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Badde’s eyes followed his, then he smiled and again held up his glass.

After they clinked, Badde drained his drink.

Garcia and Santos did the same with theirs.

These guys can drink! Badde then thought.

Screw it. I’m feeling good. What’ve I got to lose asking?

“Those beautiful women who got off the plane?” he said. “Where did they go?”

A busboy appeared at the table and whisked away the empty glasses. Immediately behind him was their waitress with fresh drinks.

Garcia and Santos exchanged glances.

“Interesting that you asked, Rapp,” Garcia said, and pulled out his cell phone. He started thumbing a text.

“They went to join others at the hotel across the street,” Santos said. “They’re in the hospitality industry, usually working with the casinos and hotels. What’s called Guest Services.”

I knew it! Badde thought smugly.

The casino was why the plane stopped in New Orleans!

“Bobby’s having a few who’ve been in town awhile come join us. Some are from the Ukraine, some from Belarus. They’re all in the States as seasonal workers.”

“They came on those H-something visas?”

“Yeah,” Santos lied.

V

[ONE]

Slip F-18

Little Palm Island, Florida

Monday, November 17, 6:17 A.M.

Matt Payne was in the galley of the Viking Sport Fisherman, sipping coffee while standing before his laptop computer that was on the black granite countertop. Within reach were the coffeepot and a large bowl of fresh fruit. The peels of two bananas were beside the computer. From his digital music player, he had the sound system speakers overhead cranking out island tunes from his Pirate Playlist.

He yawned, then rubbed his eyes.

Almost two hours earlier, in Cabana Two, the spacious palm-thatched seaside room Amanda had chosen, Matt had suddenly awakened from a sound sleep. He stared at the ceiling fan, his mind spinning faster than the fan blades as he tried to make a complete list of everything he had to do before they were to board Chad Nesbitt’s Learjet at Key West International around noon.

He had yawned then, and when he checked his watch, he was not surprised that it showed it was four-thirty.

I’m lucky I got that much sleep.

It had been right at midnight, after he and Amanda and Chad finally had had dinner, that Matt had stripped to his boxer shorts and crawled into the king-sized bed.

Amanda was taking her time in the bath. Considering how the evening had played out, especially with Amanda being upset, Matt decided that there was absolutely no chance in hell of there being anything resembling romance—not to mention carnal intimacy. He told himself that he would not be surprised if Amanda came to bed wearing worn-out sweatpants, a baggy wife-beater T-shirt, a towel wrapped around her hair, and her face, neck, and upper chest smeared with a thick therapeutic coating of eucalyptus-scented cream—plus maybe thick slices of cucumber to soothe her puffy eyelids.

Accordingly, he had set the alarm on his cell phone for five-thirty, then turned onto his side at the edge of the bed and, yawning deeply as he closed his eyes, buried his head in the soft goose-down pillow.

When some minutes later he felt behind him the bedsheet being raised, and then the weight of Amanda and her twenty gallons of face cream sinking in, he was surprised that she continued sliding across the big bed toward him, her gentle, wonderful fragrance torturing him.

And then he was even more surprised when he felt on his back not only the warmth of her body as she began spooning with him—he always grinned when she said she liked to sometimes be the “big spoon”—but also the warm soft touch of her completely bare skin.