Now, his turn. He gripped her more tightly yet. Chest and breasts, thigh and thigh, sliding unsteadily; the room was hot, the sweat abundant.

“I’m speaking to Brad Dannon, Monterey County firefighter and first on the scene at the Solitude Creek tragedy last night. Brad is credited with saving at least two victims, who were bleeding severely. Have you talked to them today, Brad?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’d lost a lot of blood but I was able to keep them going till our wonderful EMS got there. They’re the true heroes. Not me.”

“You’re very modest, Brad. Now—”

Click.

He realized that the impressive nails of one hand had vanished from his back. She’d found the remote and shut off the TV.

No matter. With a flash of Serena’s beautiful face, combined with Brad’s comment, a lot of blood, he was done.

He gasped and let his full weight sag down upon her. He was thinking: It had been good. Good enough.

It would distract for a while.

Then he was aware of her squirming slightly. Her breath labored.

He thought again: compressive asphyxia.

And stayed where he was. Ten seconds passed.

Twenty. Then thirty. He could kill her by simply not moving.

“Uhm,” she gasped. “Could you…”

He felt her chest heaving.

March rolled off. “Sorry. You totally tuckered me out.”

Calista caught her breath. She sat up slightly and tugged the sheets across her body. Why, afterward, did women grow modest? He pulled a pillowcase off and used it as a towel, then glanced casually at his nails. No blood. He was disappointed.

She turned back to him, faintly smiling, and put her head on the pillow.

March stretched. As always, moments like this, just after, he remained silent, since you could never trust yourself, even someone as controlled as he was. He’d learned this.

She, however, spoke. “Andy?”

He preferred this nickname. “Antioch” drew attention.

“Yes?”

“That was terrible, what happened.”

“What’s that?”

“The stampede or crush. It was on the news. Just a minute ago.”

“Oh, I wasn’t listening.”

Was this a test? He didn’t know. He’d provided the good answer, though. She put a hand, nails red, on his arm. He supposed he shouldn’t even have had the set on—not wise to be too interested in Solitude Creek. But when she’d arrived forty minutes ago, the first thing he’d done was pour some Chardonnay for her and start talking away, so she wouldn’t think to shut the unfolding news reports off.

March stretched again. The luxurious inn’s mattress not rocking a quarter inch. He thought of the endlessly moving Pacific Ocean, which you could hear, if not see, from the cranked-open window to his left.

“You work out a lot,” she said.

“I do.” He had to. His line of work. Well, one of his lines of work. March got in at least an hour every day. Exercise was easy for him—he was twenty-nine and naturally strong and well built. And he enjoyed the effort. It was comforting. It was distracting.