Terese was watching him. “You know who it is.”

Myron said nothing. His heartbeat sped up.

The yacht came closer. A cabin door in the front opened, and as Myron feared, Win stepped but on deck. Panic squeezed the air out of him. Win was not one for casual drop-bys. If he was here, it meant something was very wrong.

Myron stood. He was still too far to yell, so he settled for a wave. Win gave a small nod.

“Wait a second,” Terese said. “Isn't that the guy whose family owns Lock-Horne Securities?”

“Yes.”

“I interviewed him once. When the market plunged. He has some long, pompous name.”

“Windsor Home Lockwood the third,” Myron said.

“Right. Weird guy.”

She should only know.

“Good-looking as all hell,” Terese continued, “in that old-money, country-club, born-with-a-silver-golf-club-in-his-hands kinda, way.”

As though on cue, Win put a hand through the blond locks and smiled.

“You two have something in common,” Myron said.

“What's that?”

“You both think he's good-looking as all hell.”

Terese studied Myron's face. “You're going back.” There was a hint of apprehension in her voice.

Myron nodded. “Win wouldn't have come otherwise.”

She took his hand. It was the first tender moment between them in the three weeks since the charity ball. That might sound strange-lovers alone on an island, the sex constant, who had never shared a gentle kiss or a light stroke or soft words-but their relationship had been about forgetting and surviving: two desperate souls standing in the rubble with no interest in trying to rebuild a damn thing.

Terese had spent most days taking long walks by herself; he'd spent them sitting on the beach and exercising and sometimes reading. They met up for food, sleep, and sex. Other than that, they left each other alone to-if not heal-at least stave off the blood flow. He could see that she too had been shattered, that some recent tragedy had struck her deep and hard and to the bone. But he never asked her what had happened. And she never asked him either.