By the time she finished, her gut was in full revolt, and she wanted to beg off staying to watch CNN, and find out whether this killer would meet his noon deadline. Who cared? She had bigger things to worry about—namely how to keep Ted from telling her husband, as he threatened to do if she broke it off.

But to leave midway through the killer-watch was out of the question. Lyndsay had fought for her place here, and she wasn’t doing anything to jeopardize it now. She needed to think, so she offered to start a fresh batch of coffee for Moira while the others retired to the entertainment room.

Once they were gone, Lyndsay gathered the cups and plates and put them on the counter. Maybe if she gave Ted a taste of his own medicine, and threatened to tell Moira…

Lyndsay snorted. Like he’d care. Like she’d care. Moira would probably be glad—one more dull wifely function delegated.

Lyndsay picked up the bag of coffee beans and turned to the coffeemaker. Holy shit—was that a coffeemaker? It had more switches and digital readouts than a space shuttle. Was this where the beans went in? Did the machine grind them in there?

If she lost Austin—No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t lose him. Maybe if she diverted Ted, found him a new lover. That was an idea. She could—

Liquid splashed as she poured the beans in. She peered down to see them floating in the water reservoir and cursed.

As she studied the space-age coffeemaker, something hit her in the back, hard enough to slam her against the counter. In the stainless steel side of the coffeemaker, she saw the reflection of a man behind her. An older man.

The distorted image looked like Blake, Tina’s husband, but when she saw her own reflection, blood flower blossoming on the chest of her white sweater, Lyndsay knew it wasn’t Blake. Jesus Christ, she thought. I do not have time for this. Then her knees buckled, and she hit the floor.

He looked down at the body at his feet. A young blond woman, cover-model gorgeous with centerfold tits. Amazing what money could buy. He wondered whether two hundred million would buy him one of those, and almost laughed. Two hundred million would buy him one for every day of the week…and extras for Saturday night. Too bad he’d never see the money.

He could hear the women chattering in the other room. So close and yet, at the first click of an Italian leather pump, he could be through the pantry, and out the back door. Unbelievable how easy it had been, even in a place that sold security as a way of life. Disappointingly easy.