A cold, heavy object shifted on Joani Brenningan-Estivez's lap and interrupted her steamy dream. She touched the butt of her small handgun, wondering how it came to be there. The thought was momentary, elusive as the erotic images that insisted on pulling her back into a semiconscious state.

A longing inside made her recreate the strong, masculine form moving above her in a sleek, shimmering haze, whispering loving phrases. Words of passion and undying commitment. An unruly lock of golden hair dangled from his forehead. Dampness tickled her face. Dampness?

Joani became aware of how ridiculous the fantasy she'd been weaving when she forced one eye open and saw the bead of moisture lining the seam of an overhead metal canopy.

She managed to pry the other eye open, then lifted her head and made out the kidney shape of a swimming pool. A grayish fog hovered over the surface, and two things registered at once: It was morning, and she was still at Miguel's.

Nothing like being bounced from fantasia into a living nightmare.

She plopped back onto the pristine cushion and rubbed her aching head. Guilt and shame washed over her for having such an unkind thought while lounging on Miguel's white wicker furniture. Regret also, for never being able to care for her husband as much as she did her elusive dream-man. A man she could never have. Not that Miguel would have cared, anyway.

Their marriage should never have happened. Joani had been looking for companionship, security, and a way to get her mother off her back. She'd struck out on all three counts. But Miguel believed he'd gotten a pig in a poke, too. At least she'd been faithful. Except ... in her dreams.

Recriminations were getting her nowhere. If Miguel hadn't blackmailed her into coming last night, she'd never have attended his dinner party in the first place. Being employed by a client of his did have its drawbacks.

It must have been a heck of a party to last until daybreak. Joani moved just in time to avoid another direct hit from the dew dripping off the awning. She rubbed her eyes, trying to decide if the murky perception was caused by remnants of sleep or the morning fog. Something floated on the water's surface. With effort, she focused on the form of her husband's bronze body. He was a handsome devil, but not as handsome as--she blocked the thought from her mind.

She turned to ask one of the other guests the time, but all the chairs were empty. In fact--she straightened and surveyed the patio area--except for herself and Miguel, the whole place seemed eerily deserted.

Joani eased into a sitting position. Struck by dizziness, she gripped the arms of the wicker chair until the feeling passed. A quick glance assured her that, at least for the present, her estranged husband seemed uninterested in her presence.

He was doing the dead man's float, a buoyant face down maneuver he'd taught her on their honeymoon. It was the only time she could remember him paying her any special attention during their short marriage.

She noted the white inflated plastic sticking out like chicken wings beneath his arms. Miguel was an excellent swimmer, she'd never known him to use a raft before. He kept it in the pool for company to use.

She shook her head, trying to drive out the lingering numbness, and complained, "Why didn't you wake me?"

Miguel didn't answer. Joani had suffered enough of his childish silent treatments when they had lived together. She wasn't in the frame of mind for one now. Being left out in the dew all night didn't set too well with her, either.

Not only was she uncomfortably damp, but a strange, bitterness lurked in her mouth. She ran her tongue over her teeth and decided wine didn't leave a very appealing aftertaste. She leaned forward and peered again into the dissipating fog. A strong ray of sunlight suddenly sprang through an opening in the jungle-like foliage surrounding the patio. It bounced off the water, spearing her eyes like thin shards of glass. She rubbed her aching forehead.

"I couldn't have drank that much, could I?" Actually, she didn't remember much of anything from the night before.

Joani ignored the painful throb at her temple and tried to recall if she and Miguel had gotten around to working on the contract negotiations for Watson Enterprises last evening. If not, she hoped he wouldn't insist on her staying to finish them now. She wanted to just get her things and go home to her cozy, colorful apartment, but supposed she should tell Miguel goodbye first.

Gathering the energy to make her exit, she said, "Miguel, I'm going home."

He still didn't answer her. Miguel didn't seem inclined to move, either.

She stared and blinked, then stared and blinked again. As she stood for a closer look, the handgun slid from her lap. She caught it before it landed on the hard tile, barely aware of her reflexive action. Miguel's inert form had her full attention now.

Her throat felt raspy and raw, and his name, this time, came out as a bare whisper. "Miguel?"

The pool filter kicked on, making her jump, but her gaze never left the center of the pool. Miguel bobbed on the surface like a cork on a trout line. Her heart rapped a staccato beat against her chest.

Had Miguel's face been beneath the surface a bit too long? Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion since she awoke.

She took another step, then another, never taking her eyes off Miguel. Something about the way the water jets made his body bounce around weightlessly looked ... weird.

She staggered toward the edge of the pool like an alcoholic coming off a bender. One or two glasses of wine, Joani reflected. She never drank more than that.

