And so they waited. Not too patiently but patiently enough.

And while they waited, Lincoln Moss went about his business of keeping his image pristine and making sure he made the front page of every newspaper at least once a week for something or other.

Lincoln Moss was a handsome, muscular, fit man. In his palatial home, he had a state-of-the-art gym and his own personal trainer, who lived in one of the cottages at the rear of the ten-thousand-acre estate. His chauffeur lived in another cottage. The day help—his housekeeper and butler, six maids, and the lawn and maintenance people—left the premises at six o’clock sharp every evening and didn’t return until six o’clock the following morning. He was fond of saying to anyone who would listen that he paid out more in salaries in one month than some people made in their lifetime. Maggie Spritzer called it bragging rights. Everyone knew Maggie took no prisoners.

Lincoln Moss was also a snob. But not in public. In public, he was Mister Benevolent, Mister Congeniality himself. Something Maggie Spritzer and Ted Robinson saw through at their first meeting.

While the intrepid reporters were waiting for Moss to make a mistake, he was on his way home in the middle of the day to check on his beautiful wife and possibly have lunch with her in the garden. The bloom was off the rose, as the saying went, and Lincoln was the first to recognize that fact. He didn’t love his beautiful wife. Never had. To him, she was just another possession. But he played the game, and the rules were all his because he was in total control. From time to time, he hauled Amalie out for the public to see and admire at some function or other at the White House. And four times a year he took her back to France, so she could do new photo shoots for La Natural.

The time was 12:50. He’d called ahead to the housekeeper to have lunch served in the garden and make sure his wife was seated and waiting for him when he arrived. He had dictated the menu in a rapid tone, then cut the connection. There was no doubt in his mind that his instructions would be followed to the letter.

Moss galloped into the house and took the elevator to the third floor, where he’d set up the master suite. He washed his face and hands, combed his unruly locks, then admired his good looks for a full five minutes as he turned this way and that to make sure there was no excess flesh poking at his designer shirt. Mister Fitness Himself, thanks to a three-hour workout every morning and a twenty-mile run four days a week. The custom-made clothes completed his persona. He ate healthy, barely touched alcohol, and never smoked.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he took the steps to the first floor. He walked at a leisurely pace through the solarium, then to the outdoor patio that led to a garden so rich with flowers one could get drunk on the scent alone. He rounded a path and saw his wife sitting upright at a small table set for two. She was wearing sunglasses.