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the thought of what the flight attendant would think as she came by and saw a head job.
    Enjoying the feel of his maleness in her hand, flowing with the rhythm of his fingers caressing her, she leaned back, breathing shallowly. She gasped as a hand touched her breast.
    She had forgotten about the man’s wife! She was wedged in between the two of them, could feel their warm thighs pressing on the sides of her own thighs. The woman’s hand had traveled over and found her breast.
    Still hidden beneath the blanket, Marlowe unbuttoned her blouse and unclipped her bra. As the bra came undone, the woman’s warm hand grasped her breast and delicately petted it. Her finger came over Marlowe’s nipple and rubbed it.
    As she pumped the man’s firm stalk, squeezing the muscular tube with its load of hot blood, her own nipples grew hard under the sensation of the woman’s touch. Between her legs, a fire had erupted. Trying not to make it obvious that the woman’s husband was masturbating her while the woman caressed her breast, she began to flow with the action, her crescendo soaring.
    Having sex with two people at the same time, being touched by a woman sexually, were forbidden passions. Now she rode the sensation, creaming her pants at the erotic pleasure. She turned to look at the woman and the woman smiled and leaned toward her with full red lips and—
    “Ms. James.”
    Marlowe almost ejected from her seat.
    The flight attendant bent down and whispered, “The captain asked me to advise you that there will be a large number of newspeople waiting when we get to the gate.” She bent a little lower. “All the girls on the flight are for the princess. He done her wrong, as they say in the old movies.”
    Marlowe murmured her thanks. She didn’t say anything to the flight attendant because she knew from past experience that statements from loose lips end up on the evening news.
    She took a deep breath and pushed the blanket down. She was sweating.
    The man seated next to her paused in putting away papers in his briefcase. “I thought I recognized you,” he said. “You’re Marlowe James, the American attorney hired to defend the princess.”
    “One attorney of many,” she said. “The rest of the team is British.”
    “You’re the specialist on husband killings. They call you the Burning Bed lawyer, don’t they?”
    “They call me many things, especially if the sources of news are tabloids.”
    She could have told the man she never actually represented a woman who burned her husband in bed, that it was just one of the appendages that had been stuck on her by a clever reporter. The “Burning Bed” expression arose from a 1970s legal case in which a wife, after suffering years of battering from her husband, poured gas on him when he was passed out and tossed a match on the heap.
    Somewhere along the line, during seven high-profile trials in which she successfully defended six women and one man, all abused spouses who had finally struck back and killed, a tabloid had pinned the “Burning Bed” label on her. But the man beside her probably knew from news accounts that there was something in her own past that made her connection to the princess’s murder case even more sensational.
    She would have been more comfortable being called the “Heat-of-Passion lawyer” because that was how the law defined a killing done in a moment of anger after provocation.
    “What the princess did was very bad for the country,” the man said. He spoke with a soft English accent. “Very bad indeed.” He appeared to be in his late fifties, a well-to-do businessman, perhaps upper management with a London financial institution: He had the smug look of a person used to handling other people’s money—never risking his own, of course.
    She mulled over his comments and tone as she removed her work materials from the tray in front of her and put them into her briefcase. He had voiced by word and inflection disapproval both for her as a