Always

and led the way through the thickly clustered tables. He dropped into a chair at the ringside table he'd indicated and picked up a half-empty highball glass. His eyes, set deep in his round, tanned face, were as bright and inquisitive as a squirrel's. 'You look really beat, Clancy. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?'

'The usual.' Clancy sat down and shook his head at the waiter who paused to look at him inquiringly. He wanted to keep a clear head, and he was too tired to risk even the slightest alcohol haze. 'No sign of Baldwin?'

'Not one. She's made no telephone calls since she's been here. She takes long walks on the beach every day, but she doesn't speak to anyone.' He shrugged. 'Or no one important. She stopped thisafternoon and helped a little kid build a sand castle.

Then she came back to the hotel, rehearsed with the trio, and had dinner in her room. She does two shows a night here and then goes back to her room. o men since she's arrived on the island.'

'Not off the island, either,' Clancy said slowly.

'Odd. It could mean she's still carrying a torch for Baldwin.' His lips twisted. 'Or maybe she's frigid and that's the challenge she poses for him.'

'No.' Galbraith said quickly and with utmost certainty. Then, as Clancy looked at him in surprise, he muttered sheepishly, 'I mean, I can't imagine her being cold to anyone she cared about.'

'She seems to have impressed you,' Clancy said.

'Is the lady that much of a femme fatale?' Galbraith shifted uncomfortably. 'No. Hell, you Know I've never had a thing for older women.'

'And she's all of thirty-seven. Practically ancient,' Clancy said dryly. 'She must be very beautiful to make you overlook her rapidly advancing decrepitude.'

'No.' Galbraith was frowning abstractedly and Clancy doubted if he even caught the sarcasm. 'At least, I don't think she is. It's hard to tell.' He made a little gesture with one hand. 'She's just got something…'

'That's what Berthold said.' Clancy smiled faintly. 'I'm beginning to be a bit curious about this singer who makes tough bastards like the two of you inarticulate. Does this phenomenon have a decent voice, or shall I put on my ear plugs?' 'She's damn good,' Galbraith said. 'Too goodfor a place like this. She reminds me a little of Streisand.'

Clancy lifted a brow. 'Praise indeed. I can hardly wait to hear the lady and formulate my own definition of that special 'something' you think she has.'

'Well, you won't have to wait long.' Galbraith nodded at the pianist, who had pulled a stool in front of the microphone and was carefully adjusting it. 'She's on right now.'

The introduction by the pianist was straightforward and without fanfare, and so was the woman who walked gracefully to the microphone and sat down on the stool. She was dressed in an elegantly tailored, long-sleeved white silk blouse and an ankle-length black evening skirt that had a vaguely Edwardian air except for the long center slit that reached mid thigh. She was tall, Clancy noticed, and gracefully fine-boned instead of sexy as he had expected. Her long hair was a shade somewhere between light brown and honey and was drawn cleanly away from her face and fastened in back with a barrette. It was difficult to make out her features in the dimness of the cafe, but they didn't appear exceptionally attractive. Then the spotlight came on.

Warmth. Gentle warmth in wide-set brown eyes. Her face held a touch of sadness in repose, but then she smiled. Sensitive, beautifully shaped lips smiled suddenly at the audience with such loving kindness that it made Clancy feel oddly breathless. 'Hello, I'm Lisa. I have a few songs I'm going to sing for you tonight.' She spoke with a casual intimacy as if to a room filled with old friends. 'Then I'm going to take requests.' She made a face. 'Please,no opera. Madame Butterfly I'm not.' She chuckled in delight as she heard the whisper of laughter around the room, and Clancy felt again a queer half-aching tug at his emotions. What the hell was happening to him? 'Ready?' She nodded at the pianist, who started the introduction. 'Here we go.'

