THEY HAD THE VILLA for a week, though Clay doubted he could stay away from the office that long. It was wedged into the side of a hill, overlooking the busy harbor town of Gustavia, a place bustling with traffic and tourists and all kinds of boats coming and going. Ridley had found it in a catalog of exclusive private rentals. It was a fine home—traditional Caribbean architecture, red-tiled roof, long porches and verandas. There were bedrooms and bathrooms too numerous to find, and a chef, two maids, and a gardener. They settled in quickly, and Clay began flipping through real estate guides that someone had been kind enough to leave behind.

Clay's initial encounter with a nude beach was a huge disappointment. The first naked female he saw was a grandmother, a wrinkled old thing who, with proper advice, should've covered much more and exposed much less. Then her husband came strolling by, a large belly hanging low and covering his privates, a rash on his ass, and worse. Nudity was getting a bad rap. Of course, Ridley was in her element, strutting up and down the beach as heads twisted. After a couple of hours in the sand, they retired from the heat and enjoyed a two-hour lunch at a fabulous French restaurant. All the good restaurants were French, and they were everywhere on the island.

Gustavia was busy. It was hot and not the tourist season, but someone forgot to tell the tourists. They packed the sidewalks as they drifted from store to store, and they crowded the streets in their rented Jeeps and small cars. The harbor was never quiet as small fishing boats jockeyed around the yachts of the rich and famous.

Whereas Mustique was private and secluded, St. Barth was overbuilt and overbooked. But it was still a charming island. Clay loved them both. Ridley, who was showing a keen interest in island real estate, preferred St. Barth because of the shopping and the food. She liked busy towns and people. Someone had to gawk at her.

After three days, Clay removed his watch and began sleeping in a hammock on a porch. Ridley read books and watched old movies for long stretches of time. Boredom was creeping in when Jarrett Carter sailed into Gustavia harbor aboard his magnificent catamaran, The ExLitigator. Clay was sitting at a bar near the dock, drinking a soda, waiting for his father.

His crew consisted of a fortyish German woman with legs as long as Ridley's, and a roguish old Scotsman named MacKenzie, his sailing instructor. The woman, Irmgard, was at first described as his mate, which in sailing terms meant something very vague. Clay loaded them into his Jeep and drove them to his villa, where they showered forever and had drinks while the sun disappeared into the sea. MacKenzie overdosed on bourbon and was soon snoring in a hammock.

The sailing business had been slow, much like the airplane charter business. The ExLitigator had been booked four times in six months. Its longest voyage had been from Nassau to Aruba and back, three weeks that generated $30,000 from a retired British couple. The shortest had been a jaunt to Jamaica, where they'd almost lost the boat in a storm. A sober MacKenzie had saved them. Near Cuba they had a run-in with pirates. The stories rolled forth.

Not surprisingly, Jarrett took a shine to Ridley. He was proud of his son. Irmgard seemed content to drink and smoke and watch the lights down in Gustavia.

Long after dinner, and after the women had retired for the night, Jarrett and Clay moved to another porch for another round. "Where'd you find her?" Jarrett asked, and Clay gave a quick history. They were practically living together, but neither had mentioned anything more permanent than that. Irmgard was also a temp.

On the legal front, Jarrett had a hundred questions. He was alarmed at the size of Clay's new firm, and felt compelled to offer unsolicited advice on how to run things. Clay listened patiently. The sailboat had a computer with online access, and Jarrett knew about the Maxatil litigation and the bad press that went with it. When Clay reported that he now had twenty thousand cases, his father thought that was too many for any one firm to handle.

"You don't understand mass torts," Clay said.

"Sounds like mass exposure to me," Jarrett countered.

"What's your malpractice limit?"

"Ten million."

"That's not enough."

"That's all the insurance company would sell me. Relax, Dad, I know what I'm doing."

And Jarrett couldn't argue with success. The money his son was printing made him long for the glory days in the courtroom. He could hear those faraway, magical words from the jury foreman, "Your Honor, we, the jurors, find for the plaintiff and award damages in the amount of ten million dollars." He would hug the plaintiff and say something gracious to the defense counsel, and Jarrett Carter would leave another courtroom with another trophy.

It was quiet for a long time. Both men needed sleep. Jarrett stood and walked to the edge of the porch. "You ever think about that black kid?" he asked, staring into the night. "The one who started shooting and had no idea why?"

"Tequila?"

"Yeah, you told me about him in Nassau when we were buying the sailboat."

"Yeah, I think about him occasionally."

"Good. Money isn't everything." And with that, Jarrett went to bed.

THE TRIP AROUND THE island took most of the day. The captain seemed to understand the basics of how the boat operated and how the wind affected it, but if not for MacKenzie they might have strayed into the sea and never been found. The captain worked hard at handling his ship, but he was also very distracted by Ridley, who spent most of the day roasting in the nude. Jarrett couldn't take his eyes off her. Nor could MacKenzie, but he could maneuver a sailboat in his sleep.

Lunch was in a secluded cove on the north side of the island. Near St. Maarten, Clay took the helm while his father hit the beer. For about eight hours, Clay had been seminauseous, and playing captain did nothing to relieve his discomfort. Life on a boat was not for him. The romance of sailing the world held no appeal; he'd vomit in all the great oceans. He preferred airplanes.

Two nights on land and Jarrett was ready for the sea. They said good-bye early the next morning and his father's catamaran motored out of Gustavia harbor, headed nowhere in particular. Clay could hear his father and MacKenzie bickering as they headed for open water.

He was never certain how the Realtor materialized on the porch of the villa. She was there when he returned, a charming Frenchwoman chatting with Ridley and having a coffee. She said she was in the neighborhood, just stopped by to check on the house, which was owned by one of their clients, a Canadian couple in the midst of a nasty divorce, and how were things?

"Couldn't be better," Clay said, taking a seat. "A great house."

"Isn't it wonderful?" the Realtor gushed. "One of our finest properties. I was just telling Ridley that it was built only four years ago by these Canadians who've been down twice, I think. His business turned bad. She started seeing her doctor, a real mess up there in Ottawa, and so they've put it on the market at a very reasonable price."

A conspiratorial glance from Ridley. Clay asked the question left hanging in the air. "How much?"

"Only three million. Started at five, but, frankly, the market is a bit soft right now."

After she left, Ridley attacked him in the bedroom. Morning sex was unheard of, but they had an impressive go at it. Same for the afternoon. Dinner in a fine restaurant; she couldn't keep her hands off him. The midnight session began in the pool, went to the Jacuzzi, then to the bedroom and after an all-nighter the Realtor was back before lunch.

Clay............