The Target

camped out at the Lord mansion, too. One of them got a shot of Emma sitting in the shade of a big rhododendron bush in the garden of the estate, playing her piano. It was taken from a goodly distance, a bit on the blurred side, from magnification, but it was still clearly Emma. She'd been labeled as the Granddaughter of Crime Lord.

    When Mason Lord saw the photo, he said quietly to Gunther, "How clever the play on words is. Isn't it odd? It's this photo that has broken my patience, my indifference. Get the name of the paparazzo who took the picture."

    JUST after lunch that day, Eve Lord came out of the living room into the grand foyer to hear Ramsey say to Molly, "There's no reason to stay longer. Your father is over the worst. We all know who likely shot him and there's not a thing we can do about it. As to the actual person who pulled the trigger, the cops are on it. Chances are slim we'll ever know. This could mean that the violence will escalate. I don't want us here if it does, particularly Emma. Let's get married. Let's go home."

And Molly, frumpy plain Molly with her wild red hair and too-skinny body, gazed up at the big man whom Eve would take to bed in a minute, stared up at him like she wanted to eat him, and she probably did. Then she laughed and jumped into his arms. She clearly caught him off guard, but he was fast, managing to catch her and bring her tightly against his chest, his arms locked around her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Then he laughed and swung her around. "Home," she said, kissing him once, twice, a half dozen more times. "I like the sound of that."

    Slowly, he slid her down the front of his body. When she was standing, staring up at him, laughing, he leaned down and kissed her mouth. Molly's hands were on his shirt. She looked ready to rip it off him.

    Eve cleared her throat. "I see there's more going on here than a little friendship."

    "Yes," Ramsey said, lifting his head, releasing Molly slowly. The taste of her was still fresh, still drawing on him, the memory of her body was still warm against him. "You can congratulate us, Eve. Molly and I are going to be married." They hadn't told her before. It felt a bit on the indecent side to tell that to a woman who'd nearly been made a widow.

    "Congratulations," Eve said. She looked down at Molly's waistline. "You pregnant already?"

    "No, I'm not," Molly said. "Getting in that condition would be kind of hard, what with Emma sleeping in the same room, don't you think?"

    "I would say that in my experience, men always find a way. My former fiance nailed me once in the coat closet with his family not six feet away."

    Ramsey laughed. "Then he deserves to be a former." He hugged Molly to his side. "Is Emma eating chocolate-chip cookies in Miles's kitchen?"

    Eve pulled on soft pale cream leather gloves that matched her silk dress. "Not chocolate chip, but her new favorite-peanut butter. Mrs. Lopez was chattering about it. I'm going to see your father, Molly. Does he know about this?"

    "Yes, we told him last night."

    "I see. So I'm the last to know. Will you two be here when I get back?"

    "Depends," Ramsey said. "You want to bring back something to celebrate?"

    "Sure," Eve Lord said, then called out, "Gunther, I'm ready!"

    IN the Chicago Sun-Times, on the bottom of page ten of Section A, there was brief mention of a man who had been found just off Highway 88 between Mooseheart and Aurora by a passing motorist. The man had been beaten severely, but was expected, in time, to make a full recovery. His cameras had been crushed and left beside him. The newspaper called him a freelance photographer, but bottom line, what he was, was a paparazzo.

    "I think we should pack our meager belongings, grab Emma, and hop a plane to Reno. I was thinking Las Vegas, but Rule Shaker's there, and I can't quite handle getting married anywhere near to where he is. I don't want any more magazines or tabloids with pictures of Emma. She saw the one in the National Informer. She'd made out some of the words before I managed to get it away from her. I just pray she hadn't gotten to the part about her playing the piano as well as her murdered father, Louey Santera. Can you begin to imagine the field day the media will have if we get married either here or in Harrisburg at my folks' place? They always find out, no matter how careful you are."

    "Oh, God!" Miles came running out of the kitchen, a dishcloth in his hands. "Thank God you're both here. I