Lynne’s trill of laughter rolled back over the crowd, so clear and brittle that Jane worried that it might crack her champagne flute. Her mother-in-law-to-be-slash-nemesis was in fine form, statuesque in a beaded silver Valentino and surrounded by three congressmen and a major hip-hop star.

Jane, whose main goal was to get through the entire fund-raiser without being noticed, pressed herself against a none-too-sturdy window and tried to gage the approximate temperature outside. Early February . . . in New York . . . on the water . . . and the boat’s moving, she tallied. Nope, outside isn’t an option. Unless, of course, she got desperate enough to throw herself into the Hudson River, which was impossible to completely rule out.

“Jane!” Laura Helding shouted over the din of earnest Democratic Party donors (Lynne had briskly informed her that the Republican fund-raiser, held in April, was also mandatory for the entire family). Jane glanced around, but the only viable cover was behind a tuxedoed cocktail waitress, and besides, Laura had already seen her.

Peeling herself away from the cold window, Jane pushed her way reluctantly through the clusters of her animated fellow cruisers. Drinks had been circulating for over an hour, and between that and the gentle sway of the ship, crossing the room was no simple task. Jane had to be vigilant to keep her floaty silk Roberto Cavalli dress (“It’ll do for the liberals, dear, but please find something in a solid color for the Republicans”) from being spilled on. Her toes ached, having been stepped on twice already. Being a Doran is not for amateurs, she told herself grimly.

A flashbulb burst somewhere to her left, and Jane lifted her lips into what she hoped looked like a carefree smile. The action still wasn’t as automatic as she wished, and she barely managed to hold the pose during the rapid burst of about a dozen more shots.

By the time she reached Laura’s little clique near the buffet table, Jane’s cheeks ached, but she turned the smile up another notch and greeted her heart out. Laura introduced her giddily to the wife of a senator, the wife of a technology guru, the wives of two NBA players. The wife of, the wife of . . . Smiling for all she was worth, Jane reflected that Laura herself was a “wife of,” and apparently considered Jane to be heading into the same category. Which she was, in a way . . . except that, technically, she would be the power half of her particular power couple. Malcolm had the money, the status, the connections . . . but Jane was the piece that was truly irreplaceable.

That realization combined with the champagne to give Jane a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t just some mousy fugitive: she was strong. She could make shoes shake, and could almost count on being able to read minds on purpose.

After a round of gossipy small talk about some mistress’s horribly unflattering sequined dress, Jane politely excused herself, trying not to notice that Laura’s face fell just a fraction of an inch when she did. In her own way, Blake’s wife was trying for solidarity, at least, if not for real friendship. It had to be hard to be attached to a family like this one, responsible for all of their secrets but never quite allowed all the way inside.

Jane cut her way carefully to the door, suddenly desperate for a moment alone. The icy air hit her like a solid wall, but it cleared her head instantly. She was in the back of the ship—the stern, she remembered from the captain’s brief safety lecture—and a trail of turbulent water disappeared behind them into the dark night. She leaned against the rail idly, watching the wake rumble and churn beneath the hull. To her right, the lights of Manhattan glittered like a million impossibly close stars that had been shrunk into a snow globe just for her. The Statue of Liberty loomed in the distance, and Jane made a mental note to come back out here when they passed it to enjoy it in private.

Or not.

She heard the distinct squeak and click of the door behind her, and felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. She turned and peered into the inky blackness. Finally, she saw an approaching figure pass under a deck light, and groaned.

Lynne.

She looked about nine feet tall in the dark, her sleek brown hair swept up into a shining twist. She didn’t seem to feel the cold at all, and Jane, whose own pale mane was quickly turning into a heap of cotton candy in the whipping wind, couldn’t stifle a pang of jealousy at Lynne’s apparently unruffleable updo. Maybe there’s a spell . . .

Stop. No matter how many people assured her that Lynne couldn’t read her mind, it still felt unsafe to think things like that around her.

“Jane?” Lynne gasped. She seemed more alarmed than anything, and immediately slid something into her silver clutch. She balled her hand against her side, looking almost uncertain.

What the . . . ?

“Hi, Lynne,” Jane chirped, enjoying the rare sight of Lynne looking so off-balance.

“I hope you haven’t been out here too long, dear,” Lynne managed in a reasonable approximation of her usual implacable tone. “Catching pneumonia before your wedding would be simply dreadful.” She stepped to the left, arching one eyebrow significantly. It was clear that she wanted Jane to go back in, ASAP.

But if I go back inside, I’ll never find out what’s making you so antsy, Jane wanted to say. In this particular moment, Lynne had ceased to be a dangerous enemy and had become, however temporarily, a fascinating puzzle.

“Jane?”

Sighing a little, Jane reluctantly stepped toward the door. As she did, she nearly slipped on a small, dark patch of liquid pooling near Lynne’s stiletto. She grabbed onto Lynne’s shoulder to steady herself, then looked into the older woman’s dark eyes, astonished. “Lynne, are you . . . bleeding?”

From Lynne’s clenched left fist, another drop of red blood welled up and fell to the deck. The impossibly tall woman’s peach mouth pressed into a flat line. There was no sign of pain on her face, but there was a fairly terrifying amount of annoyance. “That idiot Blake attempted a toast, and sheared my martini glass off right in my hand.”

The wind pressed painfully against Jane’s eardrums, stinging her eyes and chapping her lips. Lynne’s tone was perfectly natural, but her hesitation confirmed that she was lying.

That and the fact all she ever does is lie, basically.

“Well, can I get you a Band-Aid or anything?” Jane asked perfunctorily, remembering her role as a doting daughter-in-law.

“Just run along, dear.”

Jane slipped back through the door into the well-lit party room. Rubbing her hands on her upper arms to warm them, she scanned the crowd for Belinda and Cora. The last time Lynne was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, someone almost died.

The twins were laughing merrily with a silver-haired man in the corner though, looking no more threatening than the average socialite. Nothing, in fact, seemed out of place in the room. There was no sign that someone, or something, had just cut Lynne’s hand deeply enough to make it bleed, and no real danger seemed to be brewing.

Making her way to the window with a view of the stern, Jane gazed out at Lynne. The matriarch was at the rail, just as Jane had been moments ago, leaning slightly over the water. She looked for all the world as though she was just enjoying the view. But when Jane looked closer, she saw that Lynne’s left hand was stretched over the metal guard. From her palm dripped a steady stream of dark red blood.