Chapter 1

The airport bar was crowded. At a table in one darkened corner the girl with honey-blonde hair was seated with unaffected naturalness. A neatly folded newspaper lay on the table before her. She was oblivious of the covert glances of the unattached males who scanned every detail of her breasts, legs, and face; the figure so artfully molded in the tailored suit. When her eyes did meet an inquisitive and speculative stare they did so without the slightest trace of recognition but passed on and beyond.

The man with the dark, lean face and odd speculative eyes hesitated in front of the vacant chair. The girl looked up and saw the question in his eyes.

"Certainly." She murmured. Her words were soft, tinged with a well-bred huskiness. "No one's sitting in it."

"Thank you. There doesn't seem to be a vacant table."

The girl smiled with a pleasant impersonality but said nothing. Her attention returned to the slender rows of black print.

"This is the first time I have been west of the Rockies." The man's hawk-like eyes sparkled with feigned excitement. "I've come to California to see my sister and her children. She's been trying for years to get me to come - even stay. Said I would live twenty years longer out here. Don't know whether that's a real advantage or not." He chuckled at the mild jest. Then, as an afterthought, he fished about in a breast pocket, removed an old wallet, extracted a faded photograph and tentatively extended it toward the girl. She took it with a small expression of patience. "That's my sister and her children." A pleased smile creased his features. "Of course it isn't a very good picture. I guess everyone says that about a photograph."

The girl studied the group with forced interest. "Nice looking children." She handed it back.

"It was taken several years ago." He replaced the picture in his wallet. "I guess the boys are real young men by this time.

It is going to be quite an experience to see them."

He was prattling with such disarming innocence and goodwill that the girl found herself warming despite herself. She lay the want-ad section aside.

The man beckoned to a passing waitress.

"I think I would have a gin, no vermouth but with just a touch of olive juice in it." He spoke the words with a relish. "Would you join me?"

"Gin with olive juice would suit me fine." Her fine blue eyes crinkled with laughter. "I don't think I have ever tried the combination."

"I'm Jill Foster." The girl smiled at the man and lifted an eyebrow. "Now we know each other."

Their drinks arrived and the girl sipped tentatively at the transparent liquid. Her tongue touched lightly at her lower lip and approval of the drink appeared in her eyes. She produced a cigarette, let him light it, leaned back in her chair and studied him.

His dark speculative gaze held hers. "Where you heading? Or is this your final destination?"

"This is it... I think." She said it impulsively, half out of loneliness, half out of the feeling that if Rizzi was looking for her, his men would be less likely to look for a woman and a man.

"Perhaps," he hesitated only a moment, "perhaps we could have dinner together? That is, if you don't have an engagement."

The answer came in the length of time it took her long, dark lashes to blink, twice, rapidly. "Thank you." She gave him a smile which flooded over him like warm sunshine. "I think it would be pleasant." Jill Foster took a deep breath. She had been startled by the abruptness of the question and the approach. Instinct, experience, forced her to unbend and adopt a more casual air. There was something so gentle and reassuring in the innocently beaming face ... and something vaguely familiar. "Strange," she said, "but I have the feeling that we've met somewhere before."

Matt Grant darted a quick glance at the girl. Something in what she said, not the words, but the tone, suddenly made him wary. It was as though Jill Foster knew something he didn't. That was ridiculous, he told himself. How could she?

Suddenly there was a quiet tension between them - an intangible tension like two jungle cats stalking one another in the darkness - as they quietly reappraised each other. Matt was bent slightly forward, his big hands dangling loosely between his knees. The smoke from a cigarette between his fingers drifted from under the table and twined upward in a wavering vine. Jill stared at him with a puzzled, all but frightened fascination. There was a compelling, saturnine quality about the man. He seemed gentle, and yet, somehow, quietly deadly. It was an unusual combination.

Matt knew he had to work fast; it would be only a matter of time before she remembered. Somewhere, evidently, she had seen him - or a picture of him. Was it possible that Victor Rizzi had a file on him? Just as the Bureau had one on Rizzi. The answer was obvious! Rizzi was a careful man. Nobody had ever been able to pin a thing on him. Not the Bureau, nor the FBI. Not even the IRS. And, somehow, somewhere, Jill Foster must have seen that file. It seemed incredible, but it must be true. Behind those miraculous blue eyes her mind was going clickety-click. He had seen it before. Woah! Slow down boy. You've still got the advantage. So your cover's been blown - or about to be. So what. All is not lost. You've been backed into corners before. So come out fighting. Take away that advantage.

