CHAPTER 2

The seagull hovered a few feet above the waves, his gray wings outstretched, unmoving. He seemed caught for eternity in the pool of light cast by the floodlights mounted on the restaurant’s outside deck. Beyond the light there was only the immense blackness of the Pacific Ocean at night. With a quick movement the gull folded his wings and plummeted into a rising swell. Almost immediately he began to fly back up into the light, a slender silvery fish wiggling in his beak. Suddenly three loudly squawking gulls erupted out of the darkness and attacked the first gull, attempting to steal the fish. The first gull managed to swallow almost half the fish before the rest was stolen by one of the others. The gulls wheeled and shrieked and then they were gone. The floodlights lit only the incoming surf that shook the pilings on which the restaurant stood.

The Moonglow was one of those glass and wood restaurants, liberally sprinkled with hanging ferns and authentic-looking papier-mâché beams, that dot the California coast. On either side of the restaurant stretched a line of expensive beach houses that sold for upwards of $300,000 to buyers who wanted to live like beachcombers. A small group of rubberneckers stood on the restaurant’s outside deck, sipping margaritas and congratulating each other on the view.

Roused by a change in the girl’s tone of voice, Caine turned back to her, once more conscious of the undertone of conversation at the other tables. It seemed to him that he was looking at her from far away, as if through the wrong end of a telescope. Not that she was hard to look at. Her long blond hair was beautifully set off by her deep California tan, which made a striking contrast against her white T-shirt. She was braless and he could see her nipples clearly outlined against a fabric that bore the motto FOXY LADY. She had the healthy, scrubbed appearance of a surf bunny, the kind of long-legged blonde that they seemed to turn out on an assembly line down in Orange County. But it was her eyes that continually surprised him. They were incredibly blue, as blue as the Mediterranean, as blue as a turbulent Van Gogh sky. Of course, Caine had seen more of her than that. He had seen her star in Wasserman’s hard-core epic just before Freddie had taken him into Wasserman’s office. C.J. smiled and repeated her question.

“How do you like Malibu?”

At the next table an attractive Beverly Hills woman wearing French jeans and dripping Gucci accessories wondered aloud about whether she should get a Jag or a Mercedes this year, raising her voice in case there was anyone in the restaurant who hadn’t heard her.

“I like it fine,” he said.

“The steaks are good here, aren’t they,” she said, dipping the meat into the teriyaki sauce.

“Terrific,” he replied, chewing on his feedlot-raised beef, thinking it was pumped full of so many female hormones that it was no wonder America was turning into an androgynous culture.

The Gucci lady raised her voice again. It seemed that the quality of merchandise at Bullock’s Westwood was deteriorating. Caine looked at C.J. and shook his head.

“Does everybody out here talk like that?”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like they’ve all seen too much television,” he replied. But then, everything that had happened to him since he arrived in L.A. seemed unreal. You have to remember that you’re in Hollywood, the land of bumper-to-bumper freeways and plastic palm trees, he reminded himself.

After leaving Washington for good months ago, he had gone to New York to deposit a few things in the safety deposit box and to check out a line on a civilian job. The New York personnel manager referred him to their Los Angeles office and he had taken the red-eye flight to L.A., arriving just that morning. He had come to Los Angeles to start again, in a sunny world where everything is new and everyone is more interested in telling you their lies than in listening to your own. Instead he had received Wasserman’s message and wound up spending the day rummaging in the past. But the job was real enough. It bothered him. Perhaps because Wasserman had too many reasons, had thought it out too well. Something smelled wrong, but it was just beyond him, the way you recognize the scent of a perfume you’ve smelled before, but can’t quite remember which of the women in your past used to wear it.

Wasserman had laid it out for him during the drive down to the beach. Wasserman drove a new beige Mercedes 450 SE, with enough dials on the dashboard to do everything but cook your breakfast, taking the curves along Sunset Boulevard in a nervous, jerky manner. They drove down the Strip and past the manicured estates of Beverly Hills and Bel-Air.

“I assume you’ll want to put the money into a Swiss account,” Wasserman remarked, adjusting his sunglasses. Caine automatically checked the mirrors, wondering why he still felt the need, but there was only the normal afternoon traffic behind them.

“You’re also assuming I’ll take the job,” Caine replied.

“Oh, yes,” Wasserman smiled. “You’ll think about the money and you’ll take the job.”

