Hoagie glanced at her. He was wearing his usual flying uniform: khaki shorts with a million pockets; a tropical shirt tied in front; his battered RAF cap, worn cocked.

He looked as if he were flying a World War II mission on the old Burma Road.

"Yes?" he asked guardedly.

She could not go on. "Nothing."

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly. "Things not right for you?"

She was a poor liar but she tried. "Things are fine." She stretched. "It's such a beautiful morning, I was just sitting here, enjoying it."

"Want to fly? I'll bet by now you could get this bucket on the strip, all by yourself."

The day before, on the way to Nassau, he had given her a lesson, condensed but very thorough. She'd liked it and ended up waltzing through the sky like a veteran. He'd pronounced her a natural pilot, Amelia Earhart reborn. He probably said that to all his lady passengers, with his quiet English charm.

"I don't think so, Hoagie. I'd rather sit and watch."

He throttled back. They were descending toward the airstrip. "Shoulder harness, seat belt locked?"

"Okay," she said, checking.

"Fuel selector, both," he chanted, his hands darting among the controls. "Eighteen inches, high rpm."

He was paralleling the tiny airstrip, intent on his landing. She gazed at him, to the left. A sleek black speedboat was tugging a rooster-tail of spray around Masthead Point, leaving a curved, graceful wake on the choppy water outside the cut.

"Mixture, rich," droned Hoagie in a clipped British monotone. She felt utterly secure in his tanned, steady hands.

"Carburetor heat, on. Autopilot, off. Air conditioner, off."

He tossed up a wing in a steep, steep bank. "Flaps, coming down... ten degrees, fifteen..."

She heard the wing flaps grinding, and the nose of the plane went down. All at once she had complete vision: the whitecapped Atlantic below them, a sandy beach, then the airstrip, white official jeep, ramshackle terminal beyond. The black speedboat had stopped and was lying dead in the water, between them and the end of the runway, just off the beach.

She saw two men aboard, and one of them seemed to be pointing at them. Perhaps fishing?

All at once Hoagie muttered, "What the bloody hell?"

He flipped up the flaps, and all hell broke loose. He was suddenly yawing, weaving to the left, slamming her against her safety straps, then lurching to the right. She heard the engine roar with power, and they were diving for the water, as if he were going to ram the boat. At the last instant he pulled up in a crazy wingover.

All at once there was a brutal jolt above her, as if they had hit something.

"Damn!" Hoagie said with a growl, fighting the controls. There was another jolt, and another, and then they were climbing, fishtailing, lurching, writhing through the sky.

The smell of gasoline was everywhere, and suddenly it was pouring down her neck, inundating her.