He would find her, he reassured himself. If she was alive, he would find her. He would simply know. And that took him to what would be done when and if he did.

There was no question that she would have to be punished. For distressing him, for deceiving him, for attempting to break free of the promises she’d made to him. The inconvenience, the embarrassment of it all couldn’t be calculated.

He would take her back to California, of course, but not right away. They would need to go somewhere quiet, somewhere private first, so he could remind her of those promises. So he could remind her who was in charge.

They would say she’d been thrown from the car. That she’d struck her head or some such thing. She’d had amnesia and had wandered away from the scene of the accident.

The press would love it, Evan decided. They would eat it up.

They would work out the details of the story once they were settled in that private, quiet place.

If none of that was possible, if she tried to refuse him, to run again, to go crying to the police as she’d done before, he would have to kill her.

He made the decision as coolly as he had decided what to have for breakfast.

Her choices were just as simple, in his opinion. Live—or die.

At the knock on his door, Evan folded the paper precisely, walked over to answer.

“Good morning, sir,” the young maid said cheerfully. “You requested housekeeping service between nine and ten.”

“That’s right.” He checked his watch, noted it was nine-thirty. He had lingered over his thoughts longer than he’d planned.

“I hope you’re enjoying your stay. Would you like me to start in the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

He sat with his last cup of coffee, watched a report on a fresh hot spot in Eastern Europe that couldn’t have interested him less. It was too early to call the coast and see if there was anything he needed to know. But he could call New York. He had a deal cooking there, and it wouldn’t hurt to stir the pot.

He went into the bedroom to retrieve his memo book and found the maid, her arms full of fresh linen, staring at the framed photograph of Helen.

“Is there a problem?”

“What?” She flushed. “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

She moved quickly to make the bed.

“You were looking at this photograph very intently. Why is that?”

“She’s a lovely woman.” His voice was sending skitters up her spine. She wanted to get the suite clean and get out.

“Yes, she is. My wife, Helen. The way you looked at the photograph, I thought perhaps you might have met her at some time or other.”

“Oh, no, sir, I doubt it. It’s just that she reminded me of someone.”