A high wind that hinted of a brewing storm whipped through the city canyons. It slapped at Eve as she leaped from Roarke's car before he'd stopped completely at the curb. She took the thirty yards of sidewalk in a dead run, smacked the security camera.

"Mavis. It's Dallas. Mavis, damn it." Such was her state of mind that it took her ten frustrated seconds to realize the unit was smashed.

Roarke went through the unsecured door and into the elevator beside her.

When it opened, she knew it was as bad as she'd feared. On her earlier visit, Leonardo's loft had been cheerfully cluttered, colorfully disorganized. Now it was viciously tumbled. Long trails of material shredded, tables overturned with their contents strewn and broken.

There was blood, a great deal of it, splattered on walls and silks like a bad-tempered child's angry fingerpaints.

"Don't touch anything," she snapped at Roarke, out of reflex. "Mavis?" She took two steps forward, then stopped as one of the billowing curtains of shimmery cloth rippled. Mavis moved passed it, stood swaying.

" Dallas. Dallas. Thank God."

"Okay. It's okay." The minute Eve caught her close, the relief poured. The blood wasn't Mavis's, though it was spotted on her clothes, on her hands. "You're hurt. How bad?"

"I'm dizzy, sick. My head."

"Let her sit down, Eve." Taking Mavis's arm, Roarke led her to a chair. "Come on, darling, sit down. That's the way. She's in shock, Eve. Get her a blanket. Put your head back, Mavis. That's a girl. Close your eyes and just breathe for a while."

"It's cold."

"I know." He reached down, flipped up a ragged piece of glistening satin, and draped it over her. "Deep breaths, Mavis. Slow, deep breaths." He flicked a glance up at Eve. "She needs attention."