Vin diPietro sat on a silk-covered sofa in a living room decorated in gold, red and creamy white. The black marble floors were covered with antique rugs, the bookcases were filled with first editions, and all around his collection of crystal, ebony, and bronze statuary gleamed. But the real showstopper was the view of the city over to the right.

Thanks to a glass wall that ran the entire length of the room, Caldwell's twin bridges and all of its skyscrapers were as much a part of the decorations as the drapes and the floor coverings and the objets d'art. The sprawling vista was urban splendor at its best, a vast, glimmering landscape that was never the same, even though the buildings didn't change.

Vin's duplex in the Commodore took up all of the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth floors of the luxury high-rise, for a total of ten thousand square feet. He had six bedrooms, a maid's suite, an exercise room, and a movie theater. Eight bathrooms. Four parking spaces in the underground parking garage. And inside everything was exactly as he wanted it, every square of marble, slab of granite, yard of fabric, plank of hardwood, foot of carpet - all of it had been handpicked from the best of the best by him.

He was ready to move out.

With the way things were going, he figured he'd be ready to hand over the keys to its next owner in another four months. Maybe three, depending on how fast the crews were at the construction site.

If this condo was nice, what Vin was building on the banks of the Hudson River was going to make the duplex look like subsidized housing. He'd had to buy up a half dozen old hunting lodges and camps to get the kind of acreage and shoreline he wanted, but everything had fallen into place. He'd razed the shacks, cleared the land, and dug a cellar hole big enough to play football in. The crew was framing now and working on the roof; then his fleet of electricians would install the house's central nervous system and his plumbers would put in the arteries. Finally, it would be the detail crap with thecounters and tiles, the appliances and fixtures, and the decorators.

It was all coming together, just like magic. And not only about where he would live.

In front of him, on the glass-topped table, was the velvet box from Reinhardt's.

As the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, Vin sat back into the sofa cushions and crossed his legs. He was not a romantic, never had been, and neither was Devina - which was only one of the reasons they were perfect together. She gave him his space, kept herself busy, and was always ready to hop on a plane when he needed her to. And she didn't want children, which was a huge plus.

He couldn't go there. Sins of the fathers and all that.

He and Devina hadn't known each other for all that long, but when it was right, it was right. Kind of like buying land to develop. You just knew as you stared over the ground that here is where I need to be building.

Looking out at the city from a perch high above so many others, he thought of the house he'd grown up in. Back then, his view had been of the crappy little two-story next door, and he'd spent a lot of nights trying to see past where he was from. Over the din of his mother and father's drunken fighting, the only thing he'd wanted was out. Out from under his parents. Out of that pathetic lower-middleclass neighborhood. Out of himself and what separated him from everyone else. And what do you know, that was exactly what had happened.

He infinitely preferred this life, this landscape. He'd sacrificed a lot to get up here, but luck had always been with him - like magic.

But then, the harder you worked, the luckier you got. And damn everything and everyone, this was where he was going to stay.

When Vin checked his watch again, forty-five minutes had passed. And then another half hour.

Just as he reached forward and palmed the velvet box, the click and release of the front door brought his head around. Out in the hall, stilettos clipped on the marble and came down toward him. Or passed him was more like it.

As Devina walked by the living room's archway, she was taking off her white mink, exposing a blue Herve Leger dress she'd bought with his money. Talk about knockout: Her body's perfect curves were showing those fabric bands who was in charge, her long legs had better lines than the red-soled Louboutins she had on, and her dark hair gleamed brighter than the crystal chandelier over her head.

Resplendent. As always.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

She froze and looked over at him. "I didn't know you were home."

"I've been waiting for you."

"You should have called." She had spectacular eyes, almond shaped and darker than her hair. "I would have come if you'd called."

"Thought I'd surprise you."

"You...don't do surprises."

Vin got to his feet and kept the box hidden within his palm. "How was your night?"

"Good."

"Where did you go?"

She folded the fur over her arm. "Just to a club."

As he came up to her, Vin opened his mouth, his hand tightening on what he'd bought for her. Be my wife. Devina frowned. "Are you okay?" Be my wife. Devina, be my wife.

He narrowed his eyes on her lips. They were puffier than usual. Redder. And for once she had no lipstick on.

The conclusion he slammed into teed off a brief, vivid memory of his mother and father. The pair of them were screaming at each other and throwing things, both drunk off their asses. The subject was what it always had been, and he could hear his father's raging voice clear as day: Who were you with? What the hell you been doing, woman?

After that, the next thing on the agenda would be his mother's ashtray banging off the wall. Thanks to all the practice she got, she'd had good arm strength, but the vodka tended to throw off her aim, so she hit his father's head only one out of every ten shots.

Vin slipped the ring box into the pocket of his suit coat. "You have a good time?"

Devina narrowed her eyes like she was having trouble judging his mood. "I just went out for a little bit."

He nodded, wondering whether her hair's tousled effect was styling or another man's hands. "Good. I'm glad. I'm just going to go do some work."

