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“The most lethal woman this side of Gomorrah.”
    Clay thanked him and went back to Charlene, beaming like a fool. She frowned in confusion, but for once it didn’t even irritate him. Free, white and twenty-four, he was at last a man with a purpose.

“Help me,” called his sister. Clay dove into the water, but the farther out he swam, the farther away she seemed to be. “What’s keeping you?” she cried.
    Where were his parents? Clay thought, though their absence seemed familiar, even apt. He struggled through the water; still he couldn’t reach her.
    â€œI just want someone to save me,” came her plea; then, fading, she went under.
    Clay woke. His sister’s voice rang in his ears, echoing as if she’d only just left his bedroom. He sat up, looking at the clock next to his bed. Every time he thought about his sister’s death, all he felt was his utter helplessness to have prevented it. He rose, rubbing his eyes. The night before came back to him, and then his plan.
    Research bore out that Mia was a highly successful stock trader on Wall Street and that neither of her parents—an explosive Italian father and an exceedingly refined French mother—lived in the city. Clay was surprised to find how easy it was to get information on her, thanks to the questionable resources of the family firm. On the other hand, the cost had been first a conversation with his uncle and then, far worse, an invitation to the party Clayton Lee was giving for his latest bride pro-tem. Perhaps his father’s lair would be a fitting backdrop for his plan, Clay told himself.
    At last the day of the party arrived. It was the first time Clay had seen his father since his mother had bid her husband a stone-faced adieu shortly after their daughter’s funeral. Clay would have happily forgone the privilege of seeing his father again, but there was no denying that the firm’s ease at puncturing the privacy of anyone in business had proved more than handy. By all reports Mia’s salary ran to six figures, and while company gossip noted with some bewilderment that she had no steady boyfriends, there was evidence of regular socializing with the other traders, Wynn had informed him. One such enterprising drinking buddy turned out to be someone Clayton had once fleetingly employed, a young man charming enough to talk any red-blooded capitalist into a date that might enrich her roster of useful contacts.
    Clay didn’t know quite what he was planning to accomplish by assuring Mia’s presence at the party, but he could no more alter his behavior than explain it. In preparation for the evening, he and some whiskey watched the end of Holiday in the small room his father had set aside for him before learning of his plan to make his way in the big city unassisted. After Cary Grant somersaulted into Hepburn’s arms, Clay went downstairs to survey the terrain.
    Mia looked breathtaking. It was not hard to locate her in the crowd—something like brushing a hand through a pile of soot to find a diamond. Clay noted with satisfaction that she was trapped in conversation with his Aunt Celia, possibly the only one in the room who wouldn’t be rendered speechless by the dress Mia was almost wearing. The skin of her bare shoulders shimmered, incandescent.
    â€œâ€¦ a new job, or they’ll think you’re a slut,” his aunt was saying as Clay approached. (From the sound of Celia’s voice, she’d been celebrating for some time.)
    â€œI’ll bear that in mind,” Mia replied dryly. Wild hair cascaded down her back (Clay suppressed a moan). His aunt went on, oblivious, expounding on the varied outlets fear of sexual expression had taken in their family. Clay interceded, steering Celia toward John and Bettina Willington at large.
    Mia tried to slip away, but Clay blocked her path, taking her hand. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Clayton Lee, the proud new