"Don't keep me in suspense; what is it?"

"For the next two weeks, I'm an interior designer."

"You're right." He laughed. "It's just what I had in mind. Do you know enough about it to pull it off?"

"I know enough about it to bluff." For years, she'd listened to Sara rhapsodizing over furnishings and accessories, and Sloan was reasonably certain she'd absorbed enough jargon and information to fake her way through a few superficial conversations with Carter Reynolds, who would surely find the subject boring, anyway.

"There's one more thing we need to discuss," he said, his voice taking on an implacable quality. "I want to be absolutely certain you're clear on your role in Palm Beach and on the legalities involved if you deviate one inch from it."

Sloan realized exactly where he was going, but she was curious to hear his logic anyway.

"Legally, your father is entitled to a reasonable expectation of privacy in his own home. Because you're going there at my request, you are technically working for the FBI. Since the FBI does not have a search warrant, any evidence you or I discover will be thrown out of court unless it was in plain view and in a place he allows us to be. You may pass along information to me, but you cannot search for it. Am I making this clear? I don't want you to so much as open a drawer unless someone asked you to get something out of it."

Sloan suppressed a smile at the fact that Paul felt the need to explain what was elementary legal information. "Actually, I learned a little about this on an episode of Law and Order."

He relaxed a little, but his tone remained emphatic. "As to conversations you might overhear, the same rules apply. Make sure you're somewhere you're allowed to be, and that you had a legitimate reason to be there. It would also help if you happened to be in plain sight of someone at the time. As to telephones, there's to be no eavesdropping on extensions. We're going to play this completely by the book. Got it?"

Sloan nodded. "Got it. The thing is, no matter how scrupulous we are, his lawyers will shower motions to suppress on the court like pamphlets."

"Your job is to make certain you haven't done anything to make a judge feel inclined to grant them. The point to remember is that our primary reason for being here is not to look for evidence. I'm here to keep an eye on him. He spends a lot of time in Palm Beach during the year. I want to know what he does while he's here, where he goes, and who he meets. You're here because it's the only way I could get in and because you may be able to pass along helpful information that you come across. You aren't here to look for that information."

"I understand."

Satisfied, Paul tried to think of something more light-hearted to discuss, and after a moment, he brought up the topic they'd been on before this. "I think passing yourself off as an interior decorator is an inspired choice. Reynolds won't feel threatened in any way. It's perfect."

Sloan nodded, but as the time for her masquerade approached, the idea of faking a career, particularly Sara's, didn't feel perfect at all to Sloan. She was going into unknown territory where she was going to have to interact with lofty strangers, and in hiding her true career, they were not only eliminating a major topic of safe conversation, they were erasing her life.

"Sloan?" Paul prodded as he turned onto a wide boulevard lined with imposing oceanfront mansions. "Are you having second thoughts about being able to pass yourself off as an interior decorator?"

"Interior designer," she corrected him with a sigh. "No, I'll be all right. It's all a matter of taste anyway; so if I make some sort of blunder, they'll just assume I don't have any taste."

"That works for me," he announced cheerfully, annoyingly pleased by the possibility that she might actually disgrace herself in such a way. "After all," he explained, "the more Reynolds underestimates you, the more likely he'll be to let his guard down. Feel free to seem inept, gullible, and even foolish whenever possible. He'll go for it."

"What makes you think he'd believe I'm any of those things?"

"Because, according to our information, that's approximately how he remembers your mother," Paul said, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to tell her that Reynolds had actually referred to Kimberly as "a nitwit."

"a hopeless Pollyanna," and "the quintessential dumb blonde."

"I just know I'm going to hate that man." Drawing a long, calming breath, Sloan said, "What does his opinion of my mother have to do with what he'll believe about me?"

Paul gave her a wry smile. "You look like her."

"I don't think so."

"Well, you do," he said flatly. "Reynolds will think so, too, and he'll naturally assume you are as"—he paused to choose the least offensive of the words Reynolds had used to describe Sloan's mother—"as gullible as she was."

Sloan had the alarming impression that he'd already arrived at some decision about all this, but that he was easing her toward it because she wasn't going to like it.

"I gather you'd like me to reinforce his misconception about my mother's and my intellect, is that right?"

"If you can."

"And since you knew I was probably going to hate this idea, you decided to save it until we were practically in his driveway."

"Exactly," he said unashamedly.

Sloan leaned her head against the headrest, closed her eyes, and indulged in a rare moment of self-pity. "Oh, great. This is just great."

"Look, Sloan, you've come here to do a job, not make Reynolds admire you, right?"

Sloan swallowed. "Right," she sighed, but mentally she cringed as the next two weeks unfolded in her imagination.

He flipped on his turn signal as they approached a palatial Mediterranean-style villa with a flagstone driveway and huge iron gates blocking the entry at the street.

"One last thing before we go in there. I know it's going to be hard, but you must hide your hostility from Reynolds. He's no fool, and he has to believe you want a reconciliation. Can you hide your feelings about him?"

Sloan nodded. "I've been practicing."

"How do you practice a thing like that?" he asked dryly as he turned into the driveway.

"I stand in front of the mirror and think about something awful he's done; then I practice smiling until I actually look happy about it."

Paul laughed aloud and covered her hand in a brief, encouraging squeeze; then he pulled up to the gates. He lowered his side window and reached out to press a button on a brass box mounted on a pedestal beside the car door; then he paused and looked at Sloan. "Smile for the camera," he instructed with a meaningful nod toward the tiny, glass-covered hole in the metal box on the pedestal.