Stone laughed in spite of himself. “Allison, while your craving for my body may be perfectly understandable—even admirable—you have to remember that there is now on the island a camera crew for the most popular television news program in the United States of America, and we don’t know yet how powerful their lenses are.”

“I’m glad you understand my craving,” she said.

“On Sunday night, your interview may be preceded by a shot of you, naked in the moonlight, climbing aboard your lawyer’s boat. That might not exactly get the American public behind you.”

She turned over and pushed her buttocks into his increasingly active crotch. “Why don’t you get behind me?” She reached between her legs, found him, and guided him in.

Stone pushed into her sweet depths. “Oh, God,” he breathed. “When this is over, remind me to talk to you about your interview tomorrow morning.”

“Shhh,” she whispered, helping him.

Stone jerked awake. Sunlight was streaming through the port above his head. He heard voices and footsteps on the dock. “Allison,” he said, shaking her, “wake up.”

“What is it, baby?” she asked, snuggling her warm body closer.

There was a sharp rap on the hull, and Henry Hardy’s booming voice called out, “Mr. Barrington, you up?”

“60 Minutes here,” he whispered.

Allison’s head came off the pillow. “What?”

He glanced out the port and saw legs standing next to the boat. “I’ll try to get rid of them,” he said. He got out of bed, tried to rub some color into his face, and brushed his hair back with his hands. He got into his swim trunks, which were lying on a seat next to the berth, went into the main cabin, climbed the ladder, and emerged, waist high, from the hatch. Jake Burrows and Chris Wheaton were standing on the dock next to the bow of his boat. “What time is it?” he asked. “Aren’t you a little early?”

“It’s seven-fifteen,” Burrows said. “We have to set up for our eight o’clock interview.”

Stone shook his head. “I haven’t finished breakfast yet, and I don’t know if Allison is even up.” Suddenly he felt a naked body slither between his legs and up the ladder behind him. “Why don’t you go back to the Shipwright’s Arms, have some breakfast, and come back at eight?” He heard Allison sneaking across the cockpit behind him, then the rattle of his boarding ladder, followed by a tiny splash. He stepped off his boat, crossed the pontoon, hopped into the cockpit of the larger yacht, and yelled down the hatch. “Allison, you up yet?” He pretended to listen for a moment, then looked up at the television crew. “She’s up, but nowhere near ready,” he said. “Come back at eight.”