"How is Victor?" the question was spoken slowly, softly.

Her eyes went wide. Mutely she expressed her astonishment. Her throat constricted. It was an effort to speak above a whisper.

"How did you know?" The words were barely audible.

"It's my business to know." Grant was not abrupt. The reply was almost quizzically amused.

"Who are you?"

For a moment it seemed as though Grant had not heard. He drew upon the cigarette and then leaned to press it out in a tray. Finally he reached for his wallet, opened it, and held the card for her to read.

"Oh!" She was relieved.

"I got curious." He spoke with an abstracted detachment. "I said to myself, 'Matt, why is such a lovely girl traveling all alone? Why is she being so secretive? Why is she going to Los Angeles? And where is her boss?' " He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. "You don't have to answer, of course, but Matt is a very curious person, especially where it involves the underworld boss of Cleveland."

She shook her head, refusing to answer. Her eyes searched his face with undisguised relief.. . and fear.

Matt tapped the knuckle of a forefinger against his teeth, his gaze never leaving hers. Suddenly a slow, amused smile of comprehension touched his features. In those wondrous eyes he read something he had not noticed before. The girl was on the run! He whistled, a low note.

"You're in hot water with Rizzi!"

At the mention of Victor's name her eyes clouded and something close to terror was a quick shadow across her lovely face. She did not answer but her head turned to watch him as he stood up. For several seconds she stared blankly at him and then rose with him. "Take me out of here." Her voice trembled. "Please."

It was a plea. What was a man to do? He walked around the table and took her arm.

"My sister," he said brightly, "you know, the one with the two boys - told me about this marvelous little restaurant up the coast. Gorgeous view of the ocean. Candlelight. Very quiet - intimate." He smiled broadly. "If I remember correctly, you did say: 'I think dinner would be pleasant.'"

Well north of the Malibu colony, on the broad highway skirting the Pacific, there is an exceptionally fine restaurant, the White Horse Inn. The service is deft, unobtrusive, and the food excellent. In a corner booth, looking out upon a terrace rock garden and miniature waterfall with the broad blue ocean as a backdrop, Matt Grant sat across the table from Jill Foster. He turned the stem of the glass, holding gin and olive juice, between his fingers and regarded her with unconcealed admiration. There was an unflawed, crystal beauty here and yet, he thought, there was a mobility of feature which gave it light and shadow. This was no cold ornament of a girl, but one which held the fire and color of a fine diamond.

From Los Angeles International Airport, where he had rented a bronze Grand Prix, they had driven out Lincoln Boulevard, through Santa Monica, and onto the twisting Pacific Coast Highway. They had said little - a word, an observation, trivialities, a silence without constraint of the awkwardness of strangers - until he had swung into the White Horse parking lot and a few moments later were seated and the stemmed drinks before them.

Now she met his gaze without embarrassment. There was even a small, quizzical light of amusement in her eyes.

"Was this invitation tonight social, or are you being snoopy - a detective?" "I'm not a detective. You know that. I'm a Treasury Agent assigned to the Bureau of Narcotics. Also," his grin was disarming, "I try, whenever possible, to be honest. So maybe it is a little of both -snoopy and social."

She nodded, satisfied. "May I have another gin?"

He ordered again for them both and they said nothing until the waiter brought the drinks.

"You're still wondering, aren't you, what I'm doing in California without Victor?"

"Wondering possibly, but I'm not too upset about it."

"At the airport you seemed to know so much. Who I was."

"I collect odd bits of information," he interjected. "You're being alone was odd."

The small smile vanished. "Was your being in the Cleveland terminal just a coincidence?"

He nodded. "It was only another trip, until I saw you waiting near the gate. I couldn't make myself believe that you alone on the plane was a thing of chance. Someone or something was wrong. I began to wonder who and what." He studied her. "Why are you running?"

She hesitated over the answer as though trying to make up her mind whether to answer. Then her eyes met his with candor and she told him the story - all of it - starting with Jack's death. When she finished she was quietly shaken. It was the first time she had told it verbally, in uninterrupted sequence.

