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but it was Columbine.
    “Where’s Destry?”
    “Destry will tell you the same thing.”
    “I just want to know where she is.”
    “Riding again.”
    Destry Maitland was the third of the troika, the final interlocking piece that enabled the three females to exist in the unusual, but not unique, hunting and survival bond.
    “What’s with her and that new bloody horse?”
    “You know what’s with her and the new horse. It’s from the rarest of bloodlines. A familiarity with our kind is bred into its genes. That horse is her new pride and joy.”
    Columbine sniffed and scowled. “I’ve heard all about the thing’s damned bloodlines. She’s talked about nothing else since the beast was brought here.”
    “As I said, it’s her new distraction.”
    Columbine pouted. “But does she have to ride it all the time?”
    “She’s bonding with the steed.”
    “Steed. Did you say steed, darling? Isn’t that a trifle archaic?”
    “Have you seen it? Have you examined its aura? It’s definitely a steed.”
    “I don’t loiter in stables.”
    “But you do loiter here disturbing me.”
    “Is that an indirect way of saying you want me to leave?”
    “It’s almost dawn, Columbine. My intention is to sleep.”
    “How can you sleep?”
    “You should sleep yourself. Renquist will not make contact until nightfall.”
    “You don’t think so?”
    “He has to make it clear by his silence that he’s not rushing to your summons. He will come in his own good time and not before.”
    “Damn his insolence.”
    “Sleep, Columbine. Conserve your strength.”
    Columbine pursed her lips and turned in the direction of the door, but not before emitting a final soft feline hiss. “We’ll see about his own good time.”
    “I think I should go.”
    “It would probably be a good idea, in case your husband tries to call you.”
    “He won’t call.”
    Renquist turned, faced the women who lay tousled on the ruined hotel bed, and nodded. “It will be dawn soon, and I need to sleep, I have a meeting later.”
    “I never fucked anybody in the Savoy before.”
    Renquist raised an eyebrow. The remark seemed hard to believe. Her body was as pornographically perfect as the best plastic surgery could make it, and tanned to an even bronze without any white areas created by swimsuits or underwear. She clearly spent much time in the
sun, at the beach or poolside, in nude idleness. “Not even your husband?”
    “He doesn’t count.”
    Renquist slowly smiled. “Ah.”
    The woman scowled. “Don’t ah me. I look on it as a form of virginity.”
    “But you didn’t fuck me.”
    “I didn’t?”
    “Not in the strictest sense.”
    The woman blinked. She didn’t have a clue what had happened to her. She was the Swedish trophy wife of a millionaire Venezuelan commodities speculator who had parked her at the Savoy while he went to Paris for three days. He name was Frieda, and she suspected the Venezuelan had a Parisian mistress. She had allowed herself to be picked up over cocktails by Renquist as a form of payback for the supposed marital infidelity, or at least that was what she thought. In reality, from the start of Renquist’s first approach and overture, she’d had no choice in the matter whatsoever, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. She frowned with the effort of focus through confusion. “It seemed to me like a very fine approximation.”
    “That is certainly true.”
    She crawled across the swirl of rumpled untucked sheets—paused for a long moment and then placed her bare feet on the floor and attempted to stand. “I’m not sure I can.”
    “Can what?”
    “Stand.” She stood swaying uncertainly. “Is it really dawn?”
    “Not quite, but close.”
    “Let me look.”
    She stumbled in the direction of the nearest window. Renquist moved with nosferatu speed. “Don’t—”
    “Don’t what?”
    Instead of saying anything, Renquist steered her away from the curtains. He didn’t want her to see that the