“You know, you’ve been doing an awful lot of talking about money, but I haven’t seen much besides talk, so far.”

Wasserman reached into his jacket pocket, barely missing sideswiping a VW convertible as he did so. Two blond boys in the convertible, their surfboards sticking up in the air, gave Caine the finger as they swerved to avoid the Mercedes. Caine smiled broadly and nodded his head yes. Wasserman missed the entire episode and handed Caine a bulky envelope, addressed in an old-fashioned handwriting to a certain Thos. Jessom, Esq., care of the Bombay Auxiliary Bible Society, the Esplanade, Bombay. Caine counted fifty $500 bills inside the envelope.

“This is nowhere near the kind of money you’ve been talking about,” Caine said.

“There’s a lot more money there than you, or any customs agent in the world, will ever see. Look again,” Wasserman said.

Caine reexamined the envelope, but there was nothing else in it but the money. He was about to hand it back to Wasserman and tell him that he was getting tired of his games, but something about the address bothered him. Why a Bible society in India and no return address? He looked at the stamp to see where it came from and then he saw it. He knew then that Wasserman was deadly serious. All at once he knew that he was holding the one chance everyone dreams about and that Wasserman was right, that he was going to do it. He was going to kill Mengele because one day in 1847, a missionary on the island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean had sent a letter to the secretary of a Bombay Bible Society, thanking him for sending copies of the scriptures to help the mission. What made the letter so valuable were the two one-penny stamps issued by the post office at Port Louis, each bearing the profile of the young Queen Victoria.

“How many of them are there in the world?” Caine asked.

“There are fourteen known, but these two are the best. I purchased them at a New York auction in 1968 for three hundred eighty thousand dollars. They’re worth well over half a million today,” Wasserman replied.

They drove down the last curves of Pacific Palisades and Wasserman turned north, heading up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. Caine glanced out at the ocean and then at the stamps again, knowing that he was going to take the job. This was what he’d been waiting for, without even knowing that he was waiting for it. It wasn’t just the money, or the excitement. It wasn’t because Mengele deserved to die. It was because Wasserman had been right about him. He was the Afghan hound, the hunter. That was who he was.

“I work alone,” he said.

“Harris told me,” Wasserman replied. He turned into the driveway of a large glass-and-redwood beach house and shut off the engine.

“That means alone,” Caine repeated. “Mengele has stayed alive all these years, so he must have friends. I’ll need deep cover for when his friends come looking.” He didn’t mention the real cover he had in mind once the job was over, since it was the most important secret in his life. He had a safety-deposit box in a New York bank that contained a completely untraceable set of forged documents, as well as a few other interesting items that he retained from his Company days.

“How will I know what progress you’re making?” Wasserman asked.

“I’ll telex you every third or fourth day, more often when there’s something to report. It’ll be in standard commercial code.”

“Suppose I have to get hold of you?”

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” Caine said, trying out a casting director’s tone of voice.

“How much in advance?” Wasserman asked, relaxing enough to lean back and light a cigar. This was the kind of negotiation he understood.

“I assume the twenty-five thousand dollars is for expenses,” Caine said. Wasserman nodded affirmatively.

“Half up front. I take one stamp to Switzerland, you keep the other till the job’s done.”

“That’s a lot of money, Caine.”

“You’re Jewish. You tell me what Mengele’s death is worth.”

“If I give you the stamp, how can I be sure you won’t just disappear?” Wasserman asked.

“Common sense,” Caine replied. “If you can afford this much for a single hit, you can afford to send troops after me. I intend to enjoy this money and I can’t do that if I’m going to have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life.”

“I’m glad we understand each other, Caine. If you try to cheat me, the second stamp buys your death.”

“Suppose I can’t locate him within the time limit.”

“That’s your problem,” Wasserman snapped. “If you haven’t completed the assignment within six months from today, you return the stamp or its equivalent in cash to me, or else every agent and thug in the world will be after your head.”

“Fair enough.” Caine nodded. “There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Suppose I waste him. How can I prove to you that he’s dead and collect the other stamp?”

“I’ve thought that out too,” Wasserman said. “When you’ve gone over the dossier I’ve compiled, you’ll see that Mengele’s fingerprints are on file with Interpol, and there’s a copy of the prints in the dossier.”