"Okay."

Vin turned and walked through the living room and into the library and down to his study. All the while, he kept his eyes on the walls of glass and the view.

His father had believed two things about women: You could never trust them; and they would walk all over you if you gave them the upper hand. And as much as Vin didn't want any legacy from that son of a bitch, he couldn't shake the memories he had of his dad.

The guy had always been convinced his wife was cheating on him - which had been hard to believe. Vin's old lady had bleached her hair only twice a year, sported circles under her eyes the color of thunderclouds, and had a wardrobe limited to a housecoat that she cleaned with the same frequency the Clairol box made it home. The woman never left the house, smoked like a bonfire, and had alcohol breath that could melt paint off a car.

Yet his father somehow thought men would be attracted to that. Or that she, who never lifted a finger unless there was a cigarette to light, regularly summoned the gumption to go out and find joes whose taste in chicks ran toward ashtrays and empties.

They'd both beaten him. At least until he'd gotten old enough to move faster than they could. And probably the kindest thing they did for him as parents was killing each other when he was seventeen -  which was pretty fucking pathetic.

When Vin got to his study, he took a seat behind the marble-topped desk and faced off at his office away from the office. He had two computers, a phone with six lines on it, a fax, and a pair of bronze lamps. Chair was bloodred leather. Carpet was the color of the bird's-eye maple paneling. Drapes were black and cream and red.

Tucking the ring between one of the lamps and the phone console, he swiveled away from business and resumed his watch over the city.

Be my wife, Devina.

"I've changed into something more comfortable." Vin looked over his shoulder and got a load of his woman, who was now draped in see-through black.

He swiveled his chair around. "You certainly did."

As she came over to him, her breasts swayed back and forth beneath the sheer fabric and he could feel himself harden. He'd always loved her breasts. When she'd told him she wanted implants, he'd nixed that idea fast. She was perfect.

"I'm really sorry I wasn't here when you wanted me," she said, sweeping that translucent robe out and easing down onto her knees in front of him. "I truly am."

Vin lifted his hand and ran his thumb back and forth over her full lower lip. "What happened to your lipstick?"

"I washed my face in the bathroom."

"Then why is your eyeliner still on."

"I reapplied it." Her voice was smooth. "I had my phone with me the entire time. You told me you had a late meeting."

"Yes, I did."

Devina put her hands on his thighs and leaned in, her breasts swelling over the bodice of her gown. God, she smelled good.

"I'm sorry," she moaned before she kissed his neck and dug her nails into his legs. "Let me make it up to you."

She closed her lips on his skin and sucked.

As Vin let his head fall back, he looked at her from under his lids. She was any man's fantasy. And she was his.

So why the fuck couldn't he get those words out? "Vin...please don't be angry at me," she whispered.

"I'm not."

"You're frowning."

"Am I." Exactly when did he ever smile? "Well, why don't you see what you can do to improve my mood."

Devina's lips lifted as if this were precisely the kind of invite she'd been angling for, and in quick succession, she undid his tie, opened his collar and popped free the buttons of his shirt. Kissing her way down to his hips, she unbuckled his belt, pulled out his shirttails and scraped her nails and her teeth across his skin.

She knew he was into the rough stuff and didn't have a problem with that in the slightest.

Vin swept her hair back from her face as she freed his arousal, and knew full well he wasn't the only one likely to get a view of what she was going to do to him: Both of the desk lamps were on, which meant if anybody in those skyscrapers was still at their office and had a pair of binocs, they were about to get one hell of a show.

Vin didn't stop her or turn off the lights.

Devina liked an audience.

As her mouth parted over the head of his cock, he groaned and then gritted his teeth as she swallowed him down into her throat. She was very good at this kind of thing, finding a rhythm that swept him away, staring up at him as she worked him out. She knew he liked it a little dirty, so at the last moment she pulled back so that her perfect breasts were what he came on.

With a low laugh, she looked at him from under her brows, all naughty girl not yet sated. Devina was like that, changeable depending on the situation, able to be a proper woman one moment and a slut the next, her moods masks that she wore and discarded at will.

"You're still hungry, Vin." Her beautiful hand drifted down the sheer bustier to her thong and stayed there as she stretched out on her back. "Aren't you."

In the light, her eyes were not deep brown, but dense black, and they were full of knowledge. She was right. He did want her. He had since the moment he'd seen her at a gallery opening and taken both a Chagall and her home.

Vin shifted off his chair and knelt between her legs, spreading them wider. She was ready for him, and he took her right on the carpet next to his desk. The sex was fast and hard, but she was crazy into it and that turned him on.

As he orgasmed into her, she said his name as if he had given her exactly what she after.

Dropping his head to the fine silk carpet, he breathed hard and didn't like the way he felt. With the passion gone, he was more than spent; he was barren.

Sometimes it was as if the more he filled her, the emptier he got.

"I want more, Vin," she said in a deep, guttural voice.

