“I think so.”

“I’ve already had my share of applause, I guess.” She moved toward the window and looked out for a moment. Then she turned back toward him. “By the way, did you notice how huge my boobs are?”

Myron said, “Um,” and decided to say no more.

“Come to think of it, I wonder whether you should contact La-La-Latte for a new photo shoot.”

“Strategically angled shots?”

“Exactly. Might be a great new campaign in these puppies.” She cupped them in case Myron wasn’t sure what puppies she was referencing. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Myron said, “that you’re stalling.”

Her eyes were wet now. “I’m so damned happy.”

“Yeah, well, I can see where that would be a problem.”

She smiled at that. “I put the demons to rest. I’ve even reconciled with my mother. Lex and I couldn’t be more ready to have the baby. I want those demons to stay away.”

Myron sat up. “You’re not using again?”

“God, no. Not that kind of demon. Lex and I are done with that.”

Lex Ryder, Suzze’s husband, was one half of the legendary band/ duo known as HorsePower—the much lesser half, to be frank, to the supernaturally charismatic front man, Gabriel Wire. Lex was a fine if troubled musician, but he would always be John Oates to Gabriel’s Daryl Hall, Andrew Ridgeley to Gabriel’s George Michael, the rest of the Pussycat Dolls next to Nicole Scherz-i-something.

“What kind of demons then?”

Suzze reached into her purse. She plucked out something that from across the desk looked as though it might be a photograph. She stared at it for a moment and then passed it to Myron. He took a quick glance and again tried to wait her out.

Finally, just to say something, he went with the obvious: “This is your baby’s sonogram.”

“Yep. Twenty-eight weeks old.”

More silence. Again Myron broke it. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”

“Nothing. He’s perfect.”

“He?”

Suzze T smiled now. “Going to have my own little man.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Oh, one of the reasons I’m here: Lex and I have been talking about it. We both want you to be the godfather.”

“Me?”

“Yep.”

Myron said nothing.

“Well?”

Now it was Myron who had wet eyes. “I’d be honored.”

“Are you crying?”

Myron said nothing.

“You’re such a girl,” she said.

“What’s wrong, Suzze?”

“Maybe nothing.” Then: “I think someone is out to destroy me.”

Myron kept his eyes on the sonogram. “How?”

And then she showed him. She showed him two words that would echo dully in his heart for a very long time.

3

An hour later, Windsor Horne Lockwood III—known to those who fear him (and that was pretty much everyone) as Win—swaggered into Myron’s office. Win had a great swagger, like he should be wearing a black top hat and tails and twirling a walking stick. Instead he sported a pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer tie, a blue blazer with some kind of crest on it, and khakis with a crease sharp enough to draw blood. He had loafers, no socks, and basically looked as though he’d just gone yachting on the SS Old Money.