So …

“So, when you come to collect,” Wasserman replied intently, “bring me his thumb.”

He felt C.J.’s fingertips caressing his hand, sending little shivers up his palm. When he looked at her, she pouted slightly and said, “Karl told me to be nice to you. Don’t you find me attractive?”

“Do you do everything Karl says?”

“We have an arrangement,” she said, as the waiter came over and freshened their coffee.

“What arrangement?”

“We’re not going together or anything like that.” She smiled. “I’m a kind of social secretary cum mistress. I entertain for him, look pretty so he can show me off, kind of take care of things at the house.”

“The work seems to agree with you.”

“I do all right,” she said pensively. “When this society talks about independence for women, what they really mean is you can be a glorified flunky, like a secretary or a waitress. Either that, or the corporate rat race. If I have to be a whore, at least let me be an honest and successful whore. Karl and I understand each other. He knows that I’m into making as much money as I can and that I’m my own woman. It’s strictly a business relationship.”

Relationship, that’s our great twentieth-century word, he thought, with a vague sense of loss.

The waiter came over and asked if they wanted anything else. As Caine shook his head no, he looked at C.J.’s striking young beauty and wondered if the Wassermans of the world were right, if everything is for sale after all.

“How did you meet Wasserman?” Caine asked.

“When I came to work for him. I answered this ad in the paper for actresses. He had me fill out this form and it asked if I wanted a balling or non-balling role, so I put down non-balling”—smiling at her remembered innocence.

“Karl asked me, ‘Why not?’ and I told him that I didn’t think I could get into it. Then I went back to this little closet of an apartment that I had in Hollywood and I thought about it.”

“What made you change your mind?” Caine asked.

“Well, I thought it wasn’t anything I hadn’t done. I figured that it might be a way into movies and the worst it could be was a new experience. Besides, after I split from my old man, I was ready to try anything.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, we were into drugs and then he started tripping on acid. We must have done a hundred tabs down in Mexico. Then we came back to Berkeley and he started getting really freaky. You know, whips and leather. The whole bit. One time he whipped me so bad, I had to go to the Free Clinic. He really did a number on me,” she said softly. “So I split and came down to L.A. After I did the movie thing, Karl asked me to stay on at his place.”

“How do you like it now?”

“He’s very good to me. He protects me.”

“That’s what Jane said about Tarzan, but who wants to live in a tree?” Caine said.

“You saw the place. We live pretty well,” she said, crossing her arms defensively.

“Yes, you do,” he conceded.

That was true enough, Caine thought, remembering his first sight of her that afternoon. She had come to the door wearing nothing but a white bikini and a solid gold coke spoon on a chain around her neck. Wasserman wore a proud possessive smile as he gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek, but the effect was ruined by his roughly grabbing her bottom at the same time. C.J. just smiled and looked appraisingly over Wasserman’s shoulder at Caine. Then her lips parted, the pink tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips, promising anything just for the hell of it.

She was looking at him the same way now, as if he was a fortune cookie she was dying to open. The lights along the Malibu shore were scattered like stars across the darkened restaurant window behind her, as Caine leaned back and smiled, imagining how she would look going down on him, feeling the first tingle in his groin. But he was really smiling at himself, he thought. After all they were both professionals. As she had said, it was strictly business. He had to keep reminding himself of that, because of the way his body had responded to her breathtaking sensuality from that first moment when he had arrived at the beach house with Wasserman.

The sun was unrolling an amber carpet across the sea, splashing gold light through the cathedral windows that looked out over the beach, as C.J. and Wasserman led him into the huge living room. The light reflected off a gas fire, dancing in a massive fireplace of Palos Verdes stone that might have just squeezed into the main hall at Windsor Castle. In the corner a soap opera droned on the tube. C.J. glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, as a doctor explained to the well-used blond heroine that she had to have the operation. She didn’t want to face it, what with her husband running off with the sixteen-year-old babysitter, her son being busted for possession, her old lover running for the Senate, and her daughter about to get engaged to an African exchange student. The doctor tried to be sympathetic, but her ego began to crack like an egg as the music came up and the credit crawl began. With a shrug C.J. flicked the set off and invited them to sit down. Then completely unselfconscious, she sat cross-legged in a black Danica chair and offered Caine a joint. As he nodded no, Caine was aware of the contrast between the elegance of the surroundings and the raw assertiveness with which Wasserman displayed his possessions, including the girl. Once again, he was struck by the contradictions in Wasserman. The man furnished his office with antiques and his house in Danish Modern. He had an exquisite eye for beauty and seemed to delight in cheapening it. He was impossible to pin down.

