in a tone as leaden as his heart. He remembered it as he remembered his own name, his own signature, because the bomb that had brought Flight 310 to a premature end, along with the lives of all hundred eighty-three people on board, had born the same signature as the one left on a merry-go-round in Marseilles.
“So,” Devore was saying, “you will do this-get us something with Mrs. Carlysle’s prints on it? Just to be sure.”
“Yeah,” said Hawk. “Sure.” His thoughts were spinning crazily. He was trying to imagine Jane wearing pink. Problem was, he thought she’d look terrific in it.
The knock on her door came as Jane was raking off the skimpy motel shower cap, shaking her head and combing through her hair with her fingers. Her heart skidded and began to pound.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered to herself as her naked body froze in a posture of panic and indecision. Her clothes were hanging within reach, but her underwear was dripping on the towel bar in the bathroom. The motel towels