During the next forty-five minutes Clancy realized that Galbraith and Berthold were right: Lisa Landon was good. Her clear, bell-like notes held a hint of power skillfully restrained, and the emotion she conveyed was amazing. But he could scarcely appreciate her talent because his attention was focused on the woman, not the singer. The nervous, graceful hands that moved in impulsive gestures. The line of her creamy throat that rose from the stark white 'of her blouse. What a beautiful throat. Camellia soft, yet breathing, pulsing with life as no flower ever could. And that smile… His lips curved in a self-mocking grin as he realized how poetic he was waxing. When aroused he was usually more interested in breasts and hips than throats and smiles. And there was no question that he was aroused now. There was an aching in his groin that was bewildering in its intensity and filled him with a faint sense of anger. It was a totally illogical reaction. The woman wasn't even that attractive. She was too thin and her mouth was a little large. Her legs were lovely, he admitted grudgingly, and heaven only knew that she was showing enough of them in that slit skirt.

Possessiveness. Damn, the emotion had slipped into his thoughts without his even being aware ofit. When had he ever felt possessive about any woman? And this woman was a complete stranger.

The round of requests had ended now and Lisa Landon slipped from the stool and smiled again. Then she was gone from the stage as quickly as she had come.

Galbraith leaned forward and grinned at Clancy. 'Well, have you defined the 'something' the lady's got?'

Me. She's got me. The answer emerged swiftly and instinctively from the jumble of emotions that was whirling within Clancy. He rejected the thought as quickly as it came. 'Character,' he said lightly. 'And maturity. I can see how a boy like you would be dazzled by those qualities. The pretty dolls I've seen you squiring around have a few years to go before they begin acquiring them.'

'The pretty dolls are entertaining,' Galbraith drawled. 'And I think that old poker face of yours slipped enough so that I could see you were dazzled by the qualities of the lady.'

'You're getting fresh, John.' Clancy pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. 'Remind me to slap you down the next time you annoy me. It will do wonders for your own character development.'

Galbraith grimaced. 'I won't have to remind you. You remember everything. Unfortunately. I suppose you're going backstage. Do you want me to wait and continue surveillance?'

Clancy hesitated. 'No,' he said slowly. 'I'll take care of it.'

Galbraith's brows lifted in surprise. 'Really? It must be years since you did any chore as plebeian as surveillance. Are you sure you remember how?'

'Fresh.' Clancy enunciated the word distinctly. 'Very fresh. I assure you I'll muddle through.'

Galbraith's cheeky grin faded as he silently cursed himself. It wasn't safe to bait Clancy who, when he lost patience, could turn and mete out punishment efficiently. Galbraith held up his hands. 'Joking.' He smiled. 'I'm no fool, Clancy. I know what you are.'

'It's nice that you're so confident of your perceptiveness,' Clancy said with a slightly enigmatic smile. 'There are times when I'm not at all sure that I know.' He turned and walked swiftly across the tiny dance floor to the arched doorway through which Lisa Landon had disappeared.

The knock on the dressing room door was brisk and authoritative.

Lisa tensed, then consciously forced herself to relax. It couldn't be he. She'd seen no sign of Martin since she'd arrived here. She mustn't let her imagination run wild just because a knock on the door was demanding instead of politely perfunctory. She reached for a tissue and began wiping the cream from her face. 'Come in.'

'For God's sake, didn't anyone ever tell you that you don't leave your door unlocked and invite just anyone who's on the other side to come in?' The man who stood in the doorway was frowning and his voice was harsh. 'For all you knew, I could have been Jack the Ripper.'

Her eyes widened in surprise as she turned away from the mirror to look at him. 'You're not Jack the Ripper,' she muttered. The man did look dangerous though. He stood well over six feet with the broad shoulders and the deep chest of a longshoreman. His features were rough and craggy, with broad cheekbones and a nose that had been broken at some time or other. He had the golden tan of a man who lived in the hot sun of the tropics, and his hair might once have been raven dark but was now flecked with silver. He gave the impression of a man fully mature, fully in control, and very used to having his own way. She found herself instinctively rebelling against him. She'd had her fill of men who wanted their own way. She lifted her chin. 'It's true you could be just as disreputable as Jack the Ripper. So perhaps you should leave.'

His expression didn't change, but she had the impression she'd surprised him. Suddenly he smiled with a beguiling warmth. The transformation of his rough-hewn face gave her a little shock.

'I was rude, wasn't I? You'll have to forgive me.' There was the faintest trace of a brogue in his deep voice.