For a moment Wasserman glanced at both of them and smiled. The girl had been one of his better investments.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” he asked, as though she weren’t there.

“Yes, very,” Caine replied. Wasserman was pulling out all the stops, he decided, as he leaned back and crossed his legs, waiting for the hard sell.

“She has the best box in L.A. You ought to try it sometime,” Wasserman bragged.

“Fringe benefits?” Caine asked.

“Beats Social Security,” Wasserman laughed. He laughed a fraction longer than necessary at his own joke, then turned to the girl.

“Why don’t you take a walk on the beach, dear?” It was not a question. Without a word she got up, shrugged, and walked out with a movement as rhythmic and fundamental as that of the sea. Conscious of their eyes upon her, she exaggerated her wiggle slightly as she went through the door.

“Do you want her?” Wasserman asked.

“Are you offering?”

“Sure. Take her. That’s what she’s for. That’s what they’re all for. Take what you like, only …”

“Only what?”

“Only get Mengele.”

“Tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Caine replied, and lit a cigarette.

Wasserman got up and, motioning for Caine to remain where he was, left the room. The room was growing dark, the sunset a rosy blush over the darkening ocean. A sailboat was barely visible against the red embers of the horizon. Along the green fringe of the beach, palm trees glowed red, as though they were burning. It reminded him of the last time he had seen palm trees by a beach, the fronds blackened by smoke and smelling of cordite. Wasserman returned carrying a bulky folder. As he handed the folder to Caine, his features were caught in the flickering firelight. For a moment his eyes burned in his skull like candles in a jack-o’-lantern. As he took the folder, Caine felt an almost irresistible impulse to smash that greedy face, which seemed to flame with the fanaticism of a Torquemada in the dying light. Then Wasserman flicked the lamps on and the moment was gone. Caine paused to light a cigarette, then he opened the folder and began to read. At some time during the reading he heard the girl come back and there was the murmur of conversation between her and Wasserman in the bedroom. But he disregarded them and concentrated on the material.

The dossier, as Wasserman called it, was mostly a hodgepodge of newspaper and magazine clippings about Nazi war criminals. The bulk of the dossier were transcripts from Nuremberg based on unsubstantiated testimony. More interesting was a copy of a bill of indictment against Mengele issued by a court in Freiburg, dated June 5, 1959. The warrant listed seventeen specific counts of murder. Even more useful were a copy of Mengele’s Interpol file and a copy of an application for an Argentinian identity card, made out for a Dr. Gregor Schklastro on October 27, 1956. There was a set of fingerprints in the Interpol file and a second on the Argentinian application and it was clear, even to Caine’s untrained eye, that the fingerprints were strikingly similar. As Caine sifted through the material, he began to get a vague picture of his quarry.

As noted in the bill of indictment, Josef Mengele was born to a wealthy manufacturer named Karl Mengele and his wife Walburga Mengele, née Hupfauer, on March 16, 1911, in Günzburg, District of Swabia in Bavaria. Karl Mengele had begun to manufacture farm machinery in Günzburg, a quaint village situated on the banks of the Danube, shortly after the Franco-Prussian War. He had already established himself as the town’s leading citizen when he founded the firm of Karl Mengele & Sons around the turn of the century. By the time Josef was born, more than half of the men of Günzburg were employed by the Mengeles. As a child Josef was small and sickly. He was spoiled by his mother, who couldn’t understand why her brilliant, dreamy son felt so frustrated at being unable to keep up with his healthy blond schoolmates in the rough and tumble of school sports. Small and dark, with soft brown eyes, he suffered with envy of those whom Thomas Mann, his favorite writer in those idealistic days, had called “the blond-haired and the blue-eyed.” During the late 1920’s Josef went to Munich to study philosophy and medicine. Even at that age he was already seeking some way to scientifically match the physical aspects of man to some perfect conception of man’s metaphysical nature. Then one evening the lonely student heard Adolf Hitler speak in a beer hall, and his life was transformed. In a single evening the intoxicated and exhilarated Mengele became a fanatic and lifelong Nazi.

