"Mr. Maitland," she burst out.

Noah was on the telephone with the head of an aeronautics company in France, and he frowned at her and then at the two flashing lights on two other phone lines. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but Paris Reynolds is on line two. It's her second call. You were on the phone when she called the last time, but now she says it's urgent."

Noah said an abrupt good-bye to the French industrialist and lunged for line two, but Jack stopped him. "Don't take that call yet, Noah! I have something to tell you."

Noah paused, his arm outstretched toward the phone. "What the hell is it? Didn't you—"

"She's a cop, Noah."

In all the years he'd worked for Noah Maitland, Jack had never seen him immobilized by any emotion or any event. The worse the pressure, the greater the disaster, the more energized he became until it was dealt with. Now, however, Noah stared at him as if unable to absorb what Jack had just told him. "You're out of your mind," he said finally, reaching for the flashing button on the telephone again. "Sloan is afraid of guns."

"Listen to me, Noah," Jack said sharply. "She's a detective with the Bell Harbor police force. I don't know what she's doing here, but she's obviously under cover."

A sudden collage of images flashed through Noah's mind—Sloan in the backyard with Carter, tossing him on the ground. Sloan showing Courtney some self-defense moves. Sloan, chasing down a killer, dodging obstacles and leaping hedges like a graceful gazelle. No… Like a cop!

He reached for the phone, slowly this time, and picked up Paris's call. He listened for a moment. "How long ago did they take her in? All right, calm down. Your father is upset, and he's not thinking clearly. I'll handle it and call you back." He hung up the phone and looked at Jack, his expression completely blank. "Why would she lie to me?"

Before Jack could begin to speculate, Mrs. Snowden reappeared in the doorway. "Ross Halperin is on the phone, and he says it's an emergency."

Courtney collided with her as she raced into Noah's office. "Sloan's been arrested!" Courtney cried, lunging for the television set and turning it on.

"I'll take Halperin's call," Jack said, reaching for the phone to talk to Noah's chief counsel. When he hung up, he looked at Noah and hid his wrath behind a flat, terse voice. "The FBI got a search warrant. At this moment, they, along with the Coast Guard and the ATF, are swarming all over your boats looking for a stash of illegal automatic weapons."

Noah slowly stood up. "What? Why in hell would she lie to me?"

Courtney was standing in front of the television set, swearing at the commercial that was interrupting the cable newscast. "Noah, look, dammit—" she said, pointing, but the news story that came on wasn't about Sloan.

"It's been a tough day for the rich and famous in Palm Beach, Florida," the newscaster announced. "Within the hour, two yachts belonging to tycoon-socialite Noah Maitland have been impounded and boarded by the FBI, Coast Guard, and ATF. We have footage."

Jack recognized the profile of the FBI agent standing at the Apparition's stern at the same time Noah did.

"Richardson!" The name exploded from Noah like a curse.

"Your girlfriend's a cop, Noah," Jack said flatly, "and her 'boyfriend' is FBI."

"Courtney!" Noah snapped. "Get out of here."

She took one look at Noah's face and started backing out of his office. Despite her flippant, disrespectful digs about her brother's business dealings, Courtney had never really believed Noah did anything wrong. "Sloan's a cop?" she said, looking dazed. "And Paul's an FBI agent? And they both wanted to take the yachts away from you? But why?"

He turned and looked at her, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. Mrs. Snowden drew her the rest of the way out of Noah's office and hesitantly said as she closed the door, "Mr. Maitland—Sloan Reynolds is on the phone."

Standing behind his desk, his gaze riveted on CNN's coverage of the takeover of his property, Noah reached out and pressed the speaker button on the telephone. Sloan sounded calm but a little shaken. "Noah, Mr. Kirsh isn't in his room at the hotel. I've been arrested."

"Have you now?" Noah said silkily. "Do you only get one phone call?"

"Yes—"

"That's too damned bad, Detective Reynolds, because you just wasted it." Reaching out, he disconnected the call.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Noah watched the invasion of his personal property. He remembered Sloan's reaction to the weapons she'd seen on board, the questions she'd asked him about them. And then she'd gone to his stateroom with him to make love. They'd made love for hours that night—after she'd pried enough information out of him so that her coconspirator could bluff a federal judge into issuing a search warrant.

He thought of the way he'd held her hand and confessed that he was crazy about her, and the way he'd told her he felt like a teenager in love for the first time. "Bitch!" he said aloud.

The newsclip ended, and he turned back to his desk and went into action; he told Mrs. Snowden to get four people on the phone for him. Two of them were attorneys, one was a retired federal judge, and the other was a Supreme Court justice. When he finished rapping out those instructions, he told Jack what he wanted done. "Got it?" he snapped.

"Consider it done," Jack replied.

"When I'm finished with that son of a bitch," Noah said in a murderous voice, "he won't be able to get a job as a crossing guard!"

44

Paul made certain Maitland's ships were secured for the night and under guard; then he wearily walked over to his rented car. The ten p.m. news came on as he pulled out of the marina. "It's been a bleak day for two of Palm Beach's most respected families," the newscaster said. "This afternoon, Sloan Reynolds, daughter of financier Carter Reynolds, was arrested for the murder of her great-grandmother, Edith Reynolds."

Swearing under his breath, Paul made a U-turn in the street, slammed down on the accelerator, and headed for the police station.

In her cell at the police department, Sloan was listening to the same broadcast, but it was the second half of it that brought her to her feet in an agony of disbelief:

"A short while later, the FBI, in collaboration with the Coast Guard and a team from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, seized and boarded two yachts belonging to billionaire Noah Maitland. Sources close to the investigation report that the FBI has reason to believe Maitland has been using the yachts to transport illegal weapons."