Shading her eyes with her left hand, she squinted for a better look at Miguel. She sucked in her breath.

The sun's reflection on the water seemed to be playing tricks on her eyes. There appeared to be a small red welt in the middle of Miguel's back. She shifted her attention to her handgun, then back to her estranged husband.

His body bobbed again.

Her eyes widened.

The 9mm dangling from her right hand felt cold. Joani shivered.

One of her greatest fears was of hurting someone accidentally. Unassertive June bug, David used to joke.

She looked at the awful weapon, wishing she'd never accepted the gift from her stepmother. She slowly turned the butt upward and stared at the magazine clip inserted into the bottom. Joani's gaze jerked back to Miguel's lifeless body.

She swallowed to hold back the bile that lunged for her throat. Should she call 911?

Miguel was beyond help. She was as certain of that as she was that he'd been shot in the back, possibly with her own gun. Joani understood all about motive and opportunity. She had both.

The small handgun suddenly felt heavy in her hand. A quick scan of the area revealed no other weapon that could have done the dirty deed. Wishful thinking.

"Oh, my God," she cried.

Pressing trembling fingers to her forehead, Joani again tried to conjure up some memory of the last few hours, but she barely recalled coming out onto the patio for some fresh air. When was that? Sometime around midnight. Beyond that she drew a blank.

Sorry officer, I slept through the whole thing.

Saying she didn't remember might seem a little too convenient. The police would badger her with questions she couldn't answer.

When did everyone leave? When did Miguel go swimming? Why hadn't she heard the shot? Who killed him?

Not her! Dear God, not her.

She backed up. Something crunched beneath her right shoe. A piece of plastic tangled in the heel. She kicked it into the bushes. Immaculate-minded Miguel would be furious at her carelessness. He insisted on a neat, uncluttered household. Her husband hated untidiness, another of Joani's faults.

Miguel was dead.

She ran inside, into the white-on-white living room with the white-on-white sofa. Black marble tables stood out like landmarks on snow-covered ground, giving her direction in her confused state.

She sought out the long dark table in front of the pristine couch. A white curtain fluttered. She spun around. Another bout of dizziness threatened to overcome Joani, and she took in huge gulps of air to combat the feeling. Smelling the scent of roses, she gulped again. No time to be ill.

She tried to concentrate.

Where was her purse? It wasn't on the coffee table where she'd left it, but she didn't remember other things. Could she have forgotten moving her purse, as well?

Joani knelt, ducked her head level with the floor, and lifted the white skirt of the sofa. She peered into the dustless cloud of white carpet beneath. Something was there. She laid the gun down next to her and reached. Pulling her appointment book out, she sat up too quickly. Dizziness again.

A door clicked in the distance and, for a moment, her heartbeat faltered, then resumed at an even faster clip than before. It hadn't occurred to her until now that the murderer could still be on the premises.

Footsteps echoed at the side entrance from the garage, then on the black-and-white marble tile leading into the hallway and kitchen. The only escape route now was through the front door.

Clutching the leather-bound book to her chest, she quietly tiptoed in that direction. This was one time she appreciated Miguel's penchant for running a tight ship. The door didn't even squeak as she carefully pulled it open.

Outside, she leaned against the white stucco finish. Her gaze flickered over the landscape.

The long, curving driveway led onto Highway Forty-four, a two-lane county road. Cruising the St. John's River gave the only view an outsider could get of the house.

Miguel liked privacy. She tried to blot out the image of him lying alone and so dead, dead, dead--and the killer roaming freely about inside the mansion as if nothing had happened. Had he returned to do her in as well?

She nearly tripped over one of the tier lights that lined the walkway as she moved as inconspicuously as possible behind the shrubbery. Her white Mercedes seemed miles away, sitting in front of the detached garage at a distance that couldn't have been more than fifty feet to her left. Joani wondered how she would reach her car without being seen.

The wrought iron gate and driveway were visible from the kitchen security monitor, from the garage apartment, too, where the chauffeur, Ramon Valdez, resided.

She considered waking Ramon, then remembered he'd approached Miguel for permission to take the night off and visit a sick relative in Jacksonville.

Good, she had some recollection of what transpired last evening. Now all she needed to do was make her way to her car, then remain undetected long enough to reach the gate.

The gate! Miguel had changed the code. She'd had to call up to the house to get in last evening. Joani always thought it strange that one needed a code to leave as well as enter Miguel's fortress. Then she realized her car keys were in her purse somewhere inside the house. She felt trapped. She couldn't get her car out even if she had the key. She heard a musical tinkling coming from the housing project beyond the woods.

A bloodcurdling scream came from the back of the house.

Joani raced toward the woods.