Shortly after Hitler invaded Poland, Mengele graduated and immediately enlisted as a medical officer in the Waffen SS. During the early years of the war Mengele served in France and later on the Russian front. It was during this time that he began to expound a theory that he had first formulated as a student. He believed that the only way Germany could succeed in ruling the world was to replace the inferior races with a multitude of pure Aryan babies. This could only be done, he decided, by producing multiple births as an ordinary occurrence. His early genetic research concentrated in two areas: the study of twins and an attempt to isolate the chromosome responsible for blue eyes. However, in the Waffen SS all he could do was theorize. He realized that he would need a supply of human guinea pigs and the right laboratory conditions in order to pursue his research. While on leave he petitioned SS Inspector General Glucks for the chance to do medical experiments at a concentration camp. In 1943, acting on a recommendation from Glucks, Heinrich Himmler appointed Mengele chief doctor at Auschwitz. As the surviving inmates of Auschwitz later attested, Himmler had made the perfect choice.

After the war Mengele returned home to Günzburg. His wife, family, and friends welcomed him as a good German who had done his duty during the war. Mengele started a successful medical practice and all went well until, in 1950, some of the SS small-fry being tried at Nuremberg began to mention Mengele’s name.

By 1951 the outlines of his experiments and responsibilities at Auschwitz were becoming public knowledge. After, a reporter from the Frankfurter Allgemeine tried to interview him, Mengele secretly began to liquidate his assets. Later that year a Bavarian police official received an inquiry from the American authorities in Nuremberg. The official was one of Mengele’s patients, and his family had worked for the Mengeles for generations. He alerted the Herr Doktor and Mengele contacted some comrades in ODESSA.

According to a reprint of a Der Spiegel article in the dossier, ODESSA was a secret organization set up by certain high-ranking SS officers when it became apparent that the German defeat was inevitable. An acronym for Organisation der SS—Angehörigen, or Organization of SS Members, it was designed to help SS war criminals escape Allied retribution after the war. ODESSA apparently spirited Mengele out of Germany through an underground network called die Spinne, or the Spider. The Interpol file indicated that Mengele escaped to the Italian Tyrol via the Reschenpass-Merano route. From Genoa the comrades moved him to Madrid, where he contacted the “Special Assistance” department of the Falangista party. The Falangista arranged for Mengele’s escape to Argentina. Except for the application for the Argentinian identity card in 1956, the Interpol entry was the last authoritative mention of Mengele’s whereabouts contained in the dossier.

Caine dropped the folder in his lap, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. He could hear the timeless surf lapping at the beach, punctuated by the occasional cry of a gull. But the sea was hidden in darkness. He could barely make out the running lights of a freighter well off the coast. When he turned back, Wasserman was standing near his chair, studying him intently.

“What do you think?”

“Where’s the girl?” Caine responded.

“She’s in the bedroom getting dressed. I made dinner reservations for you two at the Moonglow,” Wasserman said.

All this solicitude was beginning to make him nervous. What comes next, Caine wondered, cucumber sandwiches for Lady Bracknell?

“I don’t want anyone to know anything about this,” he said.

“Don’t worry.” Wasserman’s expression implied that Caine was a fool even to raise the issue. “She thinks you’re in the movie business.”

“Worry is what keeps people like me alive, so let’s get it straight. The next time I see you, it will be to collect the other stamp.”

Wasserman’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Then you think you can do it?” he prodded.

“I don’t know. The goddamn trail has been cold for over twenty years and that’s assuming that Interpol knows what it’s talking about. And Interpol is notorious in the intelligence community for never having anything worth knowing.”

“Then it’s hopeless,” Wasserman said dully.

“No, we have a few things going for us. First, after all this time Mengele might have let his guard down a little. He probably isn’t expecting anyone to really come after him. Second, we have money to spend and that will open a few mouths anyway. Third, nobody knows anything about me. Anonymity is our strongest weapon. Fourth, whenever Interpol, the West Germans, or the Israelis went after Mengele, their primary objective was to extradite him to stand trial. Inevitably the legal maneuvering took time and gave Mengele the advance warning he needed to get away. This time we don’t want to try him, just kill him. Finally, according to this dossier, the only people who have ever seriously gone after Mengele have been fanatic Jewish amateurs. This time you are sending a professional.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Now? I think I’ll go with the girl and have myself a steak.” Caine grinned.

