“I’d spend it with you, but there are some odds and ends with the painters and builders that I have to deal with. And, by the way, your friend Allison—sorry, Liz—is moving onto the yacht, into Thad’s cabin.”

“Why?”

“She complained that the odor of drying paint gave her a headache. I’d like to give her a permanent one.”

“What have you got against Liz Harding?”

“Her past with you, of course, and now she’ll be right down the corridor. See that your door is securely locked before retiring, please.”

“Then how will you get in?”

“I have a key,” she said smugly, “and I know how to use it.”

“Fear not—you’ve rendered me incapable with another woman. I’m not sure I can walk.”

“Don’t walk, eat,” she said, stuffing a croissant into his mouth. She walked to the door, then turned back. “You’re going to need your strength,” she said. “See you tonight.”

Stone bit off a bite of the croissant and lay back on the bed, chewing.

At midmorning, showered, shaved and dressed, Stone ventured out of his cabin and found Liz Harding sitting on an afterdeck sofa, reading a book about Palm Beach.

“Good morning,” he said. “Feeling better today?”

“Feeling safer,” she said, “since I’m here with you.” Her voice was kittenish.

“You’re not here with me,” he said. “You’re here with Thad.”

“But you’ll protect me while he’s gone.”

“Yes, but I’m not expecting anything untoward to happen. Are you?”

She closed her book and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I don’t know anymore,” she said. “It took me a year after I left St. Marks before I began to relax, and the marriage to Winston before I felt really safe. But after last night . . .”

“It may just have been some teenaged vandal,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I hope you’re right,” she replied. “Now, I want to do some shopping, and I don’t think I’d feel safe unless you were with me.”

“All right, I’ll tag along. Since I’m staying longer than I’d planned, I could probably use a few things myself.”

“I’ll get my purse,” she said.

They found a parking spot on Worth Avenue and strolled slowly down the street. Stone glanced around occasionally, looking for anyone resembling Paul Manning. Liz had said he’d had a nose job, so Stone concentrated on tall men. Manning was at least six-three, he remembered. Everyone he saw was comfortingly short.

He sat in the husband’s chair in a shop as Liz tried on dresses. He flipped idly through one of several Palm Beach magazines, which featured grinning people in lavish clothes, photographed at parties, and many shots of overdecorated interiors of huge houses. There were ads for Rolls-Royces and Ferraris and many for jewelry.