He’d been right about her office; thick burgundy carpet, Persian throw rugs, mahogany desks. The air smelled faintly of oranges and fresh roses. Martin sank into a red leather chair and closed his sand-coated eyelids. Carling gave whispered instructions to Jennings and Mendoza. When he woke up again, Mrs. Womack was in front of him, holding out a thin china cup full of coffee. He took a burning sip and swallowed. It tasted like burnt motor oil, but that must have been his exhaustion, because Carling would have had Jamaican Blue Mountain in her private stock, brewed with pure spring water. Brand name filters.

“How do you feel?”

While he’d been staring at the translucent white cup, Womack had vanished and Carling now perched on the edge of a desk, legs crossed. She had a penchant for above-the-knee skirts that cast interesting shadows. Good thighs. He was too tired to wonder how calculated the display was.

“Okay,” he lied. “You didn’t tell me people were trying to kill me.”

“I told you to be careful.” She stretched her legs lazily, smooth as velvet. “I was worried about you. Who’d you talk to?”

“Nobody.” She stared at him until he gave up. “Dr. Westfield. I had to explain why I wanted the raw data. She caught me copying the files.”

Carling nodded without breaking the stare.

“Dr. Westfield,” she repeated. “Jill Westfield. She’s been on your staff for—five years. Right?”

He nodded, mesmerized by the slow circles of her foot, the sensuous rasp in her voice.

“Well, I think we’ll have to assume that Dr. West-field is a bad risk. Anybody else you talked to? The cleaning lady? The nurses at the hospital?”

It was no use wondering how she’d known. He was already convinced that she’d bugged his underwear.

“I told the head nurse that I’d be going to Washington for an extended period of time, and told her I’d call with the number. Look, they had to know. Sally’s condition …”

She let him run out of words, pulled a pad of paper across the desk and wrote, handed it to him. He looked at the number uncomprehendingly.

“That’s a secured beeper. You have them call if there’s an emergency.” Carling held his gaze, and even though her expression hadn’t changed, he felt some connection again, sparking back to life. “How is she?”

“The same,” he said, cleared his throat and corrected himself. “Worse, really. They’re worried about renal failure.”

“How’s her brain function?”

Her eyes were so calm, so remorseless.

“She doesn’t have any. She hasn’t for nearly a year.”

Mrs. Womack rounded the corner and cheerfully held out a silver platter of sandwiches with the edges trimmed away. He chose something that looked like tuna and ate it quickly without much noticing how it tasted. Carling ate, too. Neatly.