"I've been telling her what an absolutely depraved rascal you are," Joey

said.

"A shameless pervert. A sexual deviant of the first rank."

"He's an awful liar, you know," Andrew said uneasily.

"Is he?" Terri said, her eyes staring deeply into his. "What a shame! I was

so

hoping it was all true. Most men one meets are so depressingly boring. So...

unimaginative. And Joey made you sound so very interesting. ..."

"Did he now?" Andrew gushed, practically drooling. "Well, perhaps we can

discuss

it further over a small drink, eh?" He winked at her.

"Oh, let's," she said, returning the wink and taking his arm, pressing

herself

up against him. Andrew was starting to hyperventilate.

"Sh-shouldn't we greet our host first?" he said, stammering.

"Nigel? Oh, why bother? He's bound to be about somewhere," she said. "I've

worked ever so hard to bring this party off, I should be entitled to enjoy

myself a little, don't you think? I'm sure Nigel will understand. You won't

mind

if I steal your friend for just a little while, will you, Joey, darling?

"Steal away, love," said Joey with a wink at Andrew. "Good luck, old boy.

It's

every man for himself, eh, what?"

Andrew grinned salaciously and gave him a thumbs-up as Terri led him away

toward

the bar. Behind him, the smile suddenly slipped from Joey Lymon's face, and

his

expression became cold and feral. He turned and went back out the door, down

the

steps, through the gate, and to his waiting car. He opened up the trunk and

took

out a black leather roll-up bag, then he slammed the trunk lid shut and got

into

the backseat. "The dark-tinted partition between him and the chauffer slid

down

soundlessly. The driver removed his chauffeur's cap and ran a graceful, pale

hand through his flaming red hair.

"Where to, Your Lordship?" he said, glancing up into the rearview mirror.

"Whitechapel," said Joey softly.

At first he thought it was anxiety. Perhaps it was simply stress from the

transatlantic flight, or jet lag, but the headache refused to go away. It

kept

on growing worse, and now it was a constant, dull, throbbing pain, almost a

burning sensation. They went up to their rooms—he and Kira would share

Modred's

old suite, while Makepeace and Jacqueline each had their own rooms—and the

first