She was in over her head—maybe way over. In the end, if she kept pushing, she might well end up in Janieville, waiting tables or working at Wal-Mart and wondering what in the hell had happened to her life. Had Treat Griswold been an L.A. surgeon, he most certainly would have been a member of the Four Cs. In the Secret Service, he was The Man—respected, even revered. Now, she was contemplating trying to take him down.

There was still time to just drop the whole thing and take the low road out of town and back to the desk in San Antonio. There was still time. . . .

"Baby, I want to spend some time upstairs with Beatriz."

"Donnie, honey, it is one o'clock in the morning. She's sleeping."

"So, she'll wake up. I'll be gone all day tomorrow. There'll be plenty of time for her to sleep then. I've been working really hard lately, and I need a back rub."

"I can give you one. I know just how you like them."

"I want her to know how I like them. I want her to know how I like everything. You know the rules. Your time with me is coming to an end. It's your job to help me get her ready. Then it is your job to manage things until Beatriz is ready to take over for you with whoever follows her."

"That is what I'm doing, yes?"

"Yes, baby. You're doing a good job as long as you understand the way things work here."

"I do. When the time comes I will be ready to leave."

"That time's still a ways off. Now go and wake Beatriz and bring her upstairs to the room. I'm going to shower. Then I'll be up. I want her showered, too."

"Her hair also?"

"If you think so."

"I understand."

"Excellent. I love it when you understand."

"I did good telling you about the woman in the nail place, yes?"

"You did good . . . maybe very good depending on what fingerprints we find on that bottle of nail polish I bought from Viang."

"Marooned on a Desert Isle. That is what she chose. Women notice things like that."

"Marooned on a Desert Isle," echoed Donald Greenfield, running his hand over Constanza's firm breasts and down her lean, cocoa body to the smoothly waxed mound between her thighs. "We shall see what tales our little bottle has to tell us."

CHAPTER 33

The nightmare must end. . . .