4:30 AM

DAISY drained her cup of tea and filled it up again with whisky.

Kit felt unbearably tense. Nigel and Elton might be able to keep up the pretense of being innocent travelers accidentally stranded, but Daisy was hopeless. She looked like a gangster and acted like a hooligan.

When she put the bottle down on the kitchen table, Stanley picked it up. "Don't get drunk, there's a good girl," he said mildly. He stoppered the bottle.

Daisy was not used to people telling her what to do. Mostly they were too frightened. She looked at Stanley as if she was ready to kill him. He was elegantly vulnerable in his gray pajamas and black robe. Kit waited for the explosion.

"A little whisky makes you feel better, but a lot makes you feel worse," Stanley said. He put the bottle in a cupboard. "My father used to say that, and he was fond of whisky."

Daisy was suppressing her rage. The effort was visible to Kit. He feared what might happen if she should lose it. Then the tension was broken by his sister Miranda, who came in wearing a pink nightgown with a flower pattern.

Stanley said, "Hello, my dear, you're up early."

"I couldn't sleep. I've been on the sleepchair in Kit's old study. Don't ask why." She looked at the strangers. "It's early for Christmas visitors."

"This is my daughter Miranda," Stanley said. "Mandy, meet Nigel, Elton, and Daisy."

A few minutes ago, Kit had introduced them to his father and, before he realized his mistake, he had given their real names.

Miranda nodded to them. "Did Santa bring you?" she said brightly.

Kit explained. "Their car died on the main road near our turnoff. I picked them up, then my car gave out, too, and we walked the rest of the way here." Would she believe it? And would she ask about the burgundy leather briefcase that stood on the kitchen table like a bomb?

She questioned a different aspect of the story. "I didn't know you'd left the house—where on earth did you go, in the middle of the night, in this weather?"

"Oh, you know." Kit had thought about how he would respond to this question, and now he put on a sheepish grin. "Couldn't sleep, felt lonely, went to look up an old girlfriend in Inverburn."

"Which one? Most of the young women in Inverburn are old girlfriends of yours."

"I don't think you know her." He thought of a name quickly. "Lisa Fremont." He almost bit his tongue. She was a character in a Hitchcock movie.

Miranda did not react to the name. "Was she pleased to see you?"

"She wasn't in."

Miranda turned away and picked up the coffeepot.

Kit wondered whether she believed him. The story he had made up was not really good enough. However, Miranda could not possibly guess why he was lying. She would assume he was involved with a woman he didn't want people to know about—probably someone's wife.

While Miranda was pouring coffee, Stanley addressed Nigel. "Where are you from? You don't sound Scots." It seemed like small talk, but Kit knew his father was probing.

Nigel answered in the same relaxed tone. "I live in Surrey, work in London. My office is in Canary Wharf."

"You're in the financial world."

"I source high-tech systems for third-world countries, mainly the Middle East. A young oil sheik wants his own discotheque and doesn't know where to buy the gear, so he comes to me and I solve his problem." It sounded pat.

Miranda brought her coffee to the table and sat opposite Daisy. "What nice gloves," she said. Daisy was wearing expensive-looking light brown suede gloves that were soaking wet. "Why don't you dry them?"

Kit tensed. Any conversation with Daisy was hazardous.

Daisy gave a hostile look, but Miranda did not see it, and persisted. "You need to stuff them, so they'll keep their shape," she said. She took a roll of paper towel from the counter. "Here, use this."

"I'm fine," Daisy muttered angrily.

Miranda raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Have I said something to offend you?"

Kit thought, Oh, God, here it comes.

Nigel stepped in. "Don't be daft, Daisy, you don't want to spoil your gloves." There was an edge of insistence in his voice, making the words sound more like an order than a suggestion. He was as worried as Kit. "Do what the lady says, she's being nice to you."

Once again, Kit waited for the explosion. But, to his surprise, Daisy took off her gloves. Kit was astonished to see that she had small, neat hands. He had never noticed that. The rest of her was brutish: the black eye makeup, the broken nose, the zippered j............