In the locker room shower at the Iron Mask, Marie-Terese stepped under the hot spray and opened her mouth, letting the water wash into her as well as over her. On a stainless-steel dish, there was a golden bar of soap, and she reached for it without having to look over. The Dial imprint was nearly washed smooth, which meant the thing was going to last only another two or three nights.

As she washed every inch of her body, her tears joined the sudsy water, following its path into the drain at her feet. In some ways, this was the hardest part of the night, this time alone with the warm steam and the rotgut soap - worse even than the post-confession blues.

God, it was getting so that even the smell of Dial was enough to make her eyes water, proof positive Pavlov didn't just know about dogs.

When she was done, she stepped out and grabbed a rough white towel. Her skin tightened up in the cold, shrinking, becoming like armor, and her will to keep going performed a similar retraction, pulling in her emotions and holding them secure once more.

In the cubicle outside, she changed back into her jeans and her turtleneck and her fleece, stuffing her work clothes into the duffel. Her hair took about ten minutes of blow-drying before she was ready to go out into the chilly night with it, and the extra time at the club made her pray for summer.

"You almost ready to go?"

Trez's voice came through the locker room's closed door and she had to smile. Same words every night, and always at the very moment she put the hair dryer down. "Two minutes," she called out.

"No worries." Trez meant that, too. He always made a point to escort her to her car, no matter how long it took her to get ready to leave.

Marie-Terese put the dryer down, drew her hair back, and wrapped a scrunchie around the thick waves -

She leaned in closer to the mirror. Sometime during the shift, she'd lost an earring and God only knew where the thing was. "Damn it."

Shouldering her duffel, she left the locker room and found Trez out in the hall texting on his BlackBerry.

He put the phone in his pocket and looked her over. "You all right?" No. "Yup. Was an okay night."

Trez nodded once and walked with her to the back door. As they went outside, she prayed he didn't hit her with one of his lectures. Trez's opinion about prostitution was that women could choose to do it, and men could choose to pay, but it had to be handled professionally - hell, he'd fired girls for skipping condoms. He also believed that if there was even a hint that a female was uncomfortable with her choice, she should be given every opportunity to rethink what she was doing and get out.

It was the same philosophy the Reverend had had at ZeroSum, and the irony was that because of it, most of the girls didn't want to leave the life.

As they came up to her Camry, he stopped her by putting his hand on her arm. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you."

She smiled a little. "Your speech."

"It's not rhetoric. I mean every word."

"Oh, I know you do," she said, taking her keys out. "And you're very kind, but I'm where I need to be."

For a split second, she could have sworn his dark eyes flashed with a peridot light - but it was probably just a trick of the security lights that flooded the back of the building.

And when he just stared at her, like he was choosing his words, she shook her head. "Trez...please don't."

Frowning hard, he cursed under his breath, then held out his arms. "Come here, girl."

As she leaned forward and stood in the lee of his strength, she wondered what it would be like to have a man like this, a good one who might not be perfect, but who was honorable and did right and cared about people.

"Your heart isn't in this anymore," Trez said softly in her ear. "It's time for you to go."

"I'm fine - "

"You lie." As he pulled back, his voice was so sure and certain, she felt like he could see right through into her heart. "Let me give you the money you need. You can pay it back interest-free. You aren't meant for this. Some are. You are not. Your soul's not doing well here."

He was right. He was so very, very right. But she was done relying on anyone else, even somebody as decent as Trez.

"I'll get out soon," she said, patting his huge chest. "Just a little longer and I'll be caught up. Then I'll stop."

Trez's expression tightened and his jaw went rigid - evidence that he was going to respect her decision even if he didn't agree with it. "Remember my offer about the money, okay?"

"I will." She arched up on her tiptoes and kissed his dark cheek. "Promise."

Trez settled her in the car, and after she backed out of her spot and started off, she glanced in the rearview mirror. In the glow of her taillights, he was watching her, his arms crossed over that heavy chest...and then he was gone as if he'd just disappeared.

Marie-Terese hit the brakes and rubbed her eyes, wondering if she had lost it...but then a car came up from behind her, its headlights flashing in the rearview and blinding her. Shaking herself, she hit the gas and shot out of the parking lot. Whoever was on her bumper turned off at the next street, and the trip home was about fifteen minutes long.

The house she rented was tiny, just a little Cape Cod that was in okay shape, but there were two reasons why she'd picked it over the other ones she'd looked at when she'd come to Caldwell: It was in a school zone, so that meant there were a lot of eyes around the neighborhood, and the owner had allowed her to put bars on all the windows.

Marie-Terese parked in the garage, waited for the door to trundle shut, and then got out to enter the darkened back hall. Going through the kitchen, which smelled like the fresh apples she always kept in a bowl, she tiptoed toward the glow in the living room. On the way, she tucked her duffel bag into the coat closet.

She'd empty it and repack it when there was no one around to see her. As she stepped into the light, she whispered, "It's just me."