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“Merrywing. Salt Cay?”

“That’s right.”

“British-owned, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You’ve never been here before?”

“Not my kind of place. Too small, too quiet, too rich. I prefer the livelier islands — St. Thomas, Nassau, Jamaica.”

“St. Thomas isn’t far from here,” Shea said. “Is that where you were heading?”

“More or less. This husband of yours — how big is he?”

“...Big?”

“Big enough so his clothes would fit me?”

“Oh,” she said, “yes. About your size.”

“Think he’d mind if you let me have a pair of his pants and a shirt and some underwear? Wet things of mine are giving me a chill.”

“No, of course not. I’ll get them from his room.”

She went to John’s bedroom. The smells of his cologne and pipe tobacco were strong in there; they made her faintly nauseous. In haste she dragged a pair of white linen trousers and a pullover off hangers in his closet, turned toward the dresser as she came out. And stopped in midstride.

Tanner stood in the open doorway, leaning against the jamb, his half-lidded eyes fixed on her.

“His room,” he said. “Right.”

“Why did you follow me?”

“Felt like it. So you don’t sleep with him.”

“Why should that concern you?”

“I’m naturally curious. How come? I mean, how come you and your husband don’t share a bed?”

“Our sleeping arrangements are none of your business.”

“Probably not. Your idea or his?”

“What?”

“Separate bedrooms. Your idea or his?”

“Mine, if you must know.”

“Maybe he snores, huh?”

She didn’t say anything.

“How long since you kicked him out of your bed?”

“I didn’t kick him out. It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure it was. I can see it in your face.”

“My private affairs—”

“—are none of my business. I know. But I also know the signs of a bad marriage when I see them. A bad marriage and an unhappy woman. Can’t tell me you’re not unhappy.”

“All right,” she said.

“So why don’t you divorce him? Money?”

“Money has nothing to do with it.”

“Money has something to do with everything.”

“It isn’t money.”

“He have something on you? Then why not just dump him?”

“No.”

“Then why not just dump him?”

You’re not going to divorce me, Shea. Not you, not like the others. I’ll see you dead first. I mean it, Shea. You’re mine and you’ll stay mine until I decide I don’t want you anymore...

She said flatly, “I’m not going to talk about my marriage to you. I don’t know you.”

“We can fix that. I’m an easy guy to know.”

She moved ahead to the dresser, found underwear and socks, put them on the bed with the trousers and pullover. “You can change in here,” she said, and started for the doorway.

Tanner didn’t move.

“I said—”

“I heard you, Shea.”

“Mrs. Clifford.”

“Clifford,” he said. Then he smiled, the same wolfish lip-stretch he’d shown her in the kitchen. “Sure — Clifford. Your husband’s name wouldn’t be John, would it? John Clifford?”

She was silent.

“I’ll bet it is. John Clifford, Clifford Yacht Designs. One of the best marine architects in Miami. Fancy motor sailers and racing yawls.”

She still said nothing.

“House in Miami Beach, another on Salt Cay — this house. And you’re his latest wife. Which is it, number three or number four?”

Between her teeth she said, “Three.”

“He must be what, fifty now? And worth millions. Don’t tell me money’s not why you married him.”

“I won’t tell you anything.”

But his wealth wasn’t whyshe’d married him. He had been kind and attentive to her at first. And she’d been lonely after the bitter breakup with Neal. John had opened up a whole new, exciting world to her: travel to exotic places, sailing, the company of interesting and famous people. She hadn’t loved him, but she had been fond of him; and she’d convinced herself she would learn to love him in time. Instead, when he revealed his dark side to her, she had learned to hate him.

Tanner said, “Didn’t one of his other wives divorce him for knocking her around when he was drunk? Seems I remember reading something like that in the Miami papers a few years back. That why you’re unhappy, Shea? He knock you around when he’s drinking?”

Without answering, Shea pushed past him into the hallway. He didn’t try to stop her. In the kitchen again she poured yet another cup of coffee and sat down with it. Even with her coat on and the furnace turned up, she was still cold. The heat from the mug failed to warm her hands.

She knew she ought to be afraid of Harry Tanner. But all she felt inside was a deep weariness. An image of Windflaw Point, the tiny beach with its treacherous undertow, flashed across the screen of her mind — and was gone again just as swiftly. Her courage, or maybe her cowardice, was gone too. She was no longer capable of walking out to the point, letting the sea have her. Not tonight and probably not ever again.

She sat listening to the wind clamor outside. It moaned in the twisted branches of the banyan tree; scraped palm fronds against the roof tiles. Through the open window jalousies she could smell ozone mixed with the sweet fragrances of white ginger blooms. The new storm would be here soon in all its fury.

The wind kept her from hearing Tanner reenter the kitchen. She sensed his presence, looked up, and saw him standing there with his eyes on her like probes. He’d put on all of John’s clothing and found a pair of Reeboks for his feet. In his left hand he held the waterproof belt that had been strapped around his waist.

“Shirt’s a little snug,” he said, “but a pretty good fit otherwise. Your husband’s got nice taste.”

Shea didn’t answer.

“In clothing, in houses, and in women.”

She sipped her coffee, not looking at him.

Tanner limped around the table and sat down across from her. When he laid the belt next to the bottle of rum, the pouch that bulged made a thunking sound. “Boats too,” he said. “I’ll bet he keeps his best designs for himself; he’s the kind that would. Am I right, Shea?”

“Yes.”

“How many boats does he own?”

“Two.”

“One’s bound to be big. Oceangoing yacht?”

“Seventy-foot custom schooner.”

“What’s her name?”

“Moneybags.”

Tanner laughed. “Some sense of humor.”

“If you say so.”

“Where does he keep her? Here or Miami?”

“Miami.”

“She there now?”

“Yes.”

“And the other boat? That one berthed here?”

“The harbor at Merrywing.”

“What kind is she?”

“A sloop,” Shea said. “Carib Princess.”

“How big?”

“Thirty-two feet.”

“She been back and forth across the Stream?”

“Several times, in good weather.”

“With you at the helm?”

“No.”

“You ever take her out by yourself?”

“No. He wouldn’t allow it.”

“But you can handle her, right? You said you know boats. You can pilot that little sloop without any trouble?”

“Why do you want to know that? Why are you asking so many questions about John’s boats?”

“John’s boats, John’s houses, John’s third wife.” Tanner laughed again, just a bark this time. The wolfish smile pulled his mouth out of shape. “Are you afraid of me, Shea?”