“No, I mean how will you begin?”

“Oh, first I’ll go to Vegas to launder the money and pick up a few things.”

“So you still don’t trust me.” Wasserman smiled approvingly.

“Of course not.” Caine smiled back. His eyes were emerald chips, glassy and empty of feeling. For the first time Wasserman suddenly realized what a dangerous man Caine really was.

“What are you going to pick up in Vegas?” Wasserman prompted.

“A dose of the clap.”

“No, really. What things? Maybe I can help.”

“Guns, things. The details are my business. I told you, I work alone,” Caine snapped.

“Is that how you’re going to do it. Shoot him?” Wasserman asked eagerly.

Caine stood up. He had had enough of this nonsense.

“I don’t know. That depends on his setup, when and if I locate the son of a bitch.”

“When are you leaving?”

“In the morning, after I’ve enjoyed the steak—and the girl,” he added pointedly.

“I’m glad to see my employees enjoy their work,” Wasserman said, trying to reassert his authority. Then he added, “Stay in touch, Caine. Do stay in touch.” And Caine knew that what Cunningham had told him so long ago still applied. He would have to watch his back.

C.J. put her arm around his waist in the chill sea breeze outside the restaurant, clinging to him as if for warmth, while the Mexican parking lot attendant went to get her car. The Mexican brought the car, a silver Mercedes 450 SL hardtop, around to where they were standing. As they got in, two thoughts occurred to Caine: that the mistress business was still damn lucrative and that the Mercedes was the Chevy of West Los Angeles.

C.J. drove swiftly, surely, up the Pacific Coast Highway to the beach house. As she drove, she repeatedly glanced at Caine out of the corner of her eye. Although his face was shadowed, his green eyes seemed luminous in the reflected light of the dashboard dials. He caught her looking at him and they smiled, accomplices in the gentle urging of the California night.

“What did you discuss with Karl?” she asked.

“Business.”

“What kind of business? What do you do, anyway?”

“I’m a PR man.”

“What are you selling?”

“Hot air mostly,” he replied and when she giggled, added, “Myself. That’s what we all sell, isn’t it?”

She looked at him sharply in response to the implied put-down.

“You think we’re all so decadent, don’t you? I think you have a touch of the Puritan in you. That wonderful self-righteousness of the solid citizen who goes to church on Sunday and then sneaks into the massage parlor on Monday,” she said, contemptuously tossing back her hair.

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve been away a long time,” Caine admitted.

“Then don’t sit there making judgments about me. As Ivan Karamazov said, ‘If God is dead, everything is permitted.’”

Caine looked at her curiously. Her erudition surprised him. She was beginning to interest him, much more than he would have ever admitted.

“How did you get hooked on Dostoevsky?” he asked.

“I majored in English Lit. at Berkeley. I’m really a very intellectual hooker,” she said with a wry smile.

“We’re all hookers, one way or another.”

C.J. glanced at him with frank interest, green pinpoints of light from the dashboard reflected in her eyes. Then she smiled, as though he had passed some kind of test. The car slowed as they approached the beach house.

She turned into the driveway and they went into the house. Wasserman had gone. He had taken the dossier with him, and Caine quickly scanned the living room but found nothing to indicate that Wasserman had ever been there as C.J. put an album on the stereo. The man is as slippery as an eel, he thought C.J. lit the fire and poured them snifters of Grand Marnier.

They sat before the fire and gently touched glasses, the brandy a molten orange gold in their hands. Her hair caught the firelight and tumbled down her cheeks like glowing streams of lava. For a brief moment they kissed, suddenly aware of each other, like two hyperbolas become tangent at a single point before being swept away in opposite directions for all eternity. She reached out and ran her fingers through his sandy hair, something she had been wanting to do all evening.

“What does C.J. stand for, anyway?” he asked.

“C for Carole, as in Lombard; J for Joan, as in Crawford. My mother was a fan,” she shrugged.

“I’m glad my mother didn’t feel the same way. Her favorite star was Lassie,” he said, and she laughed.

Gold flecks of firelight flickered in her eyes. They gazed at each other with a strange sense of discovery.

“What do you want to do?” she said, her voice a drowsy whisper.

“You know what I want to do,” he said, and smiled.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said with a throaty laugh and, taking his hand, led him into the bedroom.