Ava returned with Scotch-and-water for her, and Scotch on-the-rocks for Adam. He was seated on the storage locker now. She plunked herself cross-legged next to him. She raised her tumbler. "Here's to Genesis... and pre-noon cocktails," she toasted, and Adam clunked his against hers.

He said, "Ava Blair, you are my kinda' gal. I'm glad you didn't hook-up with soccer hooligans after all."

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing. Private joke. Let's just say, I'm real happy to have your company."

Ava felt a warm and fuzzy feeling begin to envelop her. The consoling touch of Vendetta's teak deck under her bare soles, the soothing breeze and warmth of the sun, the pleasant rush of the smooth Scotch slipping down her throat, and especially Adam's relaxed manner, were all contributing to her sense of well-being.

She was beginning to feel quite at home on Vendetta. And she was beginning to think Adam East could've been her kinda' guy, in another place and time. She traced a fingernail round the rim of her glass and thought, Hmm, a few more slugs of this firewater and I could see myself giving the Stockholm Syndrome a whirl; fall temporarily for my big, bad, handsome captor.

They chatted and drank, and drank and chatted well into the sultry afternoon. It was movies, politics and religion, family and journalism, failed loves, careers, and sailing.

Ava learned that Adam had been sailing most of his life. His family had owned a summer place on Nantucket. He had crewed on racing yachts, and for a couple of seasons had been the "go-to-guy" for corporate-sponsored solo offshore racing.

Ava explained how she had languished in the grey trenches of community newspapers before finally scoring a bright gig with a big-city daily. And how that thrill had fizzled quicker than a dud flare. She had remained buried in obits and social calendars for an entire year before finally pulling herself up by her bra-straps and venturing into no-woman's land as a stringer.

They –well, for the most part, Adam– had polished off the remains of last night's bottle and were now into one of the newly-purchased quarts. While Adam set up the barbecue on the transom rail and cooked fresh fish for an early supper, Ava was below, tossing together a big salad for them to share.

She found herself enjoying the day and Adam's company immensely. Vendetta was a desert island... la dolce vita refuge amid the chaotic reality. More often than not, Ava completely forgot her perilous circumstances. Adam had an infectious, devil-may-care demeanor that could seduce her into a relaxed, WTF mien. And she didn't bother much to resist.

Ava decided if she were to describe Adam East to an astute girlfriend, she'd say he was an Errol Flynn sundae with Johnny Depp nuts, Chris Hemsworth syrup, and George Clooney whipped cream. And keep the cherry, what the heck, for old times' sake. All together a delightfully yummy treat, why resist?

But as pleasant as all this was, as much as she appeared to 'let her hair down', Ava's base intentions were not entirely honorable. She wanted to winkle out as much information from this guy as possible. And she felt no compunction whatsoever enlisting the help of eighteen-year-old Scotch with a chaser of feminine wiles to accomplish just that.

For Ava it was self-preservation, life-and-death. And, while divulging a great deal about herself, at the same time she had managed to peel back more than a few layers of the Adam East onion.

Truth was, though, none of those layers matched up with an al-Qaeda profile. So far all that was revealed was a decent, somewhat lonely, intelligent guy who may have a wee bit of a drinking problem but could enthrall with lovely and humorous tales of the sea and islands in the stream. And yes, okay, Ava conceded, if any man could incite original sin, Mister East was it. She had no trouble featuring him sitting down to play Hold'em with the Greek gods after he lay waste a goddess or three.

As she emerged with the big salad from below decks she asked, "So tell me, Sailor, how come you left the Navy?"

"The Navy?" Adam echoed incredulously. "Where'd you get the idea I was in the Navy?" He placed a grilled yellow-fin tuna fillet and a baked potato on a plate and handed it to her.

"The photo in your cabin. What were you, about nineteen when that was taken?"

The sun was beginning its retreat into the far horizon. The most flattering light of the day was beginning to bathe the Inner Harbor with its subtle hues. Adam's face took on a beautiful caramel-colored glow. But Ava detected sullen shadows darkening his emerald eyes. He said nothing. He turned his back to her and was overly busy preparing his own plate.

Ava was discovering Adam could be moody as 'A Streetcar Named Desire'. She sat down on the port-side locker, puzzled, and waited patiently.

Adam seated himself on the starboard side. He stared into his tumbler, as if something were written at the bottom, before taking a swallow. Then he sampled a bite of tuna, nodded with satisfaction. He appeared completely composed now. His eyes were set with determination when he locked on to Ava's and answered, "That's not me in the photo. That's my younger brother, Cole."

"Oh, gee, the resemblance is uncanny. Is he still in the Navy?"

"Yes, he is. Cole will never leave the Navy. He's a hero."

Something indescribable in Adam's manner shot like a laser through Ava's chest, pierced the nucleus of her heart, turned it into tender mush. She had no clue why, but she felt an overwhelming compulsion to offer Adam some gesture of comfort.

She set down her plate and made a move towards him.