Charlie casually made her way toward one of the few other sets of bathers on the beach, a middle-aged husband and wife lying next to each other on club towels. In between them was a fancy-looking picnic basket, as big as a suitcase and wide open. The couple appeared to be sleeping, though their sunglasses were blocking their eyes, making it difficult to be sure. When she was in front of them, Charlie leaned over to scratch her ankle, casual as could be. The man’s thighs were furry but his shins, she noticed, were hairless, rubbed bald, no doubt, from years of wearing socks under his business suits. The skin on the woman’s face was tight, but Charlie could see a network of fine scars along the underside of her jaw and neck. Charlie only had a second to look in the basket. She reached for a bottle of clear liquid, lifted it out, hoping for the best. It could’ve been gin. It could’ve been sparkling water. It wasn’t, though. Stolichnaya, chilled, the cap still sealed.

She dropped it in the sand beside Cybill.

“Russian vodka, my favorite,” Jude said, looking at the bottle appreciatively. Then, looking at Charlie, even more appreciatively, “Beautiful and bad, also my favorite.” And then, as if giving her a reward, he began unbuttoning his shirt. His body, Charlie noted with satisfaction, wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was good, flat-out: a lean stomach, well-defined pectorals, a sexy little tuft of dark hair on his breastbone.

“You seem pretty spry for a guy who passed out a few inches from his own puke,” she observed.

He grinned. “My recuperative powers are formidable. Cybill can testify to that.”

“She can’t if she doesn’t know what recuperative means,” Cybill said.

“I’m not totally sure what recuperative means either, Cybill,” Charlie said, her eyes on Jude’s, “but I think—and I could be wrong here—but I think he wants you to tell me that even though he drinks to the point of falling down, he can still get up. So to speak.”

Jude cocked a finger at her like a gun, pulled the trigger. “Bingo. Get up and stay up. Stay up all night. Though that testimony I asked Cybill to give, it wouldn’t be based on firsthand knowledge, naturally.”

“Oh, very naturally,” Charlie said.

“She’s my confidante. I tell her about most of my conquests.”

“Only most?”

“One or two I keep to myself.”

“Sure. You’ve got to, right? I mean, if you want to hold on to that all-important air of mystery.”

Again he cocked his finger at her, pulled the trigger.