"That was an admirable thing, but not very bright. You could be in trouble. He measured the words, "You could get killed."

She lifted one shoulder with a gesture of indifference. "I suppose so." There was a small defiance in her gaze and then it dropped. "The word has a harsh sound."

"Semantics." He paused, needing time to thing the situation out, and then opened a menu for her. "Let's order."

"You do it. Anything will be fine."

He beckoned a waiter and ordered lightly; a salad and then small steaks, rare, and with it a bottle of California Pinot Noir. When they were alone again he finished the gin.

"What will Victor do?"

There was an almost imperceptible start of surprise. Then, again she was completely poised.

"He'll start looking. He dislikes initiative on the part of the hired help."

"What will you do?" The question was unnecessary and he wondered why he had voiced it. "I'm sorry. It's really none of my business."

Unhappiness was a brief shadow. "No, I don't think you're sorry. You're reaching for something. Oh!" The tone changed. It carried, now, the open simplicity of a child. "He'll get me. That is, if he is angry enough or really wants me back."

"You're frightened." It was a statement and not a question.

"Of course."

"Why did you leave?" he pursued her.

"I got scared. I found out a lot about him. About all the cruel, inhuman things he had done - is still doing. But I couldn't find enough evidence to pin Jack's ... murder on him."

"I know what you mean. I know everything about Rizzi, but nothing I can prove. I've wanted him for a long time. The Bureau wants him. One of these days he'll make a mistake."

"Did you think I'd help you help him make one? Is that why we're here tonight, together?"

"No. But, there was a fringe area I wanted to explore."

"In the first place I couldn't help. In the second place I don't really know anything. Oh! I know his friends, his associates, some of the people who work for him, but he is not a man who exchanges confidences. I was only a small cog in the complex machinery. I know he is a big man in a big and frightening organization. But, those are things you already know." She shrugged and they drank in companionable silence for the moment.

"Have you any plans?" he asked finally.

"No. But I've always made my own way in one fashion or another."

"I'll be in town for a week at least. I'd like to see you again."

"No more questions? No more talk of Victor?"

"I'll just be my charming, ugly self and you may grow a little more susceptible to my charms."

"I hardly think so in a week," she dimpled and her eyebrow raised speculatively. "At least I don't think so anyway."

"It has happened."

"Yes. Yes, I can believe that although I'm not sure why."

Two and a half hours later, relatively happy and contented, they left the inn and drove northward through Oxnard, Ventura and finally into Santa Barbara. The night air was warm and fragrant a moon gave the rolling Pacific a silver wash. She didn't ask where they were going and seemed happy simply to relax, leaning back against the seat, her shoulder occasionally brushing his with unaffected intimacy.

"Is Grant really your name? Matt Grant? I never knew anyone with the name of Matt. Is it short for Matthew?"

"No. It's just Matt. For that matter, I never knew a girl named Jill Foster."

He made a left turn off the highway on a street leading to the harbor. At the end there was a large rambling building with its windows softly lit. Beyond were a myriad of mini-structures. The car glided to a stop in front of a stylish sign of polished gold, its simple ornateness indicitive of the premises affluency: Playa d'Oro. Beach of Gold. From balconied suites of red-tiled motif spread a panorama of old-world Spanish antiquity; a grandeur that flowed like wild prismatic fire away from the bungalows of whitewashed adobe and molded red clay nestled among colorful scented gardens of hyacinth and hydrangea, and fanned out toward the restless sea.

Jill's cheek was resting against the upholstery. She glanced at Matt with a sidelong speculation.

"We'll have a drink, if you like," he said softly. "Some brandy and coffee. Then I'll take you home . . . wherever that is."

"I've never been here before. It's all so new and beautiful. I thought maybe you were motel minded and this was it."

"Suppose I am?" The car was barely moving over the cobbled driveway.

"I don't know." She answered without hesitation. "I really don't know. And," the admission came thoughtfully, "I'm not sure why."

"This is truly one of the world's great resort complexes, and I practically never get motel minded. But in this case I'd make an exception." He paused. "Damn it. This is supposed to be a vacation." He searched her eyes. "I'm tired of being lonely. You?"

She straightened up and with a quick, impulsive gesture brushed his cheek with the barest touch of a kiss.

"Thank you, Matt Grant."