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Maeve would never comprehend how Pitt could be so understanding. To her, he didn't seem human.
He certainly was unlike any man she'd ever known. "I'm so lost and afraid. I've never been more helpless in my life."
He rose from the couch and came back with a box of tissues. "Sorry I can't offer you a handkerchief, but I don't carry them much anymore."
"You don't mind . . . my disappointing you?"
Pitt smiled as Maeve wiped her eyes and blew her nose with a loud snort. "The truth is, I had ulterior motives."
Her eyes widened questioningly. "You don't want to go to bed with me?"
"I'd turn in my testosterone card if I didn't. But that's not entirely why I brought you here."
"I don't understand."
"I need your help in consolidating my plans."
"Plans for what?"
He looked at her as if he was surprised she asked. "To sneak onto Gladiator Island, of course, snatch your boys and make a clean getaway."
Maeve made nervous gestures of incomprehension with her hands. "You'd do that?" she gasped.
"You'd risk your life for me?"
"And your sons," Pitt added firmly.
"But why?"
He had an overpowering urge to tell her she was lithe and lovely and that he harbored feelings of deep affection for her, but he couldn't bring himself to sound like a lovesick adolescent. True to form, he swerved to the light side.
"Why? Because Admiral Sandecker gave me ten days off, and I hate to sit around and not be productive."
A smile returned to her damp face, and she pulled him against her. "That's not even a good lie."
"Why is it," he said just before he kissed her, "that women always see right through me?"
DIAMONDS. . . THE GRAND ILLUSION
January 30, 2000
Gladiator Island, Tasman Sea
The Dorsett manor house sat in the saddle of the island, between the two dormant volcanoes. The front overlooked the lagoon, which had become a bustling port for the diamond mining activities. Two mines in both volcanic chutes had been in continuous operation almost from the day Charles and Mary Dorsett returned from England after their marriage. There were those who claimed the family empire began then, but those who knew better held that the empire was truly launched by Betsy Fletcher when she found the unusual stones and gave them to her children to play with.
The original dwelling, mostly built from logs, with a palm frond or palapa roof, was torn down by Anson Dorsett. It was he who designed and built the large mansion that still stood after being remodeled by later generations until eventually taken over by Arthur Dorsett. The style was based on the classical layout-a central courtyard surrounded by verandas from which doors opened onto thirty rooms, all furnished in English colonial antiques. The only visible modern convenience was a large satellite dish, rising from a luxuriant garden, and a modern swimming pool in the center courtyard.
Arthur Dorsett hung up the phone, stepped out of his office-study and walked over to the pool where Deirdre was languidly stretched on a lounge chair, in a string bikini, carefully absorbing the tropical sun into her smooth skin.
"You'd better not let my superintendents see you like that," he said gruffly.
She slowly raised her head and looked down over a sea of skin. "I see no problem. I have my bra on."
"And women wonder why they're raped."
"Surely you don't want me to go around wearing a sack," she said mockingly.
"I have just gotten off the phone with Washington," he said heavily. "It seems your sister has vanished."
