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  Maybe she’d be smart to take only the two million, and leave the hundred and eighty-eight thousand. That way he wouldn’t immediately bounce any checks, which might stack the deck in her favor. On the other hand, as he’d said, a hundred thousand was a hundred thousand. That was the Judas price he’d put on her, so evidently she was worth a hundred grand. Why shouldn’t she take it?

  Two million, one hundred thousand dollars. It had a nice sound to it. She typed in her account information, jumped through all the electronic hoops, and with a keystroke was an instant millionaire. She waited a minute, then logged into her own account and stared in satisfaction at the nice big numbers. In case Rafael somehow discovered what she’d done, to keep him from simply transferring the money back into his account, she changed the password. He couldn’t get to the money now, because as far as the bank was concerned, he’d given it to her and it was hers to do with as she pleased.

  The next step: move all that nice money to a different bank. Not right now, though; it was too soon. A routine e-mail alerting him to the transfer was one thing, but the last thing she wanted to do was trigger a personal telephone call. She’d wait an hour, maybe less, before the bank’s closing time to move the money to two separate accounts: part of it to a bank in Elizabeth, New Jersey, but the bulk of it she’d put in the little independently owned bank in Grissom, Kansas, where she still maintained the very first bank account she’d ever opened. The bank here wouldn’t, by law, be able to provide Rafael with any information about what she’d done with the money after it landed in her account.

  She couldn’t help smiling. Rafael had insisted she open the account at his bank to make it easier for him to transfer money to her as she needed it. He had intended his name to be on the account, too, but he hadn’t been with her and somehow she’d “forgotten” that part of his instructions, though she’d dutifully had the statements sent to him so he could keep track of her spending. He’d been annoyed, but not enough to do anything about it, because he had assumed that, because he controlled how much and when any funds were deposited in her account, he also controlled her. He’d been wrong then, and he was wrong now.

  Pacing, she reviewed the steps she’d taken so far, trying to think of any additional details. She added a thin black hoodie to her tote bag, so she’d have something to cover her hair with until she could get it cut. She could take a pair of scissors with her and hack it off herself, but she didn’t want anyone finding long hanks of hair in a trash can and putting two and two together. She’d get her hair cut tomorrow, in a hair salon, where people got their hair cut all the time and no one would pay any attention to her.

  She checked the charge on her BlackBerry, tossed it in the tote, then added one final item: an empty wallet. That was all, she decided. What she was taking was minimal, just what she needed now. She was ready.

  Crap, no, she wasn’t. Mentally smacking herself on the forehead, she hurried to her closet and retrieved the key to her safe-deposit box from where she had taped it to the inside top of her satin house slippers. Without the key, she wouldn’t be able to retrieve the jewelry she’d stashed there, or the bank routing numbers and her account numbers that were also in the box. She couldn’t believe she’d been about to walk out without the key. She’d have been helpless, unable to do anything, and she would have to either walk away without anything, or risk coming back here for the key, which would have meant Rafael possibly could discover what she’d done while she was still within his grasp. The thought made her shudder. Even if he didn’t, he would want to make love to her tonight, and she knew she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t pretend yet again, couldn’t hide what she was thinking and feeling.

  Going to the door, she coughed several times to cover any sound as she unlocked the door, then pulled it open. She went to the living room and paused at the entrance. Both Amado and Hector looked around at her. “I’m feeling a little better,” she said hoarsely. “Is it okay if I go to the library?”

  She knew their orders, but she phrased it as a question anyway. She’d never given Rafael’s men any lip or attitude, acting as meek and mild as possible, and she didn’t change her act now.

  “I’ll get the car,” Amado said, looking resigned as he got to his feet. He and Hector must have discussed the possibility beforehand, and Amado had drawn the short straw. Hector got to stay at the penthouse and watch sports, while poor Amado had to find a nearby parking space, then sit in the car and wait for her call.

  “I’ll change clothes and be right out,” Drea promised. She knew they didn’t believe her, because she usually took forever getting ready, but today she moved with a speed and purpose she normally kept hidden. She pulled on a cream-colored pair of silk pants and matching tank, then slipped on a cropped silk jacket in hot pink. She was now so noticeable, and so easy to spot, that Amado wouldn’t recognize her after she changed clothes, even if she walked right past him. He’d be looking for the pink jacket and her mass of curly hair.

  Slipping the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder, she looked around the room for one last time, saying good-bye to Drea Rousseau. The act has served her purpose, but good riddance.

  “Bye, Hector,” she said as she left the bedroom and went to the door. “See you later.”

  He waved a hand in reply, not looking away from the television. Drea let herself out, and stepped into the elevator. She was alone. As she pushed the Down button and the car began to move, a sense of lightness and relief began to seep through her, as if chains were falling away. Soon, her subconscious whispered. Soon—just minutes now—she would be free. She would be herself again. A few more minutes of pretense with Amado, and she’d be able to close the door on this part of her life.

  Exiting into the lobby, she gave the doorman her usual friendly, empty-headed smile. Amado pulled to the curb as she stepped onto the sidewalk. He looked faintly surprised to see her so promptly, but hopped out and opened the rear door of the black Lincoln Town Car for her. There were thousands of cars just like it in New York; all the car services used them. Rafael used them as his personal cars because they blended with all the others, making it easier for him to shake anyone following him.

  As Drea stepped into the car she thought she saw the assassin and panic froze her heart, her blood. She stumbled, almost falling, as her feet suddenly refused to work. Amado grabbed her arm. “You okay?”

  Her gaze darted around, looking for whatever had alarmed her, made her think of him. He wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him. Armies of people marched up and down the sidewalks, but he wasn’t one of them. She didn’t see anyone with that lithe way of moving, or that particular way he held his head. She closed her eyes, sucking in deep breaths as she tried to calm her skittering pulse.

  She let herself lean on Amado for just a moment. “I turned my ankle a little,” she said, managing a faintly helpless tone. “Sorry.”

  “Did you sprain it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not much, anyway.” She gingerly rotated her right ankle. “I’m okay.” As she got into the car she took another quick look around. Nothing. There were a lot of dark-haired men, but no one like him. A brief glimpse of something, someone, had reminded her of him, but that was all. He wasn’t here. She would know if he were here.

  Drea wrenched her thoughts away from the killer. She couldn’t let herself get distracted, or she’d make mistakes, any one of which could be fatal. She had to concentrate, and she had to move fast.

  By the time Amado pulled to the curb in front of the library, she had herself focused again. “I’ll be about an hour, I guess,” she said vaguely as he helped her out.

  “Take your time. Call me when you’re ready to leave.”

  She could tell from the resignation in his tone that he expected her to be much longer than an hour. The Drea he knew, who they all knew, didn’t have much concept of time and was habitually late. If she thought something would take “just a few minutes” it would invariably take at least an hour